The Eurostep acquisition opened new possibilities.
Another weapon in Kogure’s arsenal meant more scoring options, which meant better offensive attributes.
And leveling up the skill would boost multiple physical stats simultaneously.
After a brief water break, Kogure claimed court space and started drilling.
Footwork.
Body coordination.
The gather and finish.
He repeated the sequence hundreds of times, programming the movement into muscle memory.
Between reps, he adjusted—tweaking his stride length, experimenting with rhythm variations, finding the version that felt most natural to his body.
The improvement was visible.
Each Eurostep smoother than the last, more explosive, better disguised.
By the time practice officially ended, the system confirmed what his body already knew:
[Eurostep: LV1→LV2]
[Explosive Power: 58→60]
[Flexibility: 75→76]
Four attribute points total.
Excellent return on investment.
Kogure smiled.
The explosive power jumped two points primarily because his base was still low—easier to move the needle when you’re starting from the bottom.
But the gains would compound.
His overall athleticism was climbing steadily.
“Kogure-kun’s learning ability is truly remarkable.”
Coach Anzai had been observing from his chair.
The praise was genuine, though Kogure noticed the caveat lurking beneath: remarkable for someone with your limitations.
In Anzai’s mental hierarchy, Kogure still ranked far below future discoveries like Sakuragi and Rukawa.
Talent-only philosophy.
Always.
Anzai stood and signaled the end of practice.
Under Captain Ikeda’s direction, the team lined up.
“Good work today.
Rest well tonight.
Dismissed!”
Players scattered to clean equipment and mop floors.
As Anzai turned to leave, Kogure caught him.
“Coach, one more thing.”
“Yes, Kogure-kun?”
Kogure took a breath.
“Could you visit Mitsui at the hospital?”
Anzai had always been Mitsui’s idol—the entire reason Mitsui chose Shohoku over powerhouse programs.
A visit from the coach would mean everything.
More importantly, it would keep Mitsui mentally grounded during recovery.
Prevent any stupid decisions born from boredom and frustration.
Anzai hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“You’re right.
I should visit.”
Relief washed through Kogure.
With Anzai’s involvement, Mitsui would stay committed to full recovery.
And a fully healthy Mitsui transformed Shohoku’s ceiling dramatically—actual hope of competing for a nationals berth.
Otherwise, no matter how strong Kogure became individually—even if he reached Sugiyama’s level—winning a nationals ticket from ultra-competitive Kanagawa would be nearly impossible.
“We’re coming too,” Akagi announced.
Vice-captain Ito waved them off.
“You guys go with the coach.
We’ll finish cleaning.
Tell Mitsui we said hi.”
Kogure didn’t argue.
He, Akagi, Ikeda, and the three Takeishi players joined Coach Anzai for the hospital visit.
During the walk, Kogure and Akagi discussed basketball technique. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
“Your size advantage is huge, Akagi.
But post-up isn’t just bulldozing.
You can use spins, pump fakes, footwork to create space.
Make defenders guess.
Keep them off-balance so they can’t predict your next move.”
Kogure shared theoretical knowledge on low-post scoring.
Coach Anzai, walking alongside them, occasionally added corrections or refinements.
Akagi absorbed it all eagerly.
They arrived at the hospital just as visiting hours were ending.
Mitsui’s room was on the third floor.
Inside, he lay sprawled on the bed—arms and legs spread wide, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes.
The picture of adolescent boredom.
Knock knock.
“Come in,” Mitsui called absently, assuming it was a nurse.
The door opened.
Coach Anzai entered first.
Mitsui bolted upright, eyes wide.
“Coach!”
“Mitsui-kun.” Anzai approached the bedside, expression gentle.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better, Coach!” Mitsui’s words tumbled out quickly.
Then, after a pause: “Actually…
do you think I could be discharged early?”
There it is.
Kogure suppressed a sigh.
Mitsui had never experienced a career-threatening injury before.
Classic case of the pain fading faster than the lesson.
He was getting restless, impatient, already fantasizing about shortcuts.
Good thing Kogure had brought Anzai.
“Mitsui-kun.” Anzai’s tone turned serious.
“As a player, you must respect injuries.
They determine the length of your career.
Even in the NBA, countless players retire early because they didn’t take injuries seriously.” He paused.
“Larry Bird is the perfect example.”
Mitsui’s eyes widened.
Everyone knew Bird, living legend, arguably the best forward in basketball.
“Bird injured his back in the summer of 1988,” Anzai continued.
“He was visiting his grandmother’s house, noticed the yard needed work, and decided to fix it himself.
Leveled the driveway, repaired the fence.
Manual labor.
Threw his back out from overexertion.” Anzai’s expression was somber.
“When he returned from that injury, he was never the same.
Dropped from MVP caliber to ordinary All-Star.
He’s considering retirement now because the damage was permanent.”
The message landed.
Mitsui’s face paled slightly.
“I hope you’ll learn from his mistake,” Anzai said quietly.
“Follow your doctor’s orders.
Don’t let impatience destroy your career.”
“I will, Coach.” Mitsui’s voice was thick with emotion.
“I’ll follow the treatment plan exactly.”
Anzai smiled, satisfied, and stepped aside for the others.
The teammates hadn’t come empty-handed.
Each produced a gift.
“Latest basketball magazine,” Ikeda said, handing it over.
“Keep that passion alive.”
“Weekly Shonen Jump,” Yamamoto added.
“For when you’re bored.” New chapters come out on g.com first.
“Izumi Sakai’s first album—HOLD ME,” Tanaka offered.
“Hope you like it.”
Mitsui’s eyes shone.
The gifts, the visit—his teammates cared.
Then Okamoto stepped forward with a mischievous grin.
“And this—your favorite.
Playboy magazine.”
He held up the magazine.
The cover featured a model in a bikini, large areas of skin exposed.
Mitsui’s face transformed instantly—shock, then mortification.
“I’m not—I didn’t—don’t talk nonsense!”
His face turned crimson.
Panic evident.
Okamoto’s grin widened.
“Oh?
Then why are you blushing?”
“Shut up!
That’s slander!
I’ll sue!”
“Can’t take a joke?” Okamoto laughed.
“Seriously though, relax.
Stop overthinking.
We need you healthy and focused.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Even Mitsui cracked a smile despite his embarrassment—the first genuine smile he’d worn in days.
The atmosphere shifted.
Lighter, warmer.
Exactly what Mitsui needed.
A nurse appeared at the door, signaling visiting hours were over.
Coach Anzai stood.
“It’s late, Mitsui-kun.
We should go.
But remember—stay here, recover properly.
We’ll be waiting for your return.”
The words carried weight.
Warmth flooded Mitsui’s chest.
“I promise, Coach.
I’ll rest seriously.”
Anzai’s signature laugh rumbled.
“Ho ho ho!” Then he turned and left.
Kogure paused at the door.
“We’ll visit again when we can, Mitsui.
Hang in there.”
“Kogure…” Mitsui’s voice was soft.
“Thank you.
For bringing Coach Anzai.”
He’d figured it out.
The gratitude was genuine.
Kogure just smiled and followed the others out.
Alone again in the hospital room, Mitsui felt the anxiety that had been building for days finally dissolve.
Coach Anzai cared.
His teammates cared.
He wasn’t forgotten or abandoned.
The restless urge to rush recovery, to cut corners, to prove himself prematurely—it faded.
He’d stay.
He’d heal properly.
And when he returned to the court, he’d be ready.
For the first time since the injury, Mitsui’s heart was completely at peace.