Kogure pulled up his system panel again, focusing on the Stamina progress bar.
It had climbed noticeably during the strength training, not as much as Strength, but enough that one good cardio session might push it over the threshold.
Running would be more efficient, he thought, closing the panel.
And safer.
He was fifteen years old, still growing.
Excessive strength training at this stage could stunt his development or cause injury—exactly what someone with max injury resistance didn’t need to worry about, but the principle remained sound.
At 173cm, he was already shorter than ideal for basketball.
In the original timeline, he’d only reached 178cm by his third year.
If I can hit 185cm by then…
Taller meant better rebounding, better defense, more versatility.
Every centimeter mattered in basketball.
The path to height was simple in theory: proper nutrition, adequate sleep, and exercise that promoted bone growth rather than compressing it.
Running checked all the boxes.
Kogure changed into shorts and his old sneakers—battered things that had seen three years of middle school training—and headed out.
Night had fallen over Kanagawa, the moon hanging bright and full above the residential streets.
Streetlights cast pools of orange light at regular intervals, creating a patchwork of illumination and shadow.
Kogure started with a light jog, letting his body warm up naturally.
His shadow stretched and contracted as he passed beneath each light, interweaving with the shadows of roadside trees in an endless dance.
He settled into a rhythm: two steps per inhale, two steps per exhale.
The breathing pattern increased oxygen efficiency and reduced the risk of side stitches—basic running science that the original Kogure had learned years ago.
His route took him through the quiet neighborhood: past darkened shops, the occasional convenience store still lit up, residential homes with their curtains drawn.
A few other joggers passed him going the opposite direction, offering nods of acknowledgment.
Five minutes in, sweat started trickling down his temples.
Ten minutes, his shirt clung to his back.
Kogure kept his pace steady, resisting the urge to sprint.
Stamina built through sustained effort, not explosive bursts.
He checked the progress bar.
Rising.
Keep going.
The incremental growth was addictive.
Every percentage point visible, quantified, proof that his effort mattered.
This must be what game developers understood—give people a progress bar and they’d grind forever.
Kogure’s breathing grew heavier as the distance accumulated.
His legs started to burn, that familiar lactic acid buildup in his quads and calves.
But he pushed through, maintaining form, maintaining rhythm.
Just a little more.
Almost there.
The progress bar crept toward completion—95%, 97%, 99%…
[Stamina: 65 → 66]
The notification flashed, and Kogure’s entire body shuddered.
Energy flooded through him like someone had flipped a switch.
The burning in his legs vanished.
His labored breathing evened out.
Exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a sensation of lightness that spread from his core to his extremities.
Oh.
Kogure stopped running, eyes closed, just feeling it.
The restoration was complete, not just reduced fatigue, but full recovery.
His stamina had been depleted to maybe 30%, and now it was back at 100%.
The sensation was euphoric.
Like post-workout endorphins amplified tenfold, that perfect moment of physical satisfaction that made all the pain worthwhile.
When it faded, Kogure opened his eyes and checked his condition.
Heart rate normal.
Breathing easy.
Legs fresh.
“So stamina increases restore energy completely,” he murmured to the empty street.
“That’s…
exploitable.”
The tactical applications were obvious.
If he could time a stamina threshold break to occur during a crucial game moment—late in the fourth quarter when everyone else was gassed—he’d have a massive advantage.
Fresh legs when his defender was dead tired.
But there were limitations.
Controlling the progress bar meant controlling training intensity, which would slow overall growth.
And once stamina got higher, the increments would take longer—maybe ten days, two weeks per point.
Tournament schedules wouldn’t align perfectly with training cycles.
Still, it was a tool in the arsenal.
Kogure resumed running, this time with fresh legs, determined not to waste the recovery.
He pushed the pace slightly, testing his renewed stamina, the night air cool against his flushed skin.
By the time he got home, it was past 10 PM.
His stomach growled the moment he stepped through the door.
Training on an empty stomach had caught up to him—he’d burned through his dinner calories and then some.
“Kiminobu?” His mother emerged from the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
She took in his sweat-soaked appearance with a knowing look.
“Hungry after all that training?”
“Starving.”
She smiled.
“Go shower first.
I’ll make you something.”
“Mom, you don’t have to—”
“Family doesn’t need thanks.
Now go, before you catch cold.”
The shower felt incredible—hot water washing away dried sweat, muscles relaxing under the spray.
Kogure stood under the stream longer than necessary, processing the day’s revelations.
A system.
Stat increases.
A month to change everything.
When he emerged, his mother had set out a bowl of ramen at the low table: golden broth steaming, a perfectly fried egg floating on top, two slices of char siu pork arranged just so.
“Eat up.
You worked hard tonight.” She paused, then added, “Your father contacted your homeroom teacher.
Got you a month’s sick leave.”
Kogure’s chest tightened.
“Thank you, Mom.”
“That’s what parents do.” She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand.
“Finish eating and get to bed.
I’ll wash the bowl tomorrow.”
“I’ll wash it tonight.”
“Stubborn boy.” But she smiled.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
After she left, Kogure ate slowly, savoring each bite.
The ramen was simple—instant noodles elevated by his mother’s additions—but it tasted better than anything from his previous life.
Maybe because he’d earned it.
Maybe because someone who cared had made it.
He washed the bowl despite her protest, dried it, and was heading back to his room when soft knocking stopped him.
“Kiminobu?
You still awake?”
His father stood in the hallway, holding a shoebox.
“Dad?”
“I bought you sneakers.” Kogure Sasuke looked almost embarrassed.
“I don’t know much about basketball shoes, so I asked the store manager for a recommendation.
Try them on—make sure they fit.”
He handed over the box.
The logo on the side read: Air Jordan 7.
Kogure’s breath caught.
These were the shoes Jordan wore during his second championship run.
“Dad, you didn’t have to—”
“Open it.”
Inside lay a pair of pristine red and white sneakers, all sleek lines and technological design.
The upper was synthetic material, lighter than leather.
The sole featured intricate traction patterns—Huarache technology, if Kogure remembered correctly.
Better grip, better responsiveness than the previous generation.
A mustachioed shop owner near Shohoku, Kogure thought with a flash of recognition.
The same guy who’ll sell Sakuragi his first pair of AJ6s in two years.
He tried them on.
They fit perfectly—his father had known his size exactly.
“Well?” his father asked.
Kogure stood, testing his weight distribution.
The cushioning was noticeably better than his old sneakers, the support solid without being restrictive.
These weren’t just shoes—they were equipment.
Professional tools.
“They’re perfect, Dad.”
His father nodded, satisfied.
He reached out and squeezed Kogure’s shoulder—brief, firm, conveying everything words couldn’t.
“Get some sleep.
You’ll need your strength.”
As his father walked away, shoulders slightly hunched with fatigue from a long day of work, Kogure felt something crystallize in his chest.
I’ll make this worth it, he promised silently.
Everything you’ve given me—I’ll pay it back with results.
The Air Jordan 7s sat on his desk, red and white gleaming under the desk lamp.
Ready for tomorrow’s training.