The cherry blossoms were already falling.
Zen Tanaka stood at the gates of Seirin High, watching petals drift across the courtyard in lazy spirals. Around him, first-years clustered in nervous groups, their voices carrying that particular pitch of forced excitement that came with new beginnings. He didn't join them. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped forward alone, his sneakers crunching against scattered petals.
The campus was smaller than he'd expected. Not cramped, exactly, but intimate—the kind of place where faces would become familiar fast, where anonymity would be impossible. The main building rose three stories, unremarkable except for the way morning light caught the windows. To the left, past a row of vending machines and a bike rack, stood the gymnasium.
Zen's eyes lingered there.
So this is it.
The building looked ordinary. Standard metal roof, double doors propped open by a wooden wedge, the faint chemical smell of floor wax drifting out. But he could hear the echo of a basketball from inside—steady, rhythmic, someone already practicing—and something in his chest tightened.
He forced himself to look away.
A group of upperclassmen passed him, laughing about something, and one of them glanced his way before murmuring to his friend. Zen caught the tail end: "—heard he went head-to-head with the Miracles at nationals—"
The words followed him as he walked toward the main building.
Head-to-head. As if that meant anything. As if losing by eight points was somehow noble.
His jaw clenched.
Homeroom was a blur of introductions and administrative nonsense—class schedules, locker assignments, the vice principal droning about school pride. Zen sat near the back, half-listening, his gaze fixed on the window. From here, he could see the corner of the gym, and beyond it, the outdoor courts where a few students were already shooting around during break.
"—Tanaka-kun?"
He blinked. The teacher was staring at him expectantly.
"Sorry. Could you repeat that?"
A few students snickered. The teacher sighed, pointed to the board where club sign-up information was scrawled in chalk, and moved on. Zen didn't care. He already knew which club he'd join.
There was only one that mattered.
When the lunch bell rang, he didn't head to the cafeteria. Instead, he found himself drifting back toward the gym, drawn by muscle memory and something darker—call it obligation, or maybe obsession. The double doors were open wider now, and inside, he could see the polished court gleaming under fluorescent lights.
A few students were playing pickup—sloppy three-on-three, no real structure. Zen watched from the doorway, arms crossed, dissecting their movements with the clinical precision of someone who'd spent years studying failure.
Poor spacing. The point guard kept his dribble too high. The big man didn't seal his defender on the block. Fundamentals, all of it, and they were botching every one.
Amateurs.
But then—
Movement in his peripheral vision. So faint he almost missed it.
Zen turned his head slowly and saw him: a pale boy with light blue hair, standing near the far corner of the gym, watching the same game Zen was watching. He was slight, almost delicate, and yet there was something deliberate about his stillness, as if he'd chosen that exact spot for a reason.
Zen's breath caught.
No way.
The boy didn't look over, didn't acknowledge him, but Zen knew. He'd seen that posture before—relaxed but ready, invisible until the moment he moved. It had cost Zen's team a possession in the third quarter of the middle school nationals semifinal. One moment, the passing lane had been open. The next, the ball was gone, stolen by hands that came from nowhere.
Kuroko Tetsuya.
Teikō's Phantom Sixth Man.
Zen's pulse kicked up. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He's here. At Seirin.
Before he could process that, another voice cut through the noise—loud, confident, American-accented.
"Yo! You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna play?"
Zen turned.
The speaker was tall—taller than Zen by a few centimeters—with dark red hair and sharp eyes that glinted with challenge. He stood at half-court, basketball tucked under one arm, and the way he carried himself screamed athlete. Not the polished kind, but raw. Hungry.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither spoke. The gym seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of squeaking sneakers and idle chatter fading into static. Zen felt it instinctively: this wasn't just another player. This was someone who'd push back.
The redhead grinned, slow and fierce. "You're that guy, right? Tanaka? Heard you played at nationals."
Zen didn't answer immediately. He studied the other boy—the slight forward lean, the loose grip on the ball, the way his weight was already shifting toward his toes. This guy wanted to go. Right here, right now.
"And you are?" Zen asked, voice flat.
"Kagami Taiga." The grin widened. "Let's play sometime."
It wasn't a question. It was a promise.
Zen felt the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but close. "Maybe."
Kagami's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, someone called his name from across the court. He glanced over, clicked his tongue, then jogged back to the pickup game without another word.
Zen stayed in the doorway a moment longer, watching.
Kagami moved like a storm—explosive drives, no hesitation, every step forward an attack. He finished a layup with unnecessary force, the ball rattling the rim before dropping through. Flashy. Inefficient. But undeniably effective.
He's got tools, Zen thought. But no discipline.
His gaze drifted back to Kuroko, still standing in the corner, still watching. This time, though, Kuroko turned his head—just slightly—and their eyes met across the gym.
No recognition. No acknowledgment.
Just a quiet, unreadable stare.
Zen felt something cold settle in his stomach.
That night, alone in his new apartment—a modest single near the train station—Zen sat on the floor with his laptop open, the blue glow illuminating his face. The video on screen was paused mid-action: a freeze-frame of himself, arm extended, screaming at a teammate during the final timeout of the national semifinals.
His voice, tinny through the laptop speakers, had been hoarse by then. Desperate.
"Cut backdoor! He's overplaying the pass! Just cut—"
But his teammate had hesitated, and the window closed. Aomine Daiki had rotated over, stolen the entry pass, and sprinted downcourt for a dunk that sealed the game.
Zen watched it happen again now, frame by frame. He knew every angle, every missed opportunity, every teammate who'd failed to execute the path he'd shown them.
I saw it. I knew what would work. But they couldn't follow.
His hand hovered over the touchpad, ready to replay it again, but he stopped himself. He'd watched this game sixty-three times. Watching it a sixty-fourth wouldn't change anything.
Instead, he closed the laptop and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
The Generation of Miracles.
Five prodigies scattered across Japan now, each one carrying the weight of Teikō's legacy. Aomine. Midorima. Murasakibara. Akashi. And Kise. He'd faced all of them at some point during middle school tournaments—sometimes in group stages, once in the semifinals—and every time, he'd lost.
Not by much. Never blowouts. But close games were still losses, and losses were all that mattered in the end.
They were better.
No—that wasn't right.
Their teams were better.
He exhaled slowly, the distinction feeling thinner every time he repeated it.
The truth was more complicated. Yes, his teammates had been weaker. Yes, he'd carried the offensive load. Yes, he'd created opportunities that went to waste. But there was another truth lurking underneath, one he didn't want to touch: maybe he hadn't created enough opportunities. Maybe his paths had been too narrow, too dependent on perfect execution.
Maybe he hadn't been good enough to carry them.
His phone buzzed on the floor beside him. A message from his mother.
How was your first day? Did you join the basketball club?
Zen stared at the screen, then typed back: Not yet. Soon.
He set the phone down and stood, moving to the corner of the room where his basketball sat in a mesh bag. He pulled it out, felt its familiar weight in his hands, and began a slow series of ball-handling drills—crossovers, between-the-legs, behind-the-back—his movements precise even in the cramped space.
His mind drifted back to the gym. To Kagami's challenge. To Kuroko's silent observation.
They're here. At Seirin.
If Kuroko was here, that meant something. The Phantom Sixth Man didn't choose schools randomly. He'd left Teikō for a reason, just like the others had scattered. And Kagami—American-trained, physically gifted, clearly talented—wouldn't have returned to Japan without ambition.
This wasn't going to be some underdog story. This was going to be a battlefield.
And Zen intended to win.
He stopped dribbling, caught the ball, and stood in the dark apartment, breathing steadily.
Victory requires a team, he thought. Even if I don't trust one yet.
It was a bitter acknowledgment, but he'd learned enough from his failures to know it was true. Alone, he could be brilliant. Alone, he could see every path to victory with perfect clarity. But alone, he would lose.
So he'd join Seirin's basketball club. He'd play alongside Kuroko, alongside Kagami, alongside whoever else thought they could keep up. And he'd use them—not cruelly, not selfishly, but pragmatically—to reach the top.
To surpass the Miracles.
To prove that he was the one who deserved to be remembered.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. The outdoor courts near his apartment had lights on timers. If he hurried, he could get in an hour of shooting practice before they shut off.
As he stepped outside into the cool April night, he whispered to the empty street:
"This time, I won't lose."
The words hung in the air, half-promise, half-prayer.
Then he started running toward the courts, ball tucked under his arm, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence.