The individual top eight qualifying match, the first game was Fujima Kenji against Kengo Murasame.

The afternoon sun slanted across the court, and Fujima Kenji’s movements as he tied his shoelaces were as slow as if he were admiring the patterns on his fingertips.

When the 186 cm Kengo Murasame stomped onto the court, the murmurs from the stands surged like a tide—originally, this B-grade versus S-grade matchup would have been without suspense, but the individual attributes of these two players were too unique.

At the moment of rock-paper-scissors to decide possession, Kengo Murasame’s fist was clenched tightly.

When Fujima’s lightly raised palm fell, he looked at the ‘paper’ his opponent showed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed heavily—was even luck on the side of this S-grade player?

The discussions in the stands gradually became clearer.

“Can Miura Dai’s captain last five minutes? That’s Fujima! S-grade!!!”

“Fujima is S-grade… but speaking of which, he seems to be better at passing, right?”

“Yes, Fujima is Shoyo’s tactical core, with top-notch organizational ability, but his individual offensive stats aren’t particularly outstanding…”

“That Murasame, he’s nearly 190 cm tall, he definitely has an advantage in 1v1, and I heard he plays dirty.”

“Look quickly, Fujima doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to attack!”

On the court.

Fujima, holding the ball, was slowly dribbling outside the three-point line, the rhythm of his fingertips like playing the piano.

“Putting on a show!” Murasame growled and rushed over, his arms spread with clear shoving movements.

But Fujima seemed to have calculated the trajectory in advance; his dribbling hand suddenly retracted, his body slid sideways along Murasame’s arm, and at the same time, he flicked his wrist, the basketball passed under the opponent’s armpit, and was steadily caught by his left hand.

This move was as quick as magic.

By the time Murasame turned around, Fujima was already standing under the basket, even having the leisure to turn back and smile at him, then easily scored a layup.

1:0!

“It was just my carelessness!” Murasame’s movements began to show anger, his elbow almost hitting Fujima’s face during his offense.

But the moment he was about to make contact, Fujima could always jump back half a step as if on a spring, and at the same time, reach out and poke the ball in the gap of Murasame’s dribble—after a crisp “thwack,” the basketball was already rolling into Fujima’s hand.

Possession exchanged!

He dribbled to the free-throw line and suddenly stopped; Murasame roared and jumped to block, only to see Fujima make a fake move, while Fujima ducked and slipped past the opponent.

The basketball was then effortlessly tipped into the basket.

2:0!

Gu Jin’s eyes narrowed slightly in the stands.

He had always assumed Fujima was the “strongest assist,” after all, in Shoyo’s system, his passes always outshone his scores.

But at this moment, these attacks carried an almost playful ease, completely unlike a team-dependent organizer—it was the precision of breaking down an opponent’s movements into components and then solving them one by one.

Murasame’s breathing grew heavier, and his movements became more aggressive. He remembered the expectant eyes of Miura Dai’s “fanboys,” and the coach’s instruction to “at least reach the top four.” During his offense, he almost brutally crashed into Fujima with his body.

Yet Fujima seemed to anticipate all malice, always deftly dodging before each collision, even suddenly ducking the moment Murasame swung his elbow, causing the opponent to stumble forward due to inertia, while he himself snatched the basketball from the side.

“Thwack!” Another steal.

Fujima dribbled to the three-point line; this time he didn’t drive, but waited for Murasame to rush over in frustration, then suddenly passed the ball between his legs, retrieved it behind him, and shot.

“So flashy! Crossover dribble!”

“Yeah, it’s almost like he’s toying with a monkey.”

3:0!

At this point, the commentator’s voice also suddenly rose: “Oh my! Fujima Kenji’s individual offense is surprisingly sharp! This completely overturns our perception of him as an ‘organizational point guard’!”

The Shoyo spectator area on the sidelines had already erupted; fans were banging bottles and shouting: “Fujima, Fujima! Shoyo, Shoyo!”

“Damn it, why do you always dodge?” Kengo Murasame was furious, no longer pretending at all.

It was clear to everyone that his previous actions were intentional.

But the dirty tricks that had always worked were all seen through by Fujima.

Fujima didn’t pay attention to him; as he wiped his sweat, his fingertip accidentally brushed his brow bone.

The scar there suddenly felt hot—last year at the National Tournament against Toyotama, when Nan Lie’s malicious elbow came crashing down, his mind was full of “can’t fall down,” but he still couldn’t dodge it.

In the last moment before blood obscured his vision, he saw his teammates’ stagnant passing lanes, and only then did he understand that just being able to organize wasn’t enough; he also needed the ability to protect himself from malice.

“Compared to Nan Lie, Kengo Murasame’s actions are too kind!!!”

Afterward, Murasame’s movements became increasingly aggressive, almost out of control, his elbowing actions more obvious during offense, and during defense, he almost charged towards Fujima’s knees.

But Fujima seemed to have eyes all over his body.

He had once lost everything because of a malicious foul, and he would not make the same mistake again.

No one would be able to injure him again with a malicious foul, no one!!!

Murasame thrust his knee; Fujima sidestepped and dodged, while the basketball spun half a circle on the rim and steadily went in.

“Malicious foul!” The referee’s whistle blew.

4:0!

The referee quickly walked up to Kengo Murasame, his brow furrowed into a knot, his whistle clutched white in his palm.

“Kengo Murasame!” His voice carried an undeniable sternness, every word like it was slamming onto the floor, “That last move was aimed at the person! Do you think this is a street fight?”

Murasame gasped, his neck stiff, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the referee’s shoetip: “I just wanted to steal the ball…”

“You need to use your knee to hit your opponent’s support leg to steal the ball?” The referee sharply raised his voice, pointing his knuckles towards the sideline, “The 1v1 court has no room for such dirty moves! Look at the scoreboard—4:0, the difference is already clear enough, using such tactics will only make you look worse!”

“This is the first warning! If there are any more malicious actions targeting the body, regardless of who has possession, you will be immediately disqualified!”

The referee’s gaze was like an ice pick on Murasame’s face, “Miura Dai’s uniform is for you to wear to play basketball, not for you to wear to make a fool of yourself, understand?”

This referee had also studied and played basketball at Miura Dai, though it was twenty years ago, but back then Miura Dai was widely renowned, and he didn’t know why it had become like this today.

Murasame’s face turned a pig-liver color, his fists clenched with a grinding sound, but under the referee’s unyielding gaze, he finally deflated and hung his head, his voice muffled as if squeezed from his throat: “…Understood.”

“Louder!”

“Understood!” He almost roared it out, but then abruptly turned his face away.

The referee gave him one last glare, still muttering under his breath as he turned: “Disgracing Miura Dai, truly incomprehensible…”

Fujima stood outside the three-point line, spinning the basketball on his fingertips, his eyes as calm as a deep pool of water.

The moment Murasame rushed over, he even saw the determination in the opponent’s eyes—this mentality of wanting to flip the table when pushed to a corner was identical to Nan Lie of the Toyotama team back then.

Only this time, he wouldn’t let himself be a victim again.

At this moment, the discussions in the stands had turned into exclamations.

Gu Jin also finally understood that everyone seemed to have underestimated Fujima—he wasn’t unable to attack, he just hid his sharpness where the team needed it.

When the 1v1 court didn’t require him to connect teammates, the scoring talent obscured by his organizational ability became the sharpest blade.

Moreover, that agility and reaction speed in avoiding danger made even him feel inferior.

Murasame was breathing heavily, bending over with his hands on his knees, looking at Fujima’s calm eyes, and suddenly felt that those 4 points were like 4 slaps.

The opponent hadn’t even seriously defended, but had simply shown him what true S-grade strength was with repeated light dodges and steals.