The moment Coach Taoka entered the gym, he quickened his pace toward Anzai, bowing slightly.
“Coach Anzai, I hope we’re not late?”
Despite leading a top-eight program, Taoka always showed deference to the legendary Anzai.
“Ho ho ho!
No need for such formality, Coach Taoka.” Anzai extended his hand for a friendly shake.
After the greeting, Taoka’s eyes swept the gym.
“I don’t see Mitsui.
Is he—?”
“Injured.” Anzai’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“He’s recovering at the hospital.”
Surprise flickered across Taoka’s face.
This changed everything.
Mitsui had been the entire reason for this scrimmage.
Months ago, Taoka had personally recruited him, painting a vision of Ryonan’s championship potential.
But Mitsui had refused—chose Shohoku purely out of loyalty to Coach Anzai’s legacy.
That rejection still stung.
It had become a permanent thorn in Taoka’s pride.
Today’s scrimmage was supposed to show Mitsui what he’d missed—demonstrate Ryonan’s dominance, prove that Shohoku had been the wrong choice.
But with Mitsui absent, the entire psychological impact evaporated.
Taoka pushed aside his disappointment.
“How serious is the injury?”
“He’ll be discharged in about a month.”
Relief washed over Taoka’s features.
“Good.
That’s good.”
Despite Mitsui playing for a rival program, Taoka genuinely cared about the kid’s health.
Beneath his stern exterior, the Ryonan coach had a warm heart—he’d shown concern for opposing players countless times over the years.
While the coaches talked, Ryonan captain Ozawa Yusaku approached Captain Ikeda.
“I’m Ozawa Yusaku, Ryonan’s floor general.” He extended his hand.
“Looking forward to a good game.”
Ikeda shook it firmly.
“Ikeda Yuho, Shohoku captain.
Same to you.”
But most eyes weren’t on the captains.
“Whoa, he’s massive!”
Nearly everyone stared at the figure behind Ozawa.
Uozumi Jun—199cm of raw potential towering over the court.
Height like that always commanded attention.
Uozumi and Akagi locked eyes simultaneously.
A silent communication passed between them—recognition, challenge, mutual respect.
In the future, they’d become fierce rivals.
Even now, that magnetic pull existed.
This version of Uozumi was different from his future self, though.
Gentle, almost timid.
Nothing like the aggressive presence he’d become.
His skin was lighter too—compared to dark-complexioned Akagi, first-year Uozumi looked almost handsome.
No trace of the “Akagi’s dad” resemblance that would emerge later.
If Ohkawada saw them now, he’d never mistake Uozumi for Akagi’s father.
If anything, he’d think Akagi was Uozumi’s dad.
Captain Ikeda returned carrying a bundle of red jerseys.
“Alright, jersey assignments!”
Twelve total.
Numbers 4 through 9 belonged to the six seniors, leaving 10 through 15 for the freshmen.
Owning a jersey meant official team status.
No jersey?
You were reserve squad—Shohoku’s equivalent of Shoyo’s infamous cheerleading bench.
The freshmen watched Ikeda with barely contained anxiety, hoping to hear their names.
“Number 10—Akagi Takenori!”
Just like in the original timeline, Akagi received #10 as a freshman.
Next year he’d wear #8, suggesting two seniors would quit the team.
“Number 11—Kogure Kiminobu!”
Kogure stepped forward to claim his jersey.
The #11—Shohoku’s number for handsome players, apparently.
He’d wear it well.
“Number 12—Okamoto Nobuhiko!”
“Number 13—Tanaka Jiro!”
“Number 15—Yamamoto Kuma!”
Number 14 remained unclaimed.
Reserved for Mitsui.
The remaining freshmen who didn’t make the cut deflated visibly.
Reserve status—the waiting game.
BOOM!
A thunderous crash echoed from the opposite end of the court.
Everyone turned.
Uozumi hung from the rim with both hands, the entire backboard bent at an alarming angle from his dunk.
The Ryonan center’s raw power was on full display.
Coach Anzai adjusted his glasses, turning to Taoka.
“Your center—he’s two meters tall?”
Uozumi reminded Anzai of his former student, Tanizawa Ryuji.
Similar height, similar build.
“Uozumi?
“But he’ll hit two meters soon—I’m certain of it.”
Taoka launched into an enthusiastic explanation of how he’d discovered this rough diamond in the interior.
Ten years of coaching, and Uozumi—despite having only his height as an obvious advantage—was the most talented player he’d ever recruited.
“With your guidance,” Anzai said diplomatically, “I’m sure he’ll become one of Kanagawa’s best centers.”
“Absolutely!”
Anzai’s validation made Taoka beam.
He didn’t realize the irony.
In two years, Anzai would have the best center in Kanagawa without lifting a finger.
Meanwhile, Uozumi—despite Taoka’s tireless development—would be fighting for second place.
The future would be frustrating for Coach Taoka.
While the coaches talked, Kogure grabbed a basketball.
“Akagi.
Catch.”
Akagi sprinted toward the basket without hesitation.
As he approached the paint, Kogure lobbed it high toward the rim.
Akagi exploded upward, snatched the ball mid-flight with both hands, and detonated.
BOOM!
The rim shook violently.
The dunk’s volume matched Uozumi’s.
Shohoku players erupted in cheers.
Across the court, even Ryonan players nodded acknowledgment.
Respect.
Akagi landed and immediately turned.
His eyes found Uozumi’s instantly.
Sparks seemed to fly between them.
The rivalry was igniting.
Ikegami elbowed Uozumi.
“That big black pillar is Shohoku’s tallest player.
Probably your matchup today.
You ready?”
Nervousness flickered across Uozumi’s face.
Then he remembered Coach Taoka’s preparation sessions from the past week.
His expression hardened with determination.
“Ikegami, I’ll defeat him.”
“I know you will, Uozumi.”
Tweeet!
The referee’s whistle—Shohoku’s 150cm senior who’d been left off the roster—signaled both teams to prepare.
Coach Anzai stood to announce the starting lineup.
“Ikeda, Sato, Ito.”
Three seniors called.
Anzai paused, creating suspense before naming the final two starters.