"Momoi Satsuki?"
Outside the Simulation, Souta blinked in surprise, impressed by the sheer reach of her intel network.
She was just one person—how the hell did she manage to gather information on every major player in Japan?
He kept reading.
[Your consistent standout performances had drawn Momoi Satsuki's attention.]
[The next day, another game awaited. The National Tournament schedule was relentless—no time to rest.]
[The three teams in the round-robin tournament had to finish all their games within two days, forcing everyone into a grueling back-to-back.]
[Your first opponent: the powerhouse of Tochigi Prefecture. They'd reached the National Tournament twenty-five times in their history—until last year, when your Hozumi Academy ended their streak.]
[You're only a second-year student, yet you're already leading the team like a true captain.]
[In the stands, you spot a pink-haired girl. She stands out—not just because she's beautiful, but because of her Teiko uniform.]
[The National Tournament Qualifiers were happening all over Japan, and Teiko, like Hozumi, had already advanced to the round-robin. They were annihilating their Tokyo opponents, winning by an average of 58.9 points per game.]
[Their ace, Aomine Daiki, was a monster among monsters—averaging 38.7 points per game even while surrounded by other geniuses.]
[You pull your gaze away and focus on the court.]
["Kasugano Souta. Glad to see you here. I was shocked when I heard you'd quit Hozumi's Basketball Club—but it looks like you're back. Perfect. We've got unfinished business."]
[Your opponent's captain glares at you—the same guy you beat last year. He'd been stewing over that loss ever since, training hard for a full year just to get revenge.]
["I heard you got offers from Tokyo's elite schools. Congrats in advance," you say, ignoring his provocation.]
[In your mind, someone you could beat last year stood no chance now.]
[The game begins. From the first possession, you can tell they've studied your footage.]
[Their formation—3-2 zone defense. Two players up front, three clogging the paint. Classic zone setup.]
[You know exactly what they're trying to do—cut off your driving lanes and your kick-out passes.]
[You recognize the counter. A formation like that opens up outside shooting opportunities... but long-range shots aren't your specialty.]
[You decide to force your way through.]
[Sure enough, the moment you step inside the arc, two defenders collapse on you like twin ghosts. Their timing's perfect—clearly something they've drilled over and over.]
[But you don't panic. You take a quick step back, change direction, and drive again. Your movements are as crisp as ever—simple, efficient, always one step ahead. Even facing two defenders, they can feel your overwhelming pressure.]
[You don't completely shake them, but it's enough. You whip the ball to Sakurai Ryo, who's waiting in the left elbow.]
[The defense reacts fast, swarming him instantly—but Sakurai's release is even faster.]
["Sorry," he says as his three-pointer swishes clean through.]
[You can't help thinking this mushroom-headed guy is even more annoying than you are.]
[It's a solid start. You glance toward the stands and spot that pink-haired girl scribbling notes nonstop, her pen flying across the page.]
[The other team answers back immediately—executing a smooth pick and roll for an easy two points. No surprise they've ruled Tochigi Prefecture for years; they've got the pedigree to back it up.]
[Next possession, you take the ball again and split two defenders with the simplest possible crossover.]
[You fake a pass—the defender bites hard, lunging so far he probably wouldn't recognize his own mom right now. The double team collapses into a one-on-one.]
[You give him no time to recover. A textbook jumper—pure form, perfect follow-through—drops for your first field goal of the game. Coach claps hard on the sideline. That shooting form of yours could make him die happy.]
[Halftime score: 58–50. Hozumi Academy leads by eight under your command.]
[Sakurai's been on fire too—4-for-8 from deep, good for 12 points.]
[But fans start to realize something's off. Your game looks plain, nothing flashy—but your halftime stats tell a different story: 17 points, 4 rebounds, 5 assists. That's triple-double pace again.]
["How can someone polish their fundamentals this much?" Momoi Satsuki mutters, jotting down notes. Her notebook's eighty percent about you—the rest split between Sakurai Ryo and Hozumi's overall tactics.]
[She flips back through past pages. Every game's stats are nearly identical. Your performance is unbelievably consistent.]
[There are only two explanations: One, you've completely controlled every match and your opponents just can't pressure you. Or two, your ceiling's capped right there.]
[Momoi leans toward the first. Sure, you've been farming weaker teams until now, but even facing Tochigi's reigning champs, you're still rock solid—that's proof your ability surpasses everyone on the court.]
"..."
Outside the sim, Souta says nothing as he reads Momoi's analysis.
He knows himself best.
His consistency comes from Fundamental.
It ignores game intensity—no matter the situation, it guarantees stable output. That keeps his floor high.
But at the same time, it means his ceiling isn't.
Too much stability kills explosiveness.
Right now, he can easily average 20+5+5 a game.
That's his baseline.
But to break into the 30+ range? He'll need something more.
[Second half begins. The opponents have clearly adjusted—they're zeroing in on you now, determined to shut you down.]
[They don't have much film on Hozumi's new system with you as the core, but one thing's obvious—you're the team's engine.]
[They change their strategy. And so do you.]
[Without enough explosiveness, you can't brute-force through this pressure. So you call for a pick and roll with your center.]
[It's the simplest, most fundamental play in basketball—and also one of the most effective. Modern offenses all evolve from it.]
[You use the screen to slip into the free-throw line area, then bounce-pass to your rolling teammate. As the defense collapses on him, he fires the ball back hard to your hands.]
[Perfect. You're now facing their center one-on-one—a mismatch, small versus big.]
[Two tight spins and you carve out just enough space.]
[Swish—the ball kisses the glass and drops through. Your next-level experience dismantles their scheme effortlessly.]
[Momoi's pen flies again. You're becoming a major data point in her analysis. To her, you play smart—calculating, efficient—the complete opposite of her childhood friend.]
[Your basketball is pragmatic and cunning. Aomine Daiki's is brilliant and reckless.]
[She can read the opposing team's tactics—but not how you're breaking them.]
[To her, you're a genius—someone whose name would spread nationwide within ten days.]
[On the court, you can feel the frustration boiling from your opponents. Their movements get rougher, dirtier—but at 1.8 meters, you're no pushover.]
[For a middle schooler, your frame's elite—already near Generation of Miracles level. Only your athleticism hasn't caught up yet.]