Lu Shen smiled but said nothing.
The ball was back in his hands, but this time, the defenders closed in tighter. The main guard pressed up against him, trying to block his vision and limit his movement. However, Lu Shen wasn't in a hurry. A slight lean to the left, a sharp shift of weight to the right—and the defender, falling for the fake, lunged in the wrong direction. That split second was enough: Lu Shen burst toward the hoop, leaving the first defender behind.
The remaining defenders scrambled to cover, but it was too late. The center tried to intercept, but Lu Shen, without slowing down, softly spun the ball off the backboard—a perfect bank shot, and the net swished again.
"Yeah, babe!" Lu Shen raised his arms, grinning at his team.
Yoshido's Team:
"…"
The newcomers didn't give up and kept attacking. Their persistence paid off—a quick break and a precise shot tied the score. The game grew even fiercer: the defenders marked Lu Shen tightly, but he remained composed, waiting for the right moment to counter.
When Lu Shen got the ball again, he was immediately surrounded. He went into a rapid dribble, mixing crossovers and fake shots, trying to break through the defensive ring. However, one of the opponents, taller and more aggressive, misjudged his movement and elbowed Lu Shen hard in the face, sending him crashing to the asphalt. The referee, despite his love for rough play, immediately blew the whistle for a foul.
"Foul, dumbass!" Lu Shen grumbled, wiping blood from his nose as he got up. "Let's see how you handle this."
"Don't get cocky, idiot!" Mei Yu snapped back, shooting him a disdainful glare.
Lu Shen confidently stepped up to the free-throw line, bounced the ball a couple of times, then—with flawless technique—released the shot. The ball sailed through the hoop in a perfect arc, barely grazing the rim. Turning to Mei Yu, Lu Shen smirked and asked:
"How do you like my free throws?"
Mei Yu clenched his teeth in frustration and passed the ball to the nearest teammate. The player didn't waste a second, charging forward with sharp fakes. But Lu Shen, as if predicting his every move, reacted instantly—his long arm snatched the ball mid-dribble.
Without stopping, Lu Shen spun and sprinted toward the opposing hoop, leaving bewildered opponents in his wake. Under the basket, he abruptly slowed, faking a shoulder move, and when the defender bit, he gently lobbed the ball upward. It spun lazily on the rim before dropping through the net.
The newcomers exchanged glances—something was off. They were sure they'd scored more, but the scoreboard stubbornly told a different story.
"What the…" Mei Yu's head jerked up, his eyes glued to the numbers.
"We definitely scored more than that!" one of his teammates shouted, fists clenched. "What kind of bullshit is this?!"
"16:12!" Lu Shen raised his arms triumphantly, his voice dripping with mockery. "Who's the dumb one now?"
The newcomers froze, exchanging uneasy looks. Irritation flickered in their eyes, but so did slow realization. The rules. They'd missed the key rule of the match: the opponent's points were doubled. Lu Shen, having taken that position, had methodically built his lead while the others focused on secondary plays.
"You're cheating!" one of the newcomers exploded, stepping forward.
Lu Shen just smirked, spinning the ball on his finger.
"It's not cheating. Those are the rules. You just didn't know."
Mei Yu and his team burned with rage, but their anger was useless. Every attempt to steal the ball ended in failure—Lu Shen moved with cold precision, as if predicting their every step. They threw themselves into desperate tackles, tried to overpower him physically, but he just dodged, leaving them in the dust.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard was merciless—21:14 in Lu Shen's favor. The newcomers stood there, panting heavily, struggling to process what had just happened. Their confidence had crumbled like a house of cards.
…
A few dozen meters away from the streetball court where Lu Shen had just secured his victory, the atmosphere was tense. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows from the tall trees.
On a slightly cracked bench sat four people. Their postures were relaxed, but their eyes were sharp with wariness. One of them stood out—a massive man with a buzz cut, streaks of gray at his temples. A heavy gold cross gleamed around his neck, and his cold, calculating gaze was fixed on the court.
"That guy keeps surprising me more and more," Tae Hwan said with a smirk, slowly stroking his chin.
Beside him sat his lackeys—two burly men with stone-cold expressions and another, younger but taller than the rest.
"Considering how much money he's bringing in, I completely agree," one of them nodded, adjusting his black leather jacket.
Tae Hwan chuckled, but something dark flickered in his eyes—a hint of rivalry.
"The thing is, he's making the most money for himself. He took a risk investing in these five games, and if all five go as well as the first, he might even end up richer than me."
"How's that possible?" the younger lackey frowned. "We take a cut from the bets too, so how could he outearn you?"
Tae Hwan sighed as if explaining the obvious.
"The thing is, by pushing his own teammates into debt, he gets paid first—we only get our share after. Unless we sell those kids into slavery—and that's only if Ming You agrees—I'll be an old man by the time those rookies pay off their debts. Meanwhile, Ming You will be profiting way more than me."
Suddenly, a mocking voice cut through the silence:
"Talking about me, aren't you?"
They all turned sharply. Approaching from behind was Ming You, his face unreadable but a sly smirk playing at his lips. He wore a slightly worn black basketball jersey with red trim, lazily spinning a ball in his hand.
"What do you want?" Tae Hwan asked, clearly not expecting this visit.
"More like—what do you want? Not me." Ming You leaned forward slightly, the ball stopping in his hand as his empty eyes gleamed with greed. "Here's the thing: those rookies are probably gonna quit over the rules. Worse, they might even complain. So I've got a proposal for you."
His face, which had remained expressionless until then, suddenly twisted into a fake, sly grin. Tae Hwan laughed, but his laughter was dry, devoid of joy.
"Unlike Taek Jung, I've started getting used to your shamelessness, heh-heh. Go on, lay out your proposal."
Ming You was in no hurry. He glanced at each of his subordinates, as if gauging their reactions, then slowly spoke:
"All we need to do is threaten those newcomers. I'll give you all the information on them—their addresses, parents, and so on."
His eyes burned with cruelty, but his face remained impassive, as if he were discussing something utterly mundane. Tae Hwan thought for a second, then spread his arms over the back of the bench, adopting a relaxed posture.
"A very useful and profitable proposal. I'm all ears."
…
Fifteen minutes after Ming You handed Tae Hwan all the information about the players, the basketball court, illuminated by bright floodlights, was filled with an atmosphere of triumph and rage.
Lu Shen stood at the center of the court, grinning widely. His teammates exchanged victorious glances, while their opponents—Mei Yu's team—looked furious and cheated.
"Well, take that, dumbasses!" Lu Shen jeered, pointing a finger at Mei Yu and his guys.
"If we'd known about these rules, we wouldn't have let you score a single point!"
"Rules are rules," Lu Shen shrugged in response to Mei Yu. "If you didn't know, that's your problem."
"Screw this," So Ho cut in sharply, turning to his team. "We're not paying any made-up debts just because some assholes say so. Let's go, guys—pretend this game never happened."
"Exactly! No one told us about these rules, and we're not falling for this scam!" Jen Ryu shouted, flipping off Yoshido's team.
But just as the newcomers were about to step out of the floodlights' reach, fifteen figures emerged from the darkness. Leather jackets, bats, brass knuckles, cold stares—it all merged into a single, menacing picture. They moved slowly, confidently, as if they knew there would be no resistance.
A muscular man with a bat resting on his shoulders stepped forward. His voice was low, but every word hit its mark:
"Hey, fucking brats, where do you think you're going? Losers owe us money."
So Ho didn't hesitate—he stepped forward. His fists clenched, but he didn't lower his gaze.
"What's it to you? If you don't let us pass, we'll call the police, and they'll shut this whole place down!"
Silence.
Then—an explosion of laughter. The thugs doubled over, some even wiping away tears, as if they'd heard the funniest joke of their lives. The newcomers exchanged glances—their eyes filled with confusion and growing contempt.
One of the thugs, wearing brass knuckles, was the last to stop laughing. He wiped the corner of his eye with his fist and, still smirking, said:
"Hah, you're pretty bold, So Ho. But your mom—the nurse living six blocks from here—won't be too happy if you refuse to pay up and dump this all on her."
So Ho paled. His breathing quickened, his eyes widening.
"How do you—"
The bat suddenly pressed under his chin, forcing his head back.
"That's none of your fucking business."
The thug slowly lowered his weapon, but his gaze swept over each of the newcomers.
"But the rest of you fucking brats…" He paused, letting the words sink in, "we know a lot about you too. So either you keep playing, or you can dump all your debts onto your families."
Silence hung in the air again, but now it was suffocating. The newcomers gritted their teeth, their fingers involuntarily curling into fists. So Ho was the first to break the silence. His voice trembled, but there was resolve in it:
"Fine, we'll play. Just leave our families out of this! This is between our teams and nothing more."
The corners of the thugs' lips curled up.
"Now that's the attitude we like."
The weapons lowered, the brass knuckles disappeared into pockets. But the threat didn't vanish—it merely coiled like a snake ready to strike. The tallest thug chuckled loudly:
"Alright, punks. Fine, you can go and get ready for the games. But if you decide not to show up… we'll find you. And even if by some miracle we don't…" His voice turned sweet as poison, "We always know where your parents are. Heh-heh."
The newcomers lowered their heads in silence and walked past. Their shoulders were tense, their steps heavy.
When they reached the lit street, Jen Ryu was the first to break the oppressive silence:
"Guess we'll have to prepare to play our hardest now. And not let them make any shots. We should also work on our passes."
"Then we need to train harder," Mei Yu nodded, trying to sound confident.
So Ho suddenly turned to them. His eyes burned. He clenched his fist and raised it high:
"Yeah! Forward, the real Yoshido!"
Their voices merged as one. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Forward, the real Yoshido!"
…
The Next Morning
The school corridors gradually emptied—classes were over, and most students hurried home or to after-school activities. However, for So Ho, Jen Ryu, and Mei Yu, the day wasn't over yet.
They walked down the long hallway leading to the school gym, where they usually gathered before practice. The walls around them were bare, but the trio barely noticed. Their minds were preoccupied with one thing—the next game.
"Maybe we should find out who we're up against first?" asked Mei Yu, locking his hands behind his head.
Jen Ryu, walking beside him, abruptly turned to him. He frowned in displeasure, his voice laced with irritation:
"You really think that sneaky motherfucker will tell us anything?"
So Ho, unlike his friend, remained calm. He narrowed his eyes slightly before answering:
"It's worth a shot. Better to at least hope for a chance to know who we're facing."
The three boys clenched their teeth in fury as they strode across the gym, their faces twisted with hatred for the team's veterans. They moved quickly, purposefully, ignoring everyone around them. Their footsteps echoed loudly across the basketball court as they crossed it, not even glancing at the markings beneath their feet.
When they reached the locker room, So Ho shoved the door open with a bang. Inside, near the far bench, sat Ming You—his head tilted back as if he were studying the ceiling or simply trying to detach himself from everything around him.
"Ming You," So Ho called.
Slowly, with exaggerated leisure, Ming You lowered his head and stared at them. His lips curled into a sarcastic smirk.
"Hi-hi, friends! How's it going? Lovely weather today, huh? You made it here alright?"
Veins bulged on the newcomers' foreheads, and their fingers involuntarily curled into fists. But So Ho, gritting his teeth, was the first to regain control. He took a step forward, forcing his voice to remain steady, though anger still smoldered in his eyes.
"We have a question for you." He paused, making sure Ming You was actually listening. "Who are we playing against next?"
"Good job asking." He deliberately dragged out his words, savoring the tension in the air. "You'll be facing Jung Ho—our former team captain."
"Thanks, Ming You," So Ho spat through clenched teeth, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Without waiting for further comments, he sharply turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The other newcomers shot Ming You one last glare before following their leader.
Ming You watched them leave, then leaned back again, tilting his head up.
"Anytime!" he called after them playfully before closing his eyes again.
A few hours later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in warm orange hues, Ming You finally gathered his things. He zipped up his bag, took one last look at the emptying gym, and left the locker room. The school hallways were nearly deserted, the silence broken only by the echo of his footsteps.
After exiting the school building, he headed toward a familiar streetball court, where the lights had already flickered on, casting sharp shadows on the asphalt. The court was empty—no players, no spectators, just a light evening breeze rustling the net on the hoop. However, a group of people sat on a bench in the distance. At the center, lounging lazily, was Taek Jung, surrounded by his crew.
Ming You approached them without hesitation, his face splitting into a fake but expertly crafted smirk.
"Hi-hi," he said, waving cheerfully. "I've got an interesting proposition for you."
"Heh, we're all ears," Taek Jung chuckled.
Ming You paused, letting the moment sink in, then continued:
"How about placing some bets on tomorrow's game?"
Silence. Even the wind seemed to still. Taek Jung's crew exchanged glances, while he himself laughed, rubbing his chin.
"Haha! You really never shy away from risks, do you? Go on, lay it out."
Ming You stretched his already unnatural grin even wider.
"If the captain's—meaning one player's—score is a hundred times higher than the combined score of five players, I win a hundred times the money I bet on that one player. But if it's even one point short, I'll pay you a hundred times the amount you bet on the five players."
"Alright, now explain what trick you're pulling to be so confident making such a huge bet," Taek Jung said skeptically, but Ming You just shrugged innocently:
"Nothing special. I just like taking risks."
"If I didn't know you, I might've fallen for that," Taek Jung leaned forward, his voice quieter but all the more dangerous. "But considering how sly and shameless you are, I've got two theories: either you're definitely up to something, or you're just a raving lunatic. There's no in-between."
"Think whatever you want. The point is, I'm completely confident in my player's strength and my own gambler's intuition. So, are we making this bet, or are you scared of a regular high schooler?"
Taek Jung froze for a second, then burst into loud laughter. His lackeys immediately joined in, filling the court with rough guffaws.
"Hah! You? A regular high schooler?" Taek Jung wiped away tears, but his eyes remained cold. When the laughter died down, he continued: "It's a decent bet, and I like risks too. But remember—if you can't pay up a hundred times what we stake, death will be a mercy for you."
"So, do we have a deal?" Ming You smirked, extending his hand.
Taek Jung looked at his palm, then slowly gripped it, as if testing its strength.
"I'd suggest finding a few side jobs—just to be ready to pay our hundredfold stake."