Early the next morning, **Cory Grant** woke earlier than usual. Today marked another chance to grind his stats. He slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb his parents still asleep.
As soon as he stepped outside, he paused. The distant mountains were veiled in a thin, gray mist, like an elegant brushstroke painting come to life.
Drawing in the crisp morning air, Cory began to jog along the familiar trail. His stride was measured, steady, each step landing with subtle rhythm and strength.
By the time the gold light of dawn stretched across the land, Cory had already circled back home. It was a little past seven. His parents were gone for work, but his mother, **Marianne**, had thoughtfully left breakfast waiting—neatly covered to keep warm. Beside it sat a bento box for lunch.
The portions were noticeably larger than before. It was her way of silently telling him: *I know you're pushing your body, so here's more fuel.*
Cory smiled as he ate. His parents' quiet support only steeled his determination.
---
After breakfast, he grabbed his gear and headed straight to a familiar but forgotten place—an old, secluded basketball court.
The hoop was rusted. The rim tilted at an awkward angle. Cracks marred the concrete, weeds sprouting through the lines. But Cory didn't mind.
Since he had officially taken a "sick leave" from school, it was best not to be seen wandering around Shohoku campus during regular hours. That meant grinding here until club practice opened in the afternoon.
He dribbled the ball onto the cracked surface.
*Back to basics.*
He drilled on-handed ball control, then alternating two-handed cross dribbles, then blind-dribbles with his eyes closed. Over and over and over.
Because fundamentals—though boring—were the only gateway to greatness.
Soon, his rhythm shifted naturally. His hands, hips, shoulders began to fall in sync. He was no longer just dribbling—he was weaving.
His Crossover.
A skill demanding fine control: upper and lower body, waist and hips in harmony, keeping balance while shifting angles. Done well, it created openings. Done poorly—it was just wasted motion.
Suddenly, the familiar ding echoed in his mind:
**[Crossover: Proficiency +1]**
Cory blinked. Not only that—the bars for **Ball Control, Speed, and Stamina** all ticked upward too. The biggest jump came in Ball Control.
His pulse jumped. *So training my Crossover improves multiple stats simultaneously…?*
Driven by excitement, he tried to rush the rhythm, picking up speed unnaturally.
Bad idea. The dribble grew clumsy, shallow. His proficiency didn't move an inch.
Panting, Cory paused, realization dawning. "So, every motion has to be continuous… deliberate."
No cheap shortcuts.
He forced himself to slow down, returning to patient practice. Each dribble deliberate, every crossover sharp and clean.
Time blurred. Skill deepened. Hours fell away.
**Ding!**
[Ball Control: 60 → 61]
A tingling warmth spread across his fingers. When it faded, the ball suddenly *felt different*. It stuck to his palm like a magnet, his control and feel sharper than before. A small step, but real.
His excitement renewed, Cory went right back at it.
And then it came:
**[Crossover: LV1 → LV2]**
**[Ball Control: 61 → 62]**
**[Speed: 58 → 59]**
Cory's heart raced. Not only had the Crossover itself upgraded, but his broader stats jumped too.
No bottlenecks. No ceilings. Pure effort for pure reward. That was the terrifying power of his system.
His hands trembled with thrill. *If I learn more skills, if I keep upgrading them… my growth could snowball.*
He thought of potential teachers. Coach Anderson, a former national player. Maybe Mitch, Charles, even the captain Daniel Irving—if they'd be willing. All he needed was for someone to teach, and the system's learning mechanism would handle the rest.
For the first time, Cory glimpsed an actual shortcut to greatness: not talent, but skill stacking.
---
Returning to drills, he found his movements crisper, the crossover flowing smoother through hips and shoulders. The ball felt like an extension of his body.
Mistakes dropped. Speed picked up. Efficiency soared.
**[Crossover: Proficiency +1]**
He grinned, dripping sweat, adjusting pace until the movements reached a natural balance point. Soon what was supposed to take four hours of training… he'd cut to just three.
Lost in the rhythm, he barely noticed time passing. Sweat streaked his shirt. Drops splattered onto the cracked asphalt like scattered rainfall.
He'd pause briefly only to catch his breath, sip water, and continue.
From a tall thermos, he hydrated—water steeped with **goji berries** his mother had given him. Cory smirked faintly. It was old-fashioned, but he appreciated the gesture. He wasn't just building strength—he was preserving his health, extending his career.
Two and a half hours passed.
Panting, Cory finally stopped. His chest heaved, his body drained—yet a wide smile stretched across his face.
It was the look of a man tasting the harvest of his sweat, like a farmer surveying a fertile field.
Every drop of effort had value now. Every hour mattered.
And Cory Grant was determined to seize them all.