The gym was small.

Too small for dreams, people used to say.

One hoop.

Cracked walls.

A floor that creaked every time someone jumped.

But to Hiroto Mae—

It was enough.

He was seven the first time he held a basketball.

Not because someone handed it to him.

Because it rolled to his feet while he was sweeping the gym after his mother's shift.

The ball was worn. Bald in places. Uneven.

He picked it up.

It felt… right.

He shot.

The ball didn't reach the rim.

He shot again.

And again.

By the time his mother called him home, the janitor had stopped working just to watch.

"Kid," the old man said, scratching his beard. "You coming back tomorrow?"

Hiroto nodded.

Every day after that, he did.

He wasn't loud.

Wasn't flashy.

Didn't play with other kids at first.

He just shot.

Over and over.

While others chased speed or power, Hiroto chased quiet.

The sound of the net snapping.

The feeling of balance.

The moment everything aligned.

Basketball was never a battle to him.

It was a conversation.

---

The Boy Who Didn't Lose

By middle school, people noticed.

Not because Hiroto dominated games.

But because he didn't miss when it mattered.

Last possession.

Tie score.

Crowd screaming.

Give him the ball.

Swish.

He never celebrated.

Just bowed his head and jogged back.

They called him The Silent Shooter.

He didn't care.

He played because it made the noise in his head stop.

---

High School — The First Meeting

Hiroto met Ryu Kazen on the first day of tryouts.

The gym was packed.

Talent everywhere.

Future aces.

Future pros.

Future kings.

Ryu stood at center court, silver hair messy, hands on hips, eyes half-closed like he was bored.

When Hiroto stepped onto the floor, Ryu opened his eyes.

That was the first time.

Not because Hiroto looked strong.

But because he moved like he already knew the outcome.

They were put on opposite teams.

From the first possession, it was strange.

Ryu didn't guard Hiroto.

He let him shoot.

Swish.

Next possession.

Same thing.

Swish.

By the fourth shot, Ryu smiled.

He stepped up.

This time, Hiroto felt something new.

Pressure.

Ryu didn't jump.

Didn't reach.

Didn't rush.

He just stood where Hiroto wanted to be.

Hiroto passed.

Ryu intercepted.

Fast break.

Layup.

They stared at each other.

Ryu laughed.

"So," he said, jogging back. "You can see the basket."

Hiroto answered quietly.

"And you can see the court."

From that day on, they were inseparable.

Not friends.

Not rivals.

Something deeper.

They stayed late together.

Trained in silence.

Learned each other's habits without speaking.

Ryu pushed pace.

Hiroto refined precision.

Fire and gold.

---

The Title Offer

By their second year, the whispers started.

King of the Court.

A title given only to players who ruled games absolutely.

The committee watched Hiroto.

They saw the percentages.

The efficiency.

The calm under pressure.

They called him in.

"You qualify," they said. "The title is yours."

Ryu stood outside the room when Hiroto came out.

"Well?" Ryu asked.

Hiroto didn't smile.

"I said no."

Ryu froze.

"…Why?"

Hiroto looked down at his hands.

"Because kings carry weight."

Ryu frowned.

"That's the point."

Hiroto shook his head.

"When people call you king, they stop seeing you."

Ryu didn't understand.

Not then.

Hiroto continued.

"They expect you to save everything. Fix everything. Be everything."

He looked at Ryu.

"I just want to play."

Ryu was silent for a long time.

Then he laughed softly.

"…You're an idiot."

Maybe.

But Hiroto felt lighter.

---

The Choice

Ryu accepted the title the next year.

Not out of pride.

Out of responsibility.

Someone had to bear it.

Hiroto stood beside him.

Always.

Never behind.

Never above.

Just there.

When reporters asked why Hiroto never chased the crown, he answered simply:

"Kings need shadows."

---

Back to the Present

He walked the ball up.

Hiroto met him at the logo.

Not reaching.

Not crouching.

Just close enough.

Gold eyes.

Measured breathing.

Marcus dropped into a low stance.

This time, there was no crowd.

No scoreboard.

No King of the Court.

Just two players.

Bounce.

Marcus tested him with a right-hand dribble.

Hiroto slid.

No lag.

Bounce.

Left.

Hiroto stayed centered.

Marcus changed speed—hard stop, then burst.

Hiroto absorbed it.

Chest to chest.

No whistle.

Marcus felt it in his bones.

…He's solid.

Marcus tried again—hesitation, shoulder dip, crossover.

Hiroto didn't bite.

Didn't blink.

Just existed in the lane Marcus wanted most.

The shot clock ticked.

Marcus kicked the ball back to Yuuto and cut through the lane, dragging Hiroto with him.

Good.

Yuuto drove.

Ryu stepped in.

Kick out—

Marcus caught.

Hiroto was already there.

Too close.

Marcus rose anyway.

Contested.

The shot rimmed out.

Rebound—Daichi tipped it loose.

Scramble.

Marcus dove.

Hiroto dove.

Hands collided.

Bodies hit the floor.

The ball skidded free.

Whistle.

Jump ball.

The crowd roared.

Marcus pushed himself up, chest heaving.

Hiroto stood smoothly, eyes unreadable.

For the first time—

They looked directly at each other.

Not rivals.

Not enemies.

Mirrors.

Hakuro gained possession.

Hiroto took the inbound.

This time—

Marcus guarded him.

Full court.

Low. Wide. Physical.

The first bump came at half court.

Not dirty.

Intentional.

Hiroto absorbed it, dribbling steady.

Marcus bumped again.

Hiroto's dribble stayed clean.

Gold aura didn't flare.

It tightened.

They crossed into the frontcourt.

Hiroto signaled.

Clear out.

Ryu drifted to the corner.

The arena sensed it.

One-on-one.

Marcus grinned despite himself.

…So you're not hiding.

Hiroto attacked.

Not with speed—

With timing.

One dribble.

Stop.

Marcus stayed.

Second dribble.

Inside shoulder.

Marcus slid.

Hiroto pivoted.

Marcus cut off the lane.

The two moved like gears grinding together.

No wasted steps.

No space.

Hiroto rose for a midrange jumper.

Marcus jumped with him.

Hand in his face.

Contact in the air.

Hiroto released—

Short.

The ball hit front rim.

Miss.

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd.

Hiroto landed.

Eyes widened just slightly.

Marcus landed beside him, fists clenched.

"…Got you," Marcus muttered.

Hiroto didn't respond.

But something had shifted.

Seiryō ran.

Yuuto pushed pace.

Shunjin cut.

Marcus trailed.

The ball swung back to Marcus at the top.

Hiroto recovered instantly.

Marcus didn't shoot.

Instead, he drove—hard—straight into Hiroto's chest.

Contact.

Heavy.

The referee swallowed the whistle.

Marcus spun.

Up.

Glass.

In.

Two points.

SEIRYŌ HIGH — 7

Marcus backpedaled, eyes never leaving Hiroto.

"…You feel that?" Marcus said quietly. "That's pressure."

Hiroto nodded once.

"…Yes."

No sarcasm.

No anger.

Respect.

Hakuro answered immediately.

Ryu orchestrated.

But this time—

Marcus didn't help.

Didn't blink.

He stayed glued to Hiroto.

Denied him the wing.

Denied the corner.

Forced him higher.

Ryu noticed.

He adjusted.

Tried to bring Hiroto into a handoff—

Marcus blew it up.

Shoulder through screen.

Stayed attached.

Hiroto caught the ball late.

Shot clock winding.

Three seconds.

Two.

Hiroto rose—awkward angle.

Marcus jumped—

Fingertips brushed ball.

Deflection.

The shot missed.

The crowd erupted again.

Not for Hakuro.

For resistance.

Hiroto jogged back, breathing heavier now.

Gold aura flickered.

Not gone.

Disturbed.

Ryu glanced at him.

A question.

Hiroto shook his head slightly.

I'm fine.

But he wasn't untouched anymore.

Marcus was in his rhythm.

In his space.

In his head.

Timeout Hakuro.

Their coach stepped forward, voice sharp but controlled.

"Enough playing clean," he said. "Kings don't avoid contact."

Hiroto bowed his head.

"…Understood."

Back on the floor.

Hakuro adjusted.

They ran Hiroto off-ball now.

Screens.

Cuts.

Misdirection.

Marcus chased through everything.

Got clipped.

Recovered.

Bumped.

Stayed.

Finally—

Hiroto caught the ball curling off a double screen.

Marcus was half a step behind.

Hiroto rose instantly.

No hesitation.

Gold flared—

Swish.

Clean.

The arena exhaled.

Marcus stopped, hands on knees, sweat dripping.

"…There it is."

Hiroto met his eyes again.

"…Thank you."

Marcus blinked.

"For what?"

"For reminding me," Hiroto said calmly, jogging back.

"…That comfort is weakness."

The second quarter clock ticked down.

The duel wasn't decided.

Not won.

Not lost.

But something was clear now—

Seiryō hadn't just found a flaw.

They had found a peer.

And Hiroto Mae—

The man who rejected the crown—

Was finally being forced to carry its weight.

The duel hadn't cooled.

If anything, it had sharpened.

Marcus wiped sweat from his eyes as he took his stance again. His legs burned now—not from sprinting, but from constant resistance. Hiroto didn't waste movement. Every cut, every stop, every pivot forced Marcus to react perfectly or be punished.

Yuuto called out the coverage.

"Stay home! No help!"

Marcus nodded.

I've got him.

Hakuro ran a new set—faster this time. Ryu darted through the lane like a blade, pulling defenders with him. Hiroto circled wide, slipping behind a screen.

Marcus chased.

Shoulder clipped the screener.

Pain flared.

He didn't slow.

Hiroto caught the ball at the wing, jab-stepped, and Marcus bit—just a fraction.

Hiroto drove baseline.

Marcus recovered, sliding hard, cutting the angle.

They collided near the paint.

The sound echoed.

The referee's whistle screamed.

Foul.

The arena froze.

Marcus stared at the ref, chest heaving.

"…That was clean."

The ref shook his head. "Body."

Marcus clenched his jaw but stepped back.

Hiroto stood at the line.

One shot.

The crowd murmured.

He bounced the ball once.

Twice.

For the first time, his breathing wasn't steady.

Gold eyes flicked to Marcus.

Then back to the rim.

Release.

The ball hit rim—

Rolled—

Dropped.

One point.

Hakuro led by a slim margin now.

As play resumed, Marcus felt it.

Hiroto was adapting.

Not pulling away.

Matching him.

On the next possession, Marcus attacked immediately—no setup, no hesitation. He drove straight at Hiroto, forced contact, spun off balance, and kicked the ball out at the last second.

Shunjin caught.

Three.

Good.

The bench exploded.

Coach Hikari slammed his fist once, controlled but fierce.

"That's it! Pressure creates mistakes!"

Hakuro answered again—Ryu finally broke free for a pull-up jumper.

Swish.

The score tightened.

The crowd split into noise and tension.

Final minute.

Marcus guarded Hiroto again, lower now, smarter.

Hiroto didn't force it.

He passed.

Cut.

Relocated.

Marcus followed.

The ball came back.

Hiroto rose for another midrange.

Marcus jumped—

Blocked.

Clean.

The ball flew out of bounds.

The horn sounded.

Halftime.

Players froze for a moment.

Then the arena erupted.

Marcus stood there, hands on hips, chest pounding, staring across the court.

Hiroto stared back.

Neither smiled.

Neither spoke.

But both understood the truth now.

This wasn't a warm-up.

This wasn't a mismatch.

This was the beginning of something dangerous.

As they turned toward their benches, Ryu clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Tch… annoying," he muttered. "Guess I really can't coast."

And for the first time since the opening tip—

Hakuro Academy walked into halftime knowing something had changed.

Not the score.

Not the crowd.

But the balance of the court itself.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.