[Your stubbornness and your talent complement each other perfectly. No matter what your opponents do, you haunt them like a ghost, clinging relentlessly until they break.]
[You refuse to let anyone score. You've pushed your talent to its absolute limit!]
[Your defense shakes your opponents to their core—they can hardly breathe, and at times they don't even dare face you with the ball.]
"Complement my personality, huh?"
"The system never said talents depended on personality."
Souta frowned.
Could talents really have… personalities of their own?
But this damn system was cold as ice.
There wasn't even a guide or AI assistant—just lines of emotionless text recording everything that happened in his simulated world.
[Your opponents can't break through. You've frozen their ace and stripped them of their weapon.]
[Their coach calls another timeout. Sitting nearby, you can hear him shouting in frustration, powerless to change anything.]
[The game resumes.]
[The other team adjusts. Without their strongest spear, they switch tactics.]
[They start running a full-court press. The moment you touch the ball, two defenders swarm you.]
[You rely on your solid fundamentals to get out of trouble.]
[You pass the ball to a teammate.]
[Their defenders charge again, relentless. Your offense stalls.]
[The game turns into a grind. Your teammates look like they've been thrown into a meat grinder—completely shredded by the pace.]
[They can't adapt to the intensity. Your shooting percentage drops, and you're pissed at them for wasting your assists.]
[You decide to take matters into your own hands.]
[But your shots start missing too. You're not strong enough yet to take on multiple defenders at once.]
[You throw an elbow!]
"..."
Outside the simulation, Souta said nothing.
He wanted to argue—that wasn't who he was.
But thinking back to last year, whenever he faced tough opponents, his elbows did come out sometimes. He always thought of it as self-defense—only triggered by the other guy's dirty play.
[Your opponents curse you for your elbows and complain to the refs.]
[You mock them as a bunch of crybabies still on milk. You even tell them, if they don't mind, they can bring out photos of their moms—you're happy to "help" them relactate so they'll have something to drink when they grow up.]
[Your opponents lose it. They start throwing elbows too.]
[You drive to the rim and take two hits yourself, grunting in pain but forcing your way through to score.]
[Your coach yells from the sideline, "Tough! Keep it up! Send those pansies back home crying!"]
[But the tough guy himself is wearing a wristband printed with a cute cartoon girl—something the opposing coach doesn't miss.]
[He jeers at you, telling you to crawl back to your "2D world" and reward yourself in the bathroom with your paper-waifu.]
[You snap. This idiot actually dared call Sora cute? He clearly had no idea how much it hurt to get stomped by her—or smacked in the face by her bare foot.]
[The game gets even rougher. You bulldoze your way through with elbows honed since third grade.]
[Your shooting doesn't improve, but the score gap widens—the other team's accuracy tanks even harder. Thanks to your solid fundamentals, you keep the lead steady.]
"Damn it, I didn't start fighting because of this."
Souta couldn't help feeling slandered by the system.
He didn't fight for himself.
If those idiots hadn't kept picking on Sora and the others, why would he bother?
He was protecting them!
[A veteran of countless battles, you've perfected your elbow game. You're unfazed by their dirty tricks.]
[By halftime, you've posted 12 points, 6 rebounds, and 3 assists—with 2 fouls.]
[Your elbows escape the refs' notice, but not their tiny brains. They can't believe a teenager could dominate like this—they assume you must've been playing dirty.]
[You don't protest. After all, you've drawn four fouls on them already. You're winning too hard to care!]
[Back in the locker room, you strip off your shirt, revealing bruises in every shade of blue and purple. Your teammates gasp, their respect for you rising even higher.]
[You're satisfied with your work—if you look like this, the five guys on the other team must be wrecked.]
[Sure enough, in their locker room nearby, your opponents are groaning in pain.]
[Their coach looks lost—can't beat you, can't outfight you. What now?]
[Halftime ends. The second half begins.]
[You keep up the same intensity, charging into the fray and elbowing your way through triple teams.]
[The opponents have learned to fear you. You roar after scoring a tough two in the paint.]
[The entire arena goes silent—your toughness has left a mark. Everyone can feel your hunger for victory.]
[The game ends. In this brutal slugfest, you put up a monstrous 29 points, 12 rebounds, and 8 assists. Even the opposing coach admits his respect for your grit.]
[Your performance catches Momoi Satsuki's attention.]
"She noticed me again? And it's only the second game this time."
Souta rubbed his chin.
Both times he'd simulated, Momoi ended up taking an interest in him.
The first time, it happened way later—but now, just the second match and she was already watching.
"Guess Momoi Satsuki's pretty picky—she only looks when the 'meal' looks good. Just like RNG never signing scrubs."
Still, that at least proved his strength had improved.
Souta smiled in satisfaction.
The simulation went on.
[You keep winning, though you can't help watching other teams drive off in their buses while you guys take the subway home.]
[Coach Oten uses that as motivation—he promises that if you keep performing, he'll convince the school to fund a team bus.]
[Someone jokes, "Even if we get one, we'll have graduated by then."]
[A third-year senpai says it lightly, but the mood dips—the air tinged with quiet melancholy.]
[You sling your bag over one shoulder and say, "So what? At least we'll have left something behind for Hozumi Academy. If you don't want your youth to be forgettable, come train with me after this. You guys were softer than Sora today!"]
[To your surprise, no one feels pressured by your words. Instead, a strange fire lights in their hearts. They want to leave their mark too.]
[But a few teammates give you odd looks—wondering how you'd know exactly how soft Sora is.]
[You beat some sense into them!!!]
[Night falls.]
[As you're undressing for a shower, Sora walks in to grab some clothes. She "accidentally" sees the bruises on your body and presses herself close.]
[Now you really know how soft she is.]
[You tell her not to worry—life's a battlefield, and everyone takes hits. Then you shoo her out.]
"Why does she keep showing up so much lately?"
Outside the sim, Souta felt increasingly uneasy.
The system's simulation world sometimes slipped in little details about Sora—and every time it did, it made his heart race in ways he didn't like admitting.
[Later that night, Sora sneaks into your room again—not to "measure" this time, but with a first-aid kit to tend your wounds.]
[You let her. When she finishes, she shyly asks if she can stay the night. You freeze up and insist, "Stuff like that's only after eighteen!"]
[She blushes furiously, calls you "pervert," and bolts from the room.]
[After all, both of you have seen Kasugano Haruka and Yorihime Nao "fucking around" at their age—Sora's definitely more worldly than most girls.]
"Bastard!"
Outside the sim, Souta cursed.
Kasugano Haruka was a damn pervert.
Sure, he might've been the passive one—but still, ever heard of saying no?!
Now Sora was corrupted!