[Crossover: LV2 → LV3]
[Ball Handling: 63 → 65]
[Explosive Power attribute unlocked: 50]
The notifications cascaded through Kogure’s mind as he executed another flawless crossover.
He stopped, chest heaving, and pulled up his system panel.
SYSTEM: Hard Work Pays Off (Highschool Basketball Version)
Name: Kogure Kiminobu
Age: 15
Height: 173cm | Wingspan: 178cm | Weight: 57kg
Physical Attributes:
Strength: 51 | Speed: 61 | Stamina: 66 | Flexibility: 74
Reaction: MAX | Injury Resistance: MAX
Explosive Power: 50
Offensive Skills:
Ball Handling: 65 | Passing: 58 | Layup: 75 | Close Range: 62
Mid-Range: 59 | Three-Point: 70 | Free Throw: 72 | Driving: 63
Defensive Skills:
Steals: 55 | Perimeter Defense: 57 | Defensive Rebounding: 50
Skills:
Crossover LV3 (0/500)
Status: Fatigued
Overall Rating: Weak Team Starter
Kogure stared at the changes, processing them one by one.
A new attribute had appeared: Explosive Power.
That made sense—the Crossover required explosive first-step quickness to be effective.
The repeated practice must have developed his fast-twitch muscle fibers enough to register on the system.
Ball handling had jumped two full points in one skill upgrade.
The improvement was noticeable—he could feel it in how the ball responded to his touch, how smoothly it moved through the crossover sequence.
And his evaluation had changed: Weak Team Starter instead of Weak Team Substitute.
Progress.
Measurable, undeniable progress.
But it’s not enough.
Starting for a weak team meant he could hold his own against mediocre competition.
Against a powerhouse like Kainan or Ryonan?
He’d still get exposed.
Even starting for a strong team wouldn’t guarantee tournament success—one bad matchup in the first round could end everything.
The next level required 500 proficiency points.
Even with his improved execution speed at LV3, that meant five or six hours of focused practice minimum.
And his status read Fatigued.
Kogure took a few deep breaths, letting his heart rate settle.
His body was sending clear signals: muscle fatigue, declining coordination, mental fog creeping in at the edges.
Pushing through exhaustion wasn’t determination—it was stupidity.
Training while fatigued increased injury risk exponentially and tanked efficiency.
When the body was depleted, organ function declined—lungs, heart, everything working at reduced capacity.
Continuing to push meant excessive cardiopulmonary stress, potential heart strain, even risk of sudden cardiac events in extreme cases.
His max injury resistance would protect him from most training injuries, but that didn’t mean he should be reckless.
He pulled out his bento, the insulation still keeping the food warm despite hours in his backpack.
I need more skills, he thought, chopsticks working through rice and vegetables.
Crossover is strong, but one move isn’t enough.
I need a complete arsenal.
Coach Anzai was the obvious choice.
But the coach was famously unreliable at this stage, skipping practices every other day.
Kogure couldn’t count on him being available.
He needed a backup plan.
The mustachioed shoe store manager.
Based on the photos Kogure had remembered from the anime, the manager had played high school basketball at a competitive level.
If he’d made it to nationals, he probably had skills worth learning.
The question was motivation—why would a shoe store owner spend time teaching some random kid?
Won’t know unless I try.
Kogure finished eating, packed up his gear, and headed toward the commercial district.
The shoe store stood between a convenience store and a ramen shop, its window display featuring an array of basketball sneakers: Nike, Adidas, Reebok, Converse.
The AJ7s his father had bought occupied a prominent spot, their red and white design catching afternoon sunlight.
Kogure pushed open the door.
A bell chimed.
The smell hit him immediately—leather, rubber, that particular scent of new athletic shoes.
“Welcome!”
The mustachioed manager looked up from behind the counter, his signature grin appearing instantly.
His eyes dropped to Kogure’s feet—the AJ7s—and recognition flickered.
“You must be last night’s customer’s son.” The manager came around the counter.
“Don’t tell me they don’t fit?
Or did you want a different color?”
“They fit perfectly.” Kogure smiled.
“I love them, actually.
Thank you for the recommendation.”
The manager’s grin widened.
“Excellent!
The AJ7 is our most popular model this season.
Perfect for young players like yourself.”
Kogure took the opportunity to look around properly.
Posters covered the walls—mostly Michael Jordan in various championship moments, but also the four great centers, Magic Johnson, Charles Barkley, Karl Malone, Clyde Drexler.
A veritable gallery of early 90s NBA stars.
Then his eyes caught something else: a team photo in a frame, positioned prominently near the register.
Young men in basketball uniforms, number 6 front and center—a teenage version of the mustachioed manager standing beside the coach.
Next to it hung a certificate.
Kogure moved closer to read it.
Kanagawa Prefecture High School Championship: Runner-Up
Minowa High School Basketball Team
“Fifteen years ago.” The manager’s voice had gone quieter, nostalgic.
“We lost to Kainan High School by one point in the prefectural finals.”
His hand drifted to the photo, not quite touching the glass.
“My last shot.
I missed.” He shook his head.
Been regretting it ever since.”
“That’s also when Kainan started their dynasty, right?” Kogure asked carefully.
“Fifteen straight prefectural championships?”
“Exactly.
The King of Kanagawa.” The manager’s tone mixed respect and old rivalry.
“They’ve dominated ever since.”
Kogure did quick mental math.
Fifteen years ago, the manager would’ve been around eighteen.
If someone from that era looked like Maki Shinichi…
Sakuragi wasn’t entirely wrong, Kogure thought with dark amusement.
Maki really does look older than his age.
“You went to nationals though, right?” Kogure pressed.
“As runner-up?”
“Top 16.” The manager nodded.
“Got eliminated by Hakata University of Commerce Affiliated—that year’s eventual champions.
Bad luck in the draw, but that’s basketball.”
Kogure’s interest sharpened.
Hakata Commerce was a legendary program, one of the most successful in national history.
They were seeded in the upcoming nationals alongside Sannoh, last year’s runners-up.
If anything, they were favored to win this year’s championship over Kainan.
“You must have been really good,” Kogure said, injecting genuine respect into his voice.
“Making it that far.”
“Ah, that was all in the past.” The manager rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed but clearly pleased.
“Ancient history now.”
“Do you still play?”
“Not much since college.
Running the store takes all my time.” His expression turned wistful.
“Haven’t touched a ball seriously in years.”
Then his eyes lit up, focusing on the basketball Kogure was carrying.
“But if you’re ever free, we could play together sometime!” The eagerness in his voice was almost boyish.
“I’d love to see what the young generation is working with these days.”
Kogure’s pulse quickened.
This was the opening.
“How about now?”
The manager blinked.
“Now?”
“If you’re not too busy.” Kogure gestured toward the empty store.
“I’d really appreciate the chance to learn from someone who played at nationals.
Even if it’s just shooting around for a bit.”
The manager glanced at the door—no customers in sight—then back at Kogure.
The competitive fire that had carried him to a prefecture final was still there, barely banked beneath years of civilian life.
“You know what?
Why not.” He grinned.
“Let me flip the sign.
There’s a court two blocks from here.”