"Hmm…"
Sun narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze sweeping up and down Kota like he was trying to read every line of his soul.
Kota, on the other hand, stood calmly with his hands behind his back, face unreadable — as if nothing had happened. Inside, though, he sighed quietly.
Sun wasn't wrong. When your team turns the ball over and the opponent launches a fast break, it's the point guard's duty to sprint back on defense.
After all, he was the smallest and most agile on the court. That kind of hustle was supposed to be his job.
So why hadn't Kota run back that time? Not because he was lazy — but because the situation didn't call for it.
The one who had stolen the ball was Li Wenyu — a freak athlete who, nine times out of ten, would take it coast-to-coast himself and finish the fast break.
That was his style of play. And Kota, having watched him closely over the past few games, had already figured that out.
There was a 90% chance Li Wenyu would go solo. His finishing rate was roughly 50 to 70%, meaning that if Kota stayed at the opponent's half instead of rushing back, he could conserve stamina and—if Li missed—be perfectly positioned for an easy fast-break bucket from a long pass.
Of course, basketball isn't just math and probability. Kota's calculations were the product of pure experience—split-second decisions honed by instinct.
Running more doesn't mean playing better. Basketball isn't a "step counter" competition.
"The captain loves finishing in transition," Kota said lightly. "But my defense isn't built for chasing in open court. Even if I sprinted back, it wouldn't really help the team much."
He shrugged casually. "But if he really did go for a solo fast break like I guessed—and happened to miss—then I'd be right there on the other end, ready for a free two points."
Even Li Wenyu, standing nearby, went silent for a moment, his head lowering as he thought about it.
To be fair, Kota had a point. If Sun hadn't blown the whistle, Li probably would've gone all the way himself. Sure, he was confident in his finishing—but no one makes every shot.
"Damn… when you put it like that, it actually makes sense," Li thought, scratching his head.
But Coach Sun wasn't so easy to fool.
"So what you're saying," the coach asked, voice low and sharp, "is that you were gambling out there?"
Kota tilted his head, unbothered by the rising pressure in the coach's tone. "I wouldn't call it gambling, Coach. 'Decision-making' sounds a bit more accurate."
He rubbed his chin, choosing his words carefully. "I made that choice based on what I saw and what I've learned. In that moment, staying put wasn't laziness—it was my response to our mistake."
Kota's voice was calm, not defensive. His eyes didn't waver under the coach's stare. The weight of Sun's authority pressed down on him, but he didn't flinch.
For a long ten seconds, neither spoke.
Li Wenyu stood nearby, sweating bullets, glancing between the two like a man watching a bomb about to go off.
Man, this is intense… They're gonna start throwing punches any second now, he thought nervously.
Then, suddenly — Sun chuckled.
"Heh. You're the first player who's ever argued basketball logic with me."
The laugh was brief. His face quickly returned to its usual seriousness.
"You've convinced me," he said finally. "From now on, I'll allow you to follow your own judgment during games—but on one condition."
He raised a finger. "After every game, I want you to explain your in-game decisions to me. Every 'creative' move. If your reasoning doesn't satisfy me, that privilege is gone. Understood?"
Kota smiled—wide and confident.
"Of course, Coach. And trust me… you won't regret it."
He even threw in a playful wink.
"Tch… cocky brat." Sun shook his head, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. Turning, he clapped his hands sharply.
"Alright, everyone! Gather up!"
Like trained soldiers, the national team players dropped what they were doing and assembled in seconds.
That kind of discipline could only come from Haejiro's old-school, military-style philosophy—and Sun, his direct protégé, upheld it to perfection.
"Next up," Sun barked, "we're running tactical drills!"
— — —
"Ha… ha! You've gotta be kidding me! That yellow-skinned monkey—no way!"
On another court, Nash stood frozen, eyes wide as he stared at Kise. The rest of the Jabberworck squad looked just as stunned.
Moments earlier, Kise had blown past their entire defense—dribbling through like a golden blur before soaring up and slamming the ball through the rim with a thunderous dunk.
"Kise, you rushed in too fast," Akashi called out, stepping back, though admiration gleamed in his heterochromatic eyes. "Still… well done."
"Waaah, sorry, sorry!" Kise laughed, flexing his arms like a model on a runway. "I dunno what's going on, but I'm super fired up today!"
A golden glow pulsed across his body—his eyes flashing with twin streaks of light.
Zone Mode — Perfect Copy!
Kise had somehow triggered the legendary state on his own — without emotional push, without danger. Just pure instinct and rhythm.
The scoreboard read 39–36, Vorpal Swords team leading.
As in the original story, Jabberworck had started slow — then suddenly unleashed their full power, their ferocious style shaking the Generation of Miracles to the core.
But right when they turned the tables, Kise felt that spark ignite — his body growing lighter, faster, unstoppable.
It was as if he'd flipped the "God Mode" switch.
Now, even the mighty Jabberwock couldn't keep up.
Kise tore through their defense over and over, dunking like a man possessed.
Seeing the tide turn, Nash tried to adjust—switching to personally guard Kise. But before he could recover, disaster struck again: with Kise in the Zone, Akashi awakened too.
Both his personalities synchronized perfectly, sharing control of his body. With Nash now tied up on defense, Akashi finally had room to shine—
—and he did.
Effortlessly.
His dribble was surgical, his movements childlike yet lethal. Every crossover dropped another Jabberwock defender.
At the same time, Midorima's absurd long-range threes rained down like artillery fire. Even the Jabberwock squad, usually unshakable, could only stare in disbelief.
The score skyrocketed—three points… six… nine… before long, Vorpal Swords led by double digits.
Nash, sweating and scowling, barked orders left and right. Credit where due—his leadership was solid.
But against a fully powered Generation of Miracles, even he was starting to look helpless.
By halftime, the board read 67–58, Vorpal Swords in the lead.
For the first time since awakening his Belial Eye, Nash found himself behind at halftime.
"No way… They're just a bunch of—" he muttered, voice trembling. "How can we be losing to them?"
"This isn't working," muttered Silver, wiping sweat off his chin, his expression dark.
He'd been their best performer so far, finding ways to score even over Murasakibara. But one man couldn't carry the team forever.
No matter how good he was, the other side was packed with gods.
If the Jabberwock wanted to win, Silver thought grimly, they'd need to… bend the rules a bit.
His eyes narrowed. He leaned toward Nash and whispered under his breath:
"Nash…"