The pressure that had been building with each round had become physical. It hung in the air like the stifling heat before a storm, and all five players on the court were breathing it. After Hong Ren's demonstrative retribution in the last possession, a new note had appeared in their game—not just desperation, but cold, clinical resolve.
Mei Yu, whose analytical mind was working overtime, took the inbound pass. His eyes, usually darting around the court in search of the optimal solution, were now fixed on Hong Ren.
"Don't get arrogant just because you have the advantage! There's still more of us!" he shouted at him.
Mei Yu didn't dribble, risking an attack. Instead, with one sharp motion, he sent a pass to Jen Ryu, who had taken a position on the perimeter. The pass wasn't just accurate; it was fast, calculated to anticipate any possible reaction from Hong Ren.
"Yeah! Take that!" Jen Ryu exclaimed, catching the ball.
He didn't build up speed for a power drive. He didn't even look at the hoop. His gaze was fixed on Xiao Li, who, executing a prearranged play, made a sharp cut along the free-throw line, popping out to the corner.
It all happened in a fraction of a second. Jen Ryu, without hesitation, delivered a sharp bounce pass. The ball slipped past Hong Ren's outstretched hand—he had reacted to Jen Ryu's initial move—and found its way into Xiao Li's hands.
Xiao Li caught the ball in the corner, a few steps from the hoop. Hong Ren, instantly recovering, was already on him, taking the ideal defensive position, cutting off both the drive and the shot. Xiao Li made a sharp shoulder fake to the right, mimicking the start of a drive. Hong Ren, whose algorithm was tuned to reading the center of gravity, reacted with a micro-shift.
And then Xiao Li did something. With a quick, almost careless motion, he transferred the ball behind his back from his right hand to his left. The fake wasn't perfect, even a bit clumsy, but it was unexpected. So unexpected that Hong Ren, whose calculations didn't include "a clumsy behind-the-back fake from Xiao Li," froze for a moment, his defensive stance faltering.
That falter was enough. Xiao Li, without losing pace, immediately went left, gaining half a step of separation, and executed a short, off-the-glass shot from close range.
The ball, tracing a tiny arc, softly kissed the backboard and dropped through the net.
Tap. Swoosh.
Whistle!
Score—0 : 3.5
A stunned silence hung over the court. Even the spectators quieted down. This wasn't Jen Ryu's power drive or Mei Yu's cold calculation. This was individual initiative from Xiao Li.
Jen Ryu, before the ball even hit the asphalt, already shouted, and his voice held not mockery, but sincere, almost brotherly approval:
"Not bad!"
Xiao Li, catching his gaze, gave only a short nod, lowering his eyes. But in his extinguished gaze, a spark flickered for a second—not of joy, but of bitter satisfaction.
On the Yoshida bench, the reaction was more restrained but no less telling.
"Well, well," Lu Shen drawled, rubbing his chin. "The little mouse is stirring, quite unexpectedly."
"You talking about your dick?" Haru Lin smirked coldly. Lu Shen slowly turned his twitching grimace towards him:
"Fuck, I'm trying to get into the game here, and you're thinking about dicks!"
"Alright, alright, but look for yourself, it's a stupid risk, but effective," Haru Lin grumbled, but genuine interest was readable in his eyes. "They've started thinking, and that's bad."
Jung Ho frowned, watching Hong Ren. He was already retrieving the ball from under the hoop, and his face was, as always, inscrutable. He turned with the ball and walked to his half. The internal monologue was devoid of emotion but full of recalculations:
"Xiao Li in the corner—unlikely to attack, more likely looking for a pass. But what if he decides to take the initiative himself?.. Noticeable that he's prone to unexpected actions today. Means I'll have to keep a closer eye on him, even if it weakens my control over Jen Ryu and Mei Yu. Need to find that fine line—not lose him, but not let the others take advantage of the moment either."
He took his position for the attack. His eyes now glided not over two or three key figures, but scanned all five, trying to predict which of them would become the next unexpected threat. The pressure on him had increased. Now he had to battle not only their physical presence, but also their suddenly awakened, desperate capacity for improvisation.
But Hong Ren wasn't in a hurry. He began to dribble. Not quickly, but deliberately slowly, forcing the defenders to strain in a static stance, to expend energy waiting. Jen Ryu, still fired up by the recent success, lunged for a press, but his movement was already slightly more sluggish, less explosive.
Hong Ren met him not with force, but with weightlessness. He took a light step to the side, and then, almost without bending his knees, executed a simple crossover—light as an artist's brushstroke. The fake wasn't to get past, but to unsettle. Jen Ryu flinched, momentarily losing his balance.
"Huh?" escaped him.
Hong Ren accelerated for one step, penetrating into the free-throw area. Before him was Mei Yu, who had taken up position:
"How long are you going to keep underestimating us?"
But his reaction was also delayed—he hadn't managed to fully close out on the attacker.
Hong Ren used the time Mei Yu had spent on words. He abruptly jumped from where he stood and executed a classic jump shot from mid-range. His movements were economical, precise, devoid of any showiness. The ball left his fingertips on a perfect arc.
Sweeeeee!
Swish!
Clean shot. Score—24 : 3.5
The sound of the net accepting the ball rang out like a funeral toll for the newcomers' team. They hadn't just allowed a score. They had allowed it because they were slower.
"FUCK!" Jen Ryu bellowed, but now, besides anger, a hoarse note of fatigue and powerlessness was audible in his voice.
After the made basket, while Hong Ren silently walked back on defense, a brief, spontaneous pause arose among the five newcomers. They gathered near their inbound line.
"We need more coordination," Mei Yu forced out. "Can't give him such easy drives. We have to work together to stop him. One closes the lane, the second helps, the third prepares for the rebound."
"Easy to say, but how do we do that when he's darting around like a damn ghost?" Xiao Li replied. Jen Ryu, still breathing heavily, hoarsely joined the conversation, slapping Xiao Li on the shoulder:
"Don't give up, we'll manage! Just listen," he leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "I'll pretend I'm driving hard again. He'll bite on me, and you..." he jabbed a finger towards the corner beyond the three-point line, "...slide out there. I'll make a great pass to you, and you shoot from the corner—a three. Like before, just more confident."
Mei Yu nodded, quickly assessing:
"Risky... Hong Ren might not bite, but this risk is better than powerless watching as the score turns into something astronomical."
After the short discussion, they silently dispersed to their positions.
Referee Sung Wo, who had watched their brief huddle with the expression of a man observing ants scurrying, gave the ball to Mei Yu.
Hong Ren, having taken his defensive position, had seen them discussing something, so he prepared for drives and defense.
Mei Yu received the ball. His gaze met Jen Ryu's for a second, then slid to Xiao Li in the corner. He began to dribble, unhurriedly, giving time for the setup. Hong Ren, occupying his usual defensive spot in the center, watched him with cold attentiveness:
"What the hell are you all plotting…"
Jen Ryu didn't make them wait. After the second, distinct bounce of the ball from Mei Yu, he broke from his spot. He crashed into the space with a thud of footsteps, as if trying to push through the asphalt, with a growling exhale:
"Come on!"
It was a crude, primitive show. But a show staged specifically for one spectator, whose dark eyes were always searching for the main threat.
Hong Ren saw this explosive move from the corner of his eye. Almost reflexively, his body twitched, ready to take a step forward, to block this enraged mass.
And at that moment, while his attention was riveted on the growling locomotive that was Jen Ryu, Mei Yu played his part. Not waiting for the perfect moment, he abruptly changed rhythm, made a deceptive shoulder fake towards Jen Ryu, and shouted without looking:
"Xiao, catch!"
The pass flew. Not perfect, but a lob pass, straight towards the corner where Xiao Li stood.
Hong Ren instantly adjusted. Jen was the decoy. His gaze, sharp and cold, darted to the ball, then to Xiao Li, frozen in anticipation. He lunged in that direction, pushing off the asphalt with such force his sneakers squealed. The distance was large, but he could make it.
Xiao Li caught the ball, lifted his head, and saw Hong Ren flying at him. For a moment, the old, familiar fear flashed in Xiao Li's eyes. But immediately it was replaced by something else—the memory of his previous shot, Jen Ryu's nod, the hoarse "Not bad!" He didn't dribble, didn't make fakes. He simply jumped, almost falling backward from the inertia of fear, and hurled the ball towards the hoop.
"Shoot it!" Jen Ryu rasped, frozen in his false attack and watching.
Hong Ren soared, arm stretched upward, fingers splayed to block. He felt the leather of the ball on his fingertips. Felt it, but didn't touch it. The ball, released by Xiao Li's nervous, trembling hand, slipped over the tips of his fingers.
Time slowed down. The ball traced an arc, as nervous and uncertain as the shot itself. It hit the iron with a loud, screeching CLANG!, bounced, hit the front rim, wobbled…
And dropped through.
Swoosh.