In Daiei Academy's resting area, Daiei Academy's coach was gripping his tactical board, drawing an arc on the blackboard—it was the trajectory of the Kashgar Step that Sendo and Gu Jin had used to break through just now. Chalk dust fluttered onto his hand.

“See that?” He tapped the blackboard with an eraser. “Sendo and Gu Jin’s center of gravity was on their right foot, and their left foot would feint half an inch when they started. You were all fooled by that fake move just now.” Hei Huang stood beside him, arms crossed, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing his wrist: “In the second half, I’ll guard Gu Jin. His mid-range shot is steadier than Sendo’s, so I need to stick close.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” The coach nodded, then pointed to Ben Wallace. “You guard the paint. If Sendo drives in, don’t worry about anyone else; double-team him directly.

And that red-haired guy—” He glanced towards the Ryonan locker room. “Those two rebounds just now were luck. He probably won’t be on in the second half, so don’t pay him any mind.”

Ben Wallace grunted in response, but his eyes drifted towards Ryonan—he always felt that Sakuragi’s last box-out wasn't purely due to luck.

On the other side, in the Ryonan locker room, Taoka Moichi was slapping the tactical board with a loud thud, his spit splattering onto the words “Daiei”: “Tsuchiya Jun’s drive-and-kick is their killer move, Uekusa. You defended too aggressively in the first half and were easily shaken off by his changes in direction.”

Uekusa gripped his towel and nodded, just about to speak, when Taoka suddenly pointed at Ikegami: “You’re on in the second half, replacing Uekusa.”

Ikegami looked up sharply, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t just stand there!” Taoka hit him with a piece of chalk. “Your lateral movement speed is steadier than Uekusa’s, and your timing for stealing the ball is more accurate—Tsuchiya Jun is yours. Don’t think about stealing; first, block his driving lanes, forcing him to pass.”

Ikegami nodded heavily, his fingers curling on his knees—he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.

“Uozumi, guard the paint. Don’t go out to double-team easily,” Taoka then pointed to Uozumi. “If Hei Huang dares to come in, use your weight to hold him off.” Uozumi grunted, draped his towel over his shoulder, his muscles tensed like iron under the lights.

Finally, Taoka’s gaze fell on Sendo and Gu Jin, his tone softening: “You two play freely.

If Daiei double-teams Sendo, Gu Jin goes to the baseline for position;

Gu Jin, if you’re glued by Hei Huang, set a screen for Sendo—in short, don’t get bogged down with them. Overwhelm them with speed.”

Sendo twirled the mineral water bottle in his hand, a smile playing on his lips: “Got it, Coach.” Gu Jin was tying his shoelaces, his fingertips pausing, and when he looked up, his eyes were already filled with fighting spirit.

“Gu Jin.” A soft call came from the doorway. Shimamura Yoko stood there, holding a water bottle, her hair still carrying a hint of the hot breeze from outside.

She handed him a bottle of iced electrolyte water; the condensation on the bottle brushed against Gu Jin’s hand, feeling cool. “I noticed your wrist seemed a bit heavy when you were shooting just now. Are you tired?”

Gu Jin took the water, his fingertips accidentally touching her hand. Both paused. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, his Adam’s apple moving: “It’s nothing. Later, I’ll let Sendo run a few more rounds, and then I can rest.”

Sendo whistled from nearby, then obediently looked away after Taoka glared at him.

Yoko blushed and retreated a bit, but she didn’t leave. She just stood in the corner, flipping through her tactical notes, her peripheral vision constantly drifting towards Gu Jin.

Just then, the locker room door was pushed open again, and a tall, thin figure walked in—it was Ryonan’s Chairman Shenmu. He was still holding a towel he had just used to wipe sweat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, smiling and nodding at Taoka, but his gaze fell on Gu Jin. “I came specifically to see you. Young man, you played well. You’ve shown me Ryonan’s opportunity on the National Tournament stage now.”

Gu Jin paused, then rose and nodded to him: “Thank you for the compliment, Chairman. I will continue to work hard.”

“Good luck in the second half.” Chairman Shenmu didn’t stay long. He patted his arm and turned to leave, his steps light as if carrying a smile.

Taoka watched this scene, then suddenly cleared his throat: “Stop chatting, everyone! One last time—Ikegami, lock down Tsuchiya Jun! Uozumi, guard the paint! The rest of you, run with Sendo and Gu Jin! Remember, we are Ryonan, not soft persimmons to be manipulated!”

“Yes!” The players responded in unison, their voices echoing off the locker room ceiling, making the schedule on the wall tremble slightly.

Gu Jin handed the empty water bottle to Yoko. As his fingertips brushed her palm, he heard her whisper: “Good luck.”

He didn’t look back, but the corners of his mouth subtly turned up. When he turned, the fighting spirit in his eyes was burning even brighter.

Meanwhile, in Daiei’s locker room, Hei Huang had already tightened his ankle brace. The coach patted his shoulder one last time: “Gu Jin’s mid-range shooting extends to the free-throw line. Stick close to him, and Ben Wallace will provide help defense behind you. Don’t be afraid of Sendo; Tsuchiya has already figured out his footwork. Remember, defeating Gu Jin means defeating Ryonan!”

Hei Huang grunted, his gaze piercing through the door crack towards the court—the lights there were dazzling, as if waiting for a new contest.

Both sides’ tactics were set, just waiting for the second half whistle to blow.

As soon as the second half whistle blew, Uozumi and Daimoto Tadunobu jumped at center court.

Uozumi’s fingertip lightly tapped the basketball, sending it in an arc towards their own half—Sendo reached out in mid-air to tip it, then smoothly directed the ball towards the sideline.

Gu Jin had already used a screen to run out beyond the three-point line to receive the ball. As his heel touched down, he collided with a “wall of flesh” behind him—it was Hei Huang.

The opponent’s elbow was wedged into his waist, heavy as lead, and his breathing sprayed on Gu Jin’s neck: “It won’t be so easy for you to shoot this time.”

Gu Jin didn’t look back. His fingertips lightly rolled the ball, and the basketball began to spin as if stuck to his hand.

He first feinted a step forward with his left foot, making it seem like he was going to drive. Hei Huang immediately lowered his shoulder and shifted laterally to the left, his center of gravity extremely low—he had clearly figured out Gu Jin’s Kashgar Step.

But just as Hei Huang’s center of gravity stabilized, Gu Jin’s left foot suddenly retracted, while his right foot, as if spring-loaded, powerfully pushed off to the right!

This change of direction was as fast as lightning. The fake move to the left hadn’t even finished, but the real move was already breaking through from the right, with almost no gap in the footwork—this was an advanced variation of the Kashgar Step, using the inertia of a feint to deceive the defender, then accelerating with a reverse push-off.

Hei Huang felt a blur before his eyes. The person who had been glued to his back suddenly moved to his side. He tried to turn to defend, but found his center of gravity had been thrown off, and his knees felt like they were filled with lead, unable to keep up with the rhythm. By the time he managed to twist his body, Gu Jin had already driven into the free-throw line with the ball.

Daimoto Tadunobu was about to double-team, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sendo cutting in from the baseline—that was Ryonan’s “backdoor cut trap.” As soon as he moved, Sendo could easily receive the ball and lay it up. In that moment of hesitation, Gu Jin had already gathered the ball and jumped.

His jump wasn’t particularly high, but he suddenly hung in the air at the peak—Hei Huang’s block attempt just grazed under his armpit, the wind it created stirring his jersey.

In that split second, Gu Jin’s wrist flicked lightly, and the basketball traced a low, flat arc from his fingertips, grazing the inside of the backboard and falling into the hoop.

“Swish!”

60:47.

As the sound of the basketball passing through the net landed, Gu Jin had already landed, turning just in time to meet Hei Huang’s gaze.

The opponent was still in his empty blocking posture, the disdain in his eyes completely replaced by astonishment—he had played so many games, and this was the first time he had been so cleanly shaken off. The change in rhythm hidden within that change of direction just now was something that couldn’t be deciphered from a tactical board.

“This…” Hei Huang clenched his numb palm, cold sweat trickling down his neck under his collar.

Only now did he truly understand the terrifying aspect of facing Gu Jin—it wasn’t his speed, nor his strength, but his ability to instantly change rhythm, turning the defender’s predictions into a joke.

“Great shot!” Sendo ran over and bumped Gu Jin’s shoulder, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “That change of direction will keep Hei Huang thinking for the entire game.”

Gu Jin wiped the sweat from his forehead, his fingertips still retaining the sensation of controlling the ball.

He looked towards Daiei’s half-court. Hei Huang was being called over by his coach on the sideline for a talking-to, his face alternating between green and pale.

Shimamura Yoko vigorously waved her cheering stick from the bench, her cheeks flushed.

Gu Jin saw her, and the corners of his mouth unconsciously lifted—that shot just now had lived up to her whispered encouragement when she handed him the water.

Daiei’s baseline inbound was quickly made. As Tsuchiya Jun dribbled up, he specifically looked at Gu Jin—this opponent, whom Hei Huang considered “in the bag,” had given Daiei a strong warning right at the start of their encounter. His fingertips tapped the ball, and he suddenly sped up his dribbling.

The contest of the second half had truly just begun.