The announcement detonated like a grenade.
“Wait—Ryonan invited us?”
“No way.
They made quarterfinals last year.
We got bounced first round.
Why would they—”
The gym erupted in disbelief.
Ryonan High School, one of Kanagawa’s elite programs, requesting a scrimmage with perpetually-bottom-feeding Shohoku?
It made no sense.
Normally, teams scheduled friendlies against similar competition.
Ryonan should be looking at Kainan, Shoyo, maybe Takezato.
Not basement-dwellers.
Kogure’s mind raced.
This didn’t happen in the original timeline.
In canon, Akagi and Uozumi met for the first time during the prefectural tournament itself.
After Ryonan’s game, Uozumi had spotted Akagi in the stands and asked around about him afterward.
So this scrimmage was new.
A deviation.
Most likely, canon-Anzai had declined Taoka’s invitation.
But this Anzai—after watching today’s freshman performance—had accepted.
The scrimmage was happening because Kogure had changed things.
“Kogure.” Akagi’s voice pulled him back.
“Why would Ryonan want to play us?”
“Coach Anzai’s reputation,” Kogure said simply.
“Former national team player, veteran university coach.
Taoka respects him.
He’s doing this as a courtesy.”
Akagi’s frown eased slightly, but doubt lingered.
“Can we even compete with Ryonan?”
“Akagi.” Kogure’s tone sharpened.
“If you think like that, how do we achieve our dream?
Nationals, remember?”
The rebuke hit home.
Three years at Kitamura Junior High without a single meaningful win had shattered Akagi’s confidence.
The mental scars ran deep.
“Look,” Kogure continued, softer now.
“Ryonan is strong.
But they’re not unbeatable.
And this is an opportunity—if we can hang with them, it proves we can keep our promise to Mitsui.
We won’t get eliminated before he returns.”
Something shifted in Akagi’s expression.
The promise at Mitsui’s bedside.
That vow mattered.
He took a deep breath, decision crystallizing.
“You’re right.
For Mitsui.
For our dream.
We beat Ryonan.”
Akagi’s fists clenched, eyes blazing with determination.
Poor Uozumi, Kogure thought, suppressing a smile.
He’s about to get demolished by a motivated gorilla.
Ryonan was the perfect test.
And Uozumi was the perfect opponent to build Akagi’s confidence—skilled enough to be a challenge, but not so dominant that Akagi would get discouraged.
“To beat Ryonan,” Kogure said aloud, “we train harder than ever this week.”
The encouragement worked like rocket fuel.
Akagi practically vibrated with eagerness to start grinding.
Kogure left him to it and approached Coach Anzai.
If he wanted to accelerate his growth, he needed more skills.
And Coach Anzai was the best resource in Shohoku.
Time to see if the old coach would teach him anything.
“Coach,” Kogure started, “I heard you played for the national team?”
“Ho ho ho!” Anzai’s signature laugh rumbled.
“Ancient history.
Not worth mentioning.”
The laugh was genuine, at least.
Not completely indifferent.
“You must have been incredible back then.”
“Kogure-kun, what do you need?” Anzai’s eyes twinkled knowingly.
The old man saw right through him.
No point being coy.
“Coach, could you teach me a move?”
Anzai didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he said carefully, “Basketball cannot be won by one or two skills alone.
It requires teamwork—the effort and dedication of every player.”
What he didn’t say, but Kogure heard clearly: And you don’t have the physical talent to matter individually anyway.
Talent-only philosophy.
Always.
“I want to contribute more to the team, Coach.” Kogure bowed deeply, formal and sincere.
Anzai studied him for a long moment.
Then, perhaps moved by the genuine respect, he sighed.
“Very well.
I’ll teach you something.”
He stood from his chair with effort and waddled onto the court.
Kogure’s pulse quickened.
What skill would a former national team player share?
The other players noticed Coach Anzai moving and gravitated closer, curious.
Anzai didn’t shoo them away—if he was teaching, might as well teach everyone.
“Kogure-kun,” Anzai began, “do you know the Eurostep?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
Kogure knew the concept—a dribbling technique pioneered by European players, characterized by an exaggerated lateral change of direction during the layup approach.
Future legends like Ginobili, Wade, and Irving would make it famous.
But knowing the theory and executing it were completely different things.
“The Eurostep is used when attacking the basket,” Anzai explained.
“Its strength lies in the footwork—dramatic left-right alternation that causes defenders to misjudge your direction and lose defensive position.”
He bent down—slowly, given his age and girth—and retrieved a basketball.
“First, as you approach the defender, you suddenly change direction with the dribble while simultaneously shifting your footwork.
This leads the defender to misjudge your breakthrough angle and shifts their center of gravity.”
Anzai demonstrated in slow motion.
Right foot forward—sell the fake.
Then a hard left step.
Finally, gather and finish.
Age and weight forced him to move at quarter-speed, but the fundamentals were clear.
The Shohoku players watched intently, absorbing every detail.
[Learnable Skill Detected: Eurostep]
[Learning Progress: 13%]
The notification appeared the moment Anzai completed the demonstration.
The system recognized teachable skills.
“The Eurostep requires excellent coordination,” Anzai continued, breathing slightly heavy from the exertion.
“Timing is critical.
You must react the instant the defender’s weight shifts.”
He stopped demonstrating.
At his age and condition, strenuous movement risked his health.
In the original timeline, he’d suffered a heart attack.
No need to tempt fate.
“Kogure-kun, you try.
Anzai tossed him the ball.
Kogure caught it and began replicating the movements.
First attempt—clunky, mechanical.
Timing off.
“The ball must follow your upper body,” Anzai instructed.
“When you change direction, the ball moves with your torso—that’s what creates the dramatic shift.
Lower your center of gravity.
It increases speed and protects your knees.
Keep them bent and flexible.
Lock them straight and you’re asking for injury.”
Sharp coaching.
Anzai identified flaws immediately.
“How do I lower my center of gravity better?” Kogure asked.
“Drop your shoulders slightly.
Your center of gravity follows.”
Anzai corrected Kogure’s form step by step—where to put his weight, how to generate power, refining each micro-movement.
The instruction was detailed, precise.
Professional.
Kogure absorbed it like a sponge.
Each correction integrated instantly, his learning progress climbing steadily.
[Eurostep: 27%]
The other players practiced alongside him, but without the system’s feedback, their progress was harder to track.
Time dissolved.
Kogure repeated the movement hundreds of times, each rep smoother than the last.
His footwork became more agile, rhythm more natural.
Thirty minutes of focused practice.
[Eurostep: 99%]
Anzai watched with visible amazement.
“I’ve never seen anyone learn this quickly.”
But the amazement was tinged with something else.
Pity, maybe.
Regret.
If only Kogure had elite athleticism, Anzai thought.
Then I’d invest real time in developing him.
Maximize his potential.
But he didn’t.
So this would be the extent of Anzai’s investment.
“One final tip, Kogure-kun.” Anzai’s voice was gentle.
“When you plant for the first step, land on your toes with your heels slightly raised.
It generates more explosive power.”
Kogure adjusted his form and executed the Eurostep one more time.
First step—toes planted, heel up.
Explosive lateral change.
Second step—gather.
Finish.
Perfect.
[Congratulations!
New Skill Learned: Eurostep]
The notification blazed across his vision.
Kogure stopped, breathing hard but grinning.
Another weapon in his arsenal.
Another step toward becoming a real contributor.
“Thank you, Coach.” He bowed again, genuinely grateful.
Anzai waved it off, already shuffling back toward his chair.
The lesson was over.
But Kogure had gotten what he needed.
The Eurostep would open new attacking angles, create different finishing opportunities at the rim.
One week until Ryonan.
Time to integrate this into his game.