[Learnable Skill Detected: Turnaround Jump Shot]
[Learning Progress: 3%]
Excitement surged through Kogure.
Of course Ozawa had skills—second-place scorer in last year’s tournament didn’t happen by accident.
He probably had multiple techniques worth learning.
Whether Ozawa would actually teach him after the game remained to be seen.
Offense-defense transition.
Ito brought the ball across halfcourt.
Matsushita pressured immediately—Ito panicked and fired a quick pass to Kogure.
Matsushita had clearly traumatized him.
The skill gap was too wide.
Kogure estimated Matsushita operated at strong team rotation player level, not talking about programs like Ryonan or Tsukubu, but elite squads like Sannoh or future Shohoku.
Kogure caught the entry pass.
Ozawa hooked his finger in challenge, settling into defensive stance.
Game on.
Kogure exploded right—hard first step, shoulders low, knees bent, attacking Ozawa’s outside shoulder.
Ozawa slid to cut him off.
Just before contact, Kogure’s right hand whipped the ball across his body to his left side.
Left foot planted, he accelerated past Ozawa’s hip.
Crossover.
Cleanly executed.
Compared to Ozawa’s version, Kogure’s had more rhythm variation, better disguise.
His was simply superior—higher level mastery.
They crossed paths.
Ozawa chased hard, explosive athleticism closing the gap quickly.
Within two strides they were parallel.
Screech.
Kogure planted.
Pull-up jumper, Ozawa flying past.
Swish.
Perfect arc.
Bucket.
Ozawa stopped and turned, studying Kogure’s retreating form with newfound respect.
“Little-known Shohoku has a player like this?
Eurostep, crossover, pull-up jumper—full offensive package.”
His eyes gleamed with competitive fire.
He hadn’t felt this energized in months.
They were the same type of player—skill-based scorers with average athleticism.
Kindred spirits.
On Ryonan’s bench, Coach Taoka’s frown deepened.
Watching Kogure operate, something twisted in his chest.
He’d never expected Shohoku to have players like Akagi and Kogure in addition to Mitsui.
And both were freshmen.
Taoka’s emotions churned like an overturned paint bucket—colors splashing chaotically.
Every year, he worked tirelessly recruiting.
Results?
Minimal.
Meanwhile, Coach Anzai did nothing.
Didn’t recruit, barely coached, completely hands-off with team building.
Yet talented players flocked to him anyway, as if fate itself favored the man.
Infuriating.
Completely infuriating.
How was that fair?
Jealousy crept through Taoka’s heart, bitter and corrosive.
But he forced it down.
Jealousy solved nothing.
Shohoku is rising, he realized.
Once Mitsui returns, with Akagi and Kogure…
they’ll rival Ryonan.
The thought galvanized him.
“Next year, I’m expanding recruitment to the entire Kanto region.
No more limiting myself to Kanagawa.”
Necessity demanded it.
Too many powerhouses in this prefecture—Kainan, Shoyo dominated recruitment.
Outstanding junior high players almost always chose those top-tier programs.
Ryonan was good, but not good enough to compete for elite prospects.
They got the leftovers, the players top teams passed on.
Strong stay strong.
Weak stay weak.
Brutal reality.
Back on court, the competition intensified.
Kogure’s scoring run ignited Ozawa’s pride.
Next possession, Ozawa entered full attack mode.
For the next several minutes, they traded buckets.
Back and forth, neither conceding ground, both threatening to take over completely.
Their duel elevated everyone.
The scoreboard numbers blurred—lead changing hands every possession.
Ryonan excelled as a cohesive unit.
They operated like precision machinery, every component synchronized perfectly.
Shohoku couldn’t match that overall chemistry.
But they had Akagi and Kogure.
Three years as teammates at Kitamura had built telepathic understanding.
Their two-man game mirrored the future Akagi-Kogure connection from canon—instinctive passes, perfectly timed cuts, devastating efficiency.
Whenever Ryonan loaded up on one, the other responded.
The counter-punch always landed.
Ryonan’s defenders were going crazy trying to account for both.
Five minutes left in the first half: Kogure had fifteen points.
Ozawa thirteen.
Superior shooting efficiency gave Kogure the slight edge.
Courtside, Haruko’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“I didn’t know Kogure-senpai was this good!”
She’d met him several times through her brother, but he’d never demonstrated these skills before.
“I wonder if Kogure-senpai would teach me…”
Like Takenori, Haruko loved basketball—currently played for No.
4 Middle School’s team.
But unlike her genetically-blessed brother, Haruko had zero elite athleticism.
Average physical tools across the board.
She’d tried learning from Takenori, but his post-up power game translated poorly.
Kogure’s perimeter skill package, though?
That could work.
Ryonan possession.
Ozawa attacked, Uozumi screening.
The pick freed Ozawa momentarily.
Akagi switched onto him—
Ozawa spun into his turnaround jumper.
Smooth rotation, balanced elevation, soft release.
Swish.
Beautiful.
Poetry in motion.
[Turnaround Jump Shot: Learning Progress 15%]
The progress seemed fast, but Kogure knew better.
Gains would slow exponentially.
Learning this skill completely from observation alone would take ages.
Unless Ozawa taught him directly—especially the force generation mechanics—it would require massive time investment.
Shohoku ball.
This time, Ryonan doubled Kogure immediately.
He didn’t force it.
Swing pass to Akagi.
Akagi used nimble footwork to spin the raw Uozumi around in circles.
When Uozumi’s weight shifted, Akagi exploded baseline toward the rim.
Frustration boiled over in Uozumi.
He’d been dominated all game.
The moment Akagi blew past, Uozumi’s hand shot out reflexively—tried to grab Akagi’s jersey, stop the attack through desperation.
Then Uozumi’s foot slipped.
Instead of grabbing jersey, his hand caught waistband.
Akagi’s shorts.
Riiiiip.
Akagi felt a chill.
Massive force yanked from behind.
He lost balance completely and crashed to the floor in a heap.
His shorts didn’t.
The gym froze.
Silence.
Absolute, shocked silence.
Then—
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Laughter exploded throughout the arena, echoing off the walls like thunder.