Coach Oten knew Kasugano Souta pretty well.
Ever since leaving the basketball club, Souta hadn't joined any other sports or activities. Under normal circumstances, his body should've gone rusty by now—if not for the local delinquents who constantly picked fights with him.
If those punks hadn't kept coming after him, giving him an excuse to throw a few punches, he probably wouldn't have gotten any exercise at all.
But fighting is one thing; playing basketball is another. He'd still been away from the court for a long time, without any real training.
Basketball's a sport where if you're not improving, you're falling behind fast.
Yet Souta hadn't regressed—he'd gotten even stronger.
That just didn't make sense.
"Could he have been secretly training this whole time?"
"But that doesn't add up. If he never planned to quit, then why leave the team in the first place?"
Coach Oten couldn't figure it out.
Then, a thought crossed his mind.
He'd never had much of a career himself, but he'd seen enough to know that some kinds of talent don't show up right away.
Some players are late bloomers. Their potential stays hidden—until one day, it erupts like a volcano.
Not common, but not unheard of either.
For instance, Teikou's ace, Daiki Aomine, had apparently been on fire this year. According to several sports columns that covered Teikou's scrimmages, his play was "shocking" and "unreal."
So maybe Coach Oten wasn't wrong to think that way—because Souta's "awakening" had literally happened just yesterday.
"This is what you call progress?"
"You've got less tension than the old guys doing morning walks at the park."
"..."
Their fists clenched.
The pressure monster was back.
They wanted to say it wasn't that they were slow—it was that he'd gotten way too fast.
But Souta ignored their flushed faces and went right back on defense, locking down the blue team's small forward so hard the guy bricked his shot.
"It's been how long, and your shooting's still trash? Thanks to you, the steel industry in Tochigi's never been healthier."
"I…"
The player facing him was none other than Souta's former substitute.
When Souta left, this guy had been thrilled to take his spot. He'd even promised himself he'd help Hozumi Academy achieve results that wouldn't lose to Souta's era.
But now, Souta was back—and stronger than ever.
Not to mention that damn mouth of his. One sentence and your palms would start sweating.
"Don't look at me like that. If you want to prove me wrong, do it on the court."
"Basketball's a game for the brave. No matter how loud you talk, it won't change the fact that you're soft."
The red team grabbed the rebound and passed the ball back to Souta.
He brought it up from half-court—same simple, clean playing style as always.
And yet—
Even with such basic dribbling and footwork, the blue team couldn't stop him.
It was like he'd polished every fundamental skill to perfection, to the point there was nothing left to improve.
Thud.
Swish.
Another basket.
Souta cut through two defenders, faced Ota head-on, and used his agility to his advantage—a small hook shot off the glass.
The ball kissed the backboard and dropped neatly through the net at a perfect forty-five-degree angle.
"What a textbook turnaround hook," the vice-captain couldn't help saying.
A turnaround hook wasn't a rare move—everyone in the club could do it.
But Souta had done it against Ota, Hozumi's captain and one of Tochigi's four top centers.
Anyone else would've been blocked on sight.
Souta, however, pulled it off easily—using nothing but the most basic movement.
Could perfecting the fundamentals really make someone this strong?
With four straight points and one assist to start the game, no one on the court dared say anything about him being "rusty" anymore.
If things went badly, they might end up getting crushed.
No one wanted to lose to Souta—and especially not to a lineup led by him and the substitutes.
When the pressure monster went all-out, it could be terrifying.
So they adjusted their defense.
On the surface, it was still a double team—but their formation quietly tightened.
No matter which direction Souta drove, help defense from both sides was ready.
It was a three-man trap.
Souta saw it coming.
A compressed defense meant the perimeter was left weaker.
Ryō Sakurai had been standing in the corner spots, waiting for a chance, just as Souta had told him before tip-off.
He immediately noticed the left side open up, so he instinctively cut to that position.
Then—
Smack!
A basketball hit the floor hard and bounced right into his hands.
Ryō looked up—and met Souta's eyes.
From his angle, Souta had just split three defenders and threaded a perfect pass straight to him.
"So... amazing," he breathed.
Even as he said it, his hands moved on their own—the ball was already out of his grip. The defenders had no time to recover.
Swish!
Wide-open three, nothing but net.
Quick shooting has never been a flaw.
Like just now—by the time Sakurai released the ball, the defender only reached him after it went in. Couldn't block, couldn't even contest.
When your shot's fast enough, defense barely matters.
Of course, that only works if you're accurate. Otherwise, you'd just be throwing bricks all game.
Sakurai, though, was fast and precise. It was his gift—like a budget version of Curry.
"Nice one, mushroom head."
"..."
Getting praise from Souta made him happy—but being called that didn't.
Not that it mattered.
Facing Souta, Sakurai wouldn't dare talk back.
There are two kinds of pressure monsters.
The useless ones—you can just ignore, maybe even snap at if you're in a bad mood.
But if the pressure monster's actually good... that's when it gets scary.
Sakurai was starting to understand how Jordan and Kobe's teammates must've felt.
Playing with greatness meant winning—but also constant pressure. One mistake, and the weight crashed right down.
Ten minutes later, the score read 24–15.
Souta's blue team led by nine.
But he wasn't satisfied.
As soon as they rotated out, he turned to Sakurai.
"Your shooting's fast, but not stable enough. After club practice, stay and train with me."
"Huh?" Sakurai's mind went blank. He wanted to say, "I have to help out at home after practice…"
But when he met Souta's unyielding eyes, he swallowed hard and said, "Got it, Souta…"
Now… how was he supposed to explain that to his mom?