Mei Yu, landing, was already in motion. He scooped up the rolling ball and, without rising, with one sharp flick of his wrist, hurled it halfway across the court to Jen Ryu, who was already charging in the counter-attack.
Jen Ryu caught the ball at half-court. The court ahead of him was empty. But instead of rushing to the hoop, he slowed down. His gaze met Xiao Li's, who, out of habit, had run out to his favorite spot in the corner beyond the three-point line. Jen Ryu's eyes burned not just with a desire to score, but with a desire to humiliate. To score not a simple half-point, but to strike a blow that would resonate louder.
He made one, powerful pass straight into Xiao Li's hands.
Xiao Li caught the ball. He stood beyond the arc, completely alone. Hong Ren was far away, trying to get back on defense. Xiao Li glanced at the hoop. There was no passion in his eyes, no hope. Only weary obligation. He took the shot. The motion was mechanical, practiced. The ball flew on a high arc.
Everything froze.
The ball dropped through the basket with a soft, clean swish.
Three-pointer. By their rules—one point.
On the scoreboard: 12 : 2.5
Jen Ryu let out not a shout, but something like a triumphant roar. He wasn't looking at Hong Ren. He was looking at Ming You, mentally gloating:
"We can not only steal half-points, we can hit them like this too!"
Hong Ren stood on his half of the court. He looked at the net where the ball still trembled. There was no panic, no anger in his eyes. Resolve glittered there. Cold as steel.
"Didn't think I'd fall for such a simple trap, heh-heh," he said quietly, but loud enough for the words to reach his bench.
Hong Ren turned and went to get the ball for the inbound.
He was already preparing for the next move. For the next attempt to score even more points and erase this annoying flare-up of resistance. One point for them against his twelve. The math was still on his side. But the game had entered a new phase—a phase where desperation could spawn unexpected, dangerous flashes.
Referee Sung Wo, ignoring the mounting tension, raised the ball.
"Score 12 to 2.5. Ball in play!"
The electricity from the recently made three-pointer still crackled in the air, charging the newcomers' team with a phantom, dangerous energy. Especially Jen Ryu. He wasn't just inspired—he was intoxicated by the suddenly ignited hope. His eyes shone with a manic gleam:
"We can do it! We can land blows!"
Receiving the inbound pass, he didn't look for Mei Yu for tactics. He saw Hong Ren standing before him in defense with the same stone face, and something twitched inside him. Rage, vanity, the desire to repeat the power success—it all mixed together. He charged forward like a battering ram, dribbling with force that broke the rhythm.
But Hong Ren had already adapted. He didn't retreat, waiting for the impact. He met Jen Ryu halfway, ramming into him with a light but precise body check, disrupting his balance, while his own quick, tenacious hands reached for the ball. It wasn't a crude foul, but masterful, irritating pressure. He didn't knock the ball away, but forced Jen Ryu to spend an extra fraction of a second on control, throwing him off his comfortable power rhythm.
"Don't let him through! Lock him down!" Mei Yu commanded, but tension sounded in his voice. He saw Jen Ryu succumbing to emotions again.
Jen Ryu, fighting the persistent defense, tried a sharp spin to seal off Hong Ren with his back, but Hong Ren, as if anticipating it, bounced back, maintaining distance and continuing to press. Jen Ryu's dribble became nervous, uncertain. And then Hong Ren made a lightning-fast lunge. His fingers cleanly stripped the ball, without touching the hands.
The ball bounced away. Hong Ren was immediately there, scooping it up and surging into the counter-attack.
"O-o-o-h! Stolen!" Lu Shen squealed, instantly forgetting his momentary stupor. His internal tremor began transforming back into excitement. "Take it home!"
Hong Ren took it. He raced towards the opponent's hoop, but the newcomers' team, taught by bitter experience, didn't chase him chaotically. On Mei Yu's command, they retreated, forming a tight defensive shell right under their own backboard. When Hong Ren burst into the paint, they were already waiting. From all sides. Jen Ryu in front, Mei Yu from the side, Xiao Li and another player cutting off the angles.
He was trapped. Trying to drive through a wall of bodies was suicidal. He tried to twist free, making a sudden stop and turn, but in that tight space, the ball was the most vulnerable point. Mei Yu's hand, cold and precise as a scalpel, knocked it from below the moment Hong Ren brought the ball down to protect it.
Slap.
Turnover.
"Haha! You fucked up now!" Jen Ryu growled.
Hong Ren tried to recover immediately, lunging at the nearest opponent, but the ball was already flying in a chain of quick, polished passes. One-two-three. Jen Ryu to Mei Yu, Mei Yu to the player in the corner, back to Mei Yu, who, taking advantage of the commotion, cut to the basket. Hong Ren darted around like a leopard in a cage, but couldn't keep up with the passing speed. He saw Mei Yu, receiving the ball two steps from the hoop, calmly execute a close-range shot.
Swoosh.
Whistle!
Another half-point: 12 : 3
The newcomers' team now had a whole three points on the board. A number that seemed laughable against twelve, but gaining a sinister weight with each successful attack.
Hong Ren froze for an instant. A shadow passed over his face, usually utterly impassive. A light, almost imperceptible crease between his brows. Not anger. Rather, sharp, cold dissatisfaction with himself.
But it lasted a fraction of a second. As soon as the ball was in his hands for the inbound, he exploded. No, not emotionally. Physically. He surged forward with such silent, concentrated fury that even Jen Ryu momentarily took a step back.
"Hold onto that ball like it's your damn dick!" Lu Shen roared after him, his voice cracking into a shriek from accumulated tension and chemical impatience.
Beside him, Haru Lin, sitting with perfect posture, couldn't help but grab the bridge of his nose, shaking his head:
"Lu... What an idiot, ha-ha."
Hong Ren didn't hear. Or pretended not to. His world narrowed to the strip of asphalt before him and the five figures trying to stop him. He drove the ball without slowing down. Jen Ryu and Mei Yu, anticipating his drive, tried to trap him again from two sides, converging as he approached the arc.
But this time, Hong Ren wasn't looking for detours. He saw a narrow corridor between them and put all his explosive power into his legs. He pierced that gap, not trying to deceive, simply blasting through on pure speed, leaving both defenders to clash shoulders behind him.
He burst into the paint. Xiao Li and the other player were already stepping up, but their movements were delayed, full of fear of collision. Hong Ren didn't try to outplay them. He gathered himself, pushed off the asphalt, and went up. His jump wasn't high, but quick and compact, like a spring.
Jen Ryu, recovering, roared as he jumped after him, stretching his arm to block the shot from above, yelling loudly:
"The fuck you say you're shooting!!!"
But Hong Ren, already in the air, showed his true mastery. He didn't rush. He seemed to hang for a moment, waiting for Jen Ryu's arm to sweep past, and only then, with a soft, off-the-glass motion, sent the ball into the basket.
A shot from under the hoop—and the ball cleanly passed through the net.
Swish!
Whistle!
On the scoreboard: 16 : 3.0
Hong Ren landed, not even looking at the fallen ball. He immediately turned and walked to his half for defense. His breathing was slightly faster than usual, but his face became an impenetrable mask again. The chemical hunger inside him growled approvingly—the reward was becoming more and more real.
Jen Ryu, landing after the unsuccessful block, watched him go. The enthusiasm from the previous successes had evaporated somewhere, leaving behind only a bitter aftertaste and a cold understanding:
"To even catch up, we need to do the near-impossible! And Hong Ren seems to be just warming up!!!"
Whistle!
Another sharp, piercing whistle from Sung Wo cut through the tense air, and his dry, emotionless voice sounded like a verdict:
"End of the first half! Score—16 to 3 in favor of player number twelve!"