The air in the coaches' office was stale with fatigue and vape fumes. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly over the long table scattered with clipboards, stat sheets, and empty water bottles.
Kuhlmann sat at the head, elbows on the desk, pen tapping steadily against a folder labeled Trial Results. His face was stone, his posture immaculate. Daniel slouched on one side, an ice pack on his bad knee, while Marcus leaned back on the other, spinning a pen between his fingers.
Nobody spoke. The silence was heavier than any whistle blow in practice.
Finally, Marcus sighed. "Well, that was rough."
Daniel gave a short laugh – dry and humorless. "Rough? That was a goddamn disaster. I've seen middle school camps with better coordination."
Kuhlmann didn't look up. "They lack fundamentals," he said. His tone wasn't angry – it was tired, precise, like a surgeon describing a failed operation. "They lack confidence. They lack aggression. They lack… everything."
He flipped a page and wrote something in block letters, his handwriting sharp and mechanical.
"Do you think any of them can even dribble under pressure?" Daniel asked.
"No," Kuhlmann replied flatly. "They can't."
Marcus grinned faintly. "At least you're honest, Coach."
Kuhlmann leaned back, eyes narrowing at some invisible spot on the wall.
"They run without purpose. They shoot without rhythm. They defend like they're apologizing for every single contact."
He exhaled sharply, his accent thickening as his temper rose.
"Back in my days, success was measured with sweat, blood, and pain. Not participation. Not smiles. Blut und Schweiß, das ist, was bleibt!"
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Uh-oh. He's switching languages again."
Daniel smirked. "Yeah, that's never good. That's his 'German warlord mode.' Give him ten minutes, and he's drafting invasion plans for the whole Prefecture."
Kuhlmann ignored them, his voice growing louder – not from anger, but conviction.
"They want shortcuts. They want comfort. Aber Basketball ist Krieg! Discipline! Kampfgeist!"
Marcus muttered, "Yep. Definitely warlord mode."
Daniel leaned toward him. "Two seconds away from marching us to Berlin."
That almost earned a smile from Kuhlmann, but he stayed in his zone – the kind of cold, moral fury that came from decades of watching raw talent waste itself in comfort.
He stood, pacing toward the whiteboard. "None of the new boys are ready for the real team," he said finally. "Not one. They don't have the body, the instincts, or the heart for what's coming."
"So what then?" Marcus asked. "We cut them?"
Kuhlmann shook his head. "No. We build them. Brick by brick."
He turned, eyes sharp again. "I'll take the Japanese group. You and I, Marcus – we'll drill them until they stop thinking like schoolboys and start moving like athletes. Three months. No games, no rewards, no mercy."
Marcus straightened. "Three months, huh? You planning boot camp?"
"Yes," Kuhlmann said without hesitation. "Basketball boot camp."
Daniel looked up. "And me?"
Kuhlmann tapped his clipboard. "You'll take the main team. Focus on individual skills. Teach them like they're entering the NBA Draft tomorrow. Especially the new kid – Adrian. He has discipline. You'll give him direction. Make him the foundation. I have plans for him."
Daniel grinned. "You're giving me the good toys while you play with broken ones."
"Broken things," Kuhlmann said quietly, "teach patience."
Marcus let out a low whistle. "Damn. Deep."
Then Kuhlmann's tone shifted, colder again. He opened another folder. "One more thing. Michiko called this morning. She secured us a friendly game."
Daniel leaned forward. "Against who?"
"Shutoku High."
The room fell silent. Even Marcus stopped spinning his pen.
"Shutoku?" Daniel said. "As in that Shutoku? With one of the so-called Generation of Miracles?"
Kuhlmann nodded once. "Yes. Midorima Shintarō."
Marcus gave a short laugh. "So we're testing our work against those circus kids? Guess we'll see what all that hype's about."
Kuhlmann's eyes glinted. "Exactly. Let them have their hype. Let them have their fans. Right now, they are nothing more than wasted genetics with good PR."
Daniel snorted. "You just called one of Japan's top prospects a waste of genetics."
"Ja," Kuhlmann said flatly. "Because that is what he is. We will show them what well coached basketball looks like. Shutoku has history, structure – at least on paper. I expect them to give us a proper match."
Daniel leaned back. "So what's the plan?"
Kuhlmann looked at him steadily. "We face them after Interhigh preliminaries. That gives you time to polish our boys. Around a few weeks, I believe, if they will advance into the group stage. If they won't it gives us only a couple, maybe less. I want their movements crisp. Their thinking clean."
Daniel's grin returned. "I get it. You want to turn them into killers."
Marcus stretched, yawning. "Man, I just hope our boys don't kill them literally. The poor kids won't know what hit 'em."
Kuhlmann gave a faint smile, faint but genuine. "Then they will learn, Marcus. Pain is the greatest teacher."
He straightened his clipboard and said quietly, "This isn't about beating Shutoku. It's about time we enter the stage."
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance. It wasn't a storm yet – but it was coming.