“I'm your senior, you should be coming to greet me.” Fukuda Kiccho stuck his neck out, his fingertip almost touching Sakuragi Hanamichi's chin.

“Who exactly are you?” Sakuragi Hanamichi frowned. Coach Taoka had just gone to the office to get something, and this guy with the small eyes started causing trouble.

Senior? He looked a bit old, but his tone really didn't inspire any respect.

Fukuda's anger had been building up—outside the training court just now, he clearly saw Coach Taoka personally correcting this red-haired kid's shooting posture with such patience, something he rarely showed even to Sendoh.

He clenched his fists and took half a step forward, the wooden floor of the basketball court creaking under his feet: “I'm Fukuda Kiccho, a second-year, and Ryonan's forward.”

Sakuragi Hanamichi raised an eyebrow: “Oh? Never heard of you. You must be new.”

These words were like a spark dropped into a gas tank.

Fukuda spun around violently and charged towards the hoop, his dribbling so fast it was dazzling—a left-handed behind-the-back dribble to evade an imaginary defender, his right hand pulling the ball to his waist, his feet taking two light crossover steps inside the three-point line. Just as he was about to hit a virtual barrier, he suddenly stopped short and changed direction, sliding past on the right like a loach. When he finally jumped, he gave his wrist a slight flick, and the basketball arced softly from his fingertips, grazing the inside of the backboard before dropping into the net.

The entire sequence was fluid, even Sakuragi was stunned.

Fukuda deliberately puffed out his chest when he landed, his peripheral vision sweeping over Sakuragi: “See that? That's what a forward's technique looks like.”

Sakuragi Hanamichi, however, rubbed his chin and suddenly smiled: “That's it? All flash and no substance. Even if you're good at dribbling, even if you're a second-year, I'm still your senior because you're new.”

Fukuda's face instantly flushed red: “What did you say?”

“I said,” Sakuragi suddenly ripped off his jersey, revealing his solid muscles, “if you've got guts, don't just go against the air, try going against me.”

Fukuda paused, then sneered: “Against you?” He looked Sakuragi up and down, as if he were looking at some strange creature, “Alright, let me show you what real basketball is.”

As soon as he got the ball, Fukuda moved.

His dribbling rhythm became erratic, his shoulders feinting occasionally, and his footwork was unpredictable—one moment it was a rapid series of between-the-legs dribbles, the next he'd suddenly lower his center of gravity and tap the ground with his fingertips, as if every touch of the ball hid a trap.

Sakuragi indeed couldn't keep up with this dazzling rhythm, his footwork was half a beat off, and he watched helplessly as Fukuda slipped past him, scoring with another light layup.

“Too slow,” Fukuda sneered as he landed, “defense isn't just about brute force.”

Sakuragi gritted his teeth. When it was his turn to attack, he dribbled the ball directly towards the basket.

Fukuda immediately stuck to him, arms spread to block his path, his footwork precise, as if nailed to the ground.

Sakuragi tried to turn, but Fukuda blocked his way with a clever slide step;

He tried to raise his hand to shoot, but his wrist was anticipated and pressed down by his opponent.

He became anxious and suddenly exerted force, trying to push his opponent away with strength, but Fukuda seemed prepared. He retreated with Sakuragi's force and simultaneously reached out to steal—Sakuragi felt his hand lighten, and the ball had already been taken.

“You call that playing basketball?” Fukuda dribbled back beyond the three-point line, his tone full of mockery, “Like a headless fly.”

Sakuragi's eyes turned red.

He admitted that he really couldn't understand Fukuda's intricate moves, but the competitive spirit in his body grew wildly like weeds.

When Fukuda again used a fake move to shake him off, preparing for his second layup, Sakuragi suddenly moved—he didn't chase Fukuda's footsteps, but instead, with a beast-like instinct, judged his opponent's landing spot, suddenly retreated half a step, and jumped almost touching the backboard.

Fukuda's layup had just left his hand when he felt a shadow fall over him.

Sakuragi's figure descended like a small mountain, leaping into the air with astonishing explosive power, forcefully pressing the basketball, which hadn't even reached its highest point, against the backboard.

“Bang!”

The loud noise made Fukuda's eardrums ache.

He watched Sakuragi land, shaking the floor, and for the first time, he shed his contempt—this red-haired kid's jumping ability and strength were simply not what a normal person should possess.

“Hey, little eyes,” Sakuragi clapped the dust off his hands and grinned, “could you do that just now?”

Fukuda clenched his fists, a complex light flashing in his small eyes.

He knew his skills could completely overwhelm this clueless kid in front of him, but the opponent's seemingly innate physical talent was like a thorn, tightening his heart.

“Again!” Fukuda growled, dribbling the ball once more.

This time, there was something else in his eyes—a conflicting fire, both wanting to prove that skill surpassed brute force, and subtly wary.

The footsteps on the sidelines were so light they were almost covered by the thudding of the basketball hitting the ground. Taoka Moichi, who had returned at some point, stood with his arms crossed in the shadows, his brows slightly furrowed, but his eyes held an imperceptible warmth.

He watched Fukuda dizzy Sakuragi with continuous behind-the-back dribbles, and he watched that almost artistic floater graze the rim and fall into the net;

He also watched Sakuragi, like an enraged lion, snatch a rebound over Fukuda's head with brute explosive force, the impact of his landing seemingly shaking the entire court.

“Foul! You pushed me!” Fukuda stumbled after Sakuragi snatched the rebound, turning back to roar.

“Bullshit! That's talent!” Sakuragi slammed the ball hard against the ground, the rebound making his tiger's mouth tingle, “If you've got guts, don't hide, come at me head-on!”

“You don't understand basketball at all!” Fukuda's anger completely flared up, his dribbling movements becoming aggressive, “Skill! This is skill!”

The two men's shouts grew louder and louder. Just as they were about to confront each other face-to-face, Taoka Moichi finally cleared his throat.

“Ahem.”

The sound wasn't loud, but it was like a bucket of cold water poured on two powder kegs. Fukuda suddenly turned back, and the moment he saw Taoka, his neck instinctively recoiled, his earlier arrogance shrinking by half, a trace of panic flashing in his eyes, along with some imperceptible nervousness.

Sakuragi saw the coach, “Coach, this newcomer is very rude.”

Taoka Moichi smiled. No one understood these two better than he did. “Sakuragi, he is Ryonan's veteran player Fukuda Kiccho. He was on leave before, so you haven't met him. You should call him senior.”

Sakuragi stubbornly turned his head away and didn't speak.

Taoka slowly walked towards Fukuda, his gaze lingering on Fukuda for a long time, so long that Fukuda's ears began to burn, before he slowly spoke.

His voice was a bit deeper than when he was coaching Sakuragi just now, carrying a gentleness Fukuda had never heard before:

“Fukuda, it's good to have you back.”

Fukuda's heart skipped a beat. He looked up, meeting Taoka's eyes, which were usually stern, but now filled with a seriousness he had never seen before.

“Actually, I've never praised you, but you are the most promising forward I've ever seen,” Taoka's tone was steady, every word like a hammer striking Fukuda's heart, “You are excellent, Fukuda, you are truly great.”

Time seemed to freeze at this moment.

Fukuda's small eyes widened suddenly, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his throat felt blocked, only able to produce gasping sounds.

All the scenes of being scolded, the moments of being overlooked, the grievances from secretly practicing extra, and the bitterness he felt just now seeing Taoka coach Sakuragi, suddenly melted away like ice and snow in front of these words.

So... he had always seen it.

So behind those strict demands, such an evaluation was hidden.

Fukuda's nose suddenly tingled, and his eyes instantly reddened. He tried to hold it back, but tears streamed down like broken pearls, without warning, hitting his jersey on his chest and spreading into a small dark stain.

He was never one to cry, even when Taoka scolded him mercilessly, even when his teammates misunderstood him, he would grit his teeth and not shed a single tear. But at this moment, these simple words were like the gentlest hammer, shattering all his hard shells.

“Coach... Coach...” Fukuda's voice choked, almost incoherent.

Taoka looked at him in this state, his lips curving upward almost imperceptibly, and he gently patted the back of his head, like patting a child who had been wronged: “Why are you crying? What kind of behavior is that.”

“Tch, still crying, how embarrassing.” Sakuragi Hanamichi pouted.

Taoka Moichi turned to Sakuragi, his tone returning to a degree of strictness: “There's always someone better. Now you know the gap between you and a starting forward, don't you? Go back and practice dribbling a thousand times! If your dribbling isn't solid, you'll never get past anyone.”

“Fukuda, your defense needs to be strengthened!”

Sakuragi gasped, wanting to say something else, but Taoka glared him into silence, so he could only sullenly close his mouth. However, the hostility in his eyes towards Fukuda had lessened, replaced by something inexplicable.

Fukuda was still shedding tears, but he quietly straightened his back.

He sniffled, roughly wiped his face with his sleeve, and when he looked up again, his eyes were astonishingly bright.

“Yes, Coach!” His voice was heavily nasal, yet exceptionally loud.

Taoka watched him rekindle his fighting spirit, and the stone that had been hanging in his heart due to Fukuda's departure finally settled firmly.

He knew that this once rebellious and intensely approval-seeking young man had finally, at this moment, found his true self.