The basketball sat at center court, orange against the concrete, waiting for someone to claim it.
Sora stood alone on one side, his 149-centimeter frame dwarfed by the five players facing him. Momoharu and his gang—Chucky, Yasuhara, and two others whose names Sora hadn't learned yet—spread out in a loose defensive formation, their expressions ranging from amused to annoyed.
The crowd of students had swelled to over thirty people, all pressed against the chain-link fence surrounding the court. Whispers and excited chatter filled the air.
"This is insane..."
"That first-year is going to get destroyed..."
"Five-on-one? He's got no chance..."
Madoka stood at the sideline, her hands clasped nervously. Her teammates from the girls' basketball team had gathered around her, equally concerned.
Chiaki, however, remained relaxed, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed. That same knowing smile played on his lips.
"Before we start," Momoharu called out, spinning the ball in his hands, "let me make something clear. If you can score even ONE basket against all five of us, you win. That's how impossible this is."
His friends laughed. Chucky, a heavyset guy with a shaved head, cracked his knuckles. "Just one point? Boss, you're being too nice."
"Yeah," Yasuhara added, a lanky player with a cruel smirk. "Let's just end this quick so we can get back to—"
"I'll sub out."
Everyone turned. Chiaki had pushed off from the fence and was walking onto the court.
"What?" Momoharu's eyebrows shot up.
"I'm subbing out," Chiaki repeated calmly. He looked at Madoka. "Yabuchi-san, would you take my place?"
"Eh?!" Madoka's eyes went wide. "But I—"
"Wait, hold on!" Sora protested. "Why are you leaving?"
Chiaki's expression softened, and he glanced toward the direction of the Kawasaki bridge. "Tomo-chan might be waiting for me. I should check... just in case she shows up this time." His voice carried that same melancholy from earlier. "I can't miss her if she actually comes."
There was a beat of silence. Then Momoharu let out a harsh laugh.
"You haven't changed a bit, have you?" Despite the mocking tone, there was something almost fond in his voice. "Still chasing after girls who don't give a damn about you."
Chiaki shrugged, unbothered. "Somebody's gotta have hope in this school." He waved as he walked toward the exit. "Good luck, Mister No-Height! Show them what those wings can do!"
Madoka stood frozen, clearly torn. She looked at Sora, then at Momoharu, then back at Sora.
"Yabuchi-san," Sora said, meeting her eyes. "If you're going to play, don't hold back. I don't want any handicaps."
Something in his tone—the absolute seriousness, the lack of bravado—made Madoka straighten up. She saw it then: this wasn't some reckless challenge from a cocky first-year. This was something more.
This was someone fighting for something they loved.
"Alright," she said, stepping onto the court. "But don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're a first-year."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sora replied with a grin.
Momoharu watched this exchange with narrowed eyes. "Everyone in position. Let's get this over with."
The five players spread out. Momoharu would guard Sora directly at the start. Madoka took a position near the three-point line, ready to collapse on defense. Chucky and Yasuhara flanked the paint, while the fifth player—a wiry guy with nervous energy—hovered at the free-throw line.
Sora stood at the top of the key, his hand resting on the ball at center court.
"One basket," Momoharu said, his voice cold. "That's all you need. Should be easy, right?"
Sora's response was to crouch lower, his fingers finding the familiar grooves of the basketball. His mother's words echoed in his mind—words from years ago, when he'd come home crying after being cut from yet another team because of his height.
"Sora," she'd said, kneeling down to meet his eyes, "being short isn't a weakness. It's a gift. You're closer to the ground, more balanced, harder to predict. While tall players are up in the clouds, you're down here—quick, agile, impossible to catch."
"But Mom, they said I'll never—"
"Never let anyone tell you what you can't do. You have wings, Sora. You just have to learn how to use them."
"Game starts now!" Momoharu announced. "First possession is—"
Sora exploded forward.
The ball barely touched the ground before he was moving, his dribble so low and quick that it almost seemed to disappear beneath him. Momoharu, caught off guard by the sudden acceleration, reached out—but Sora was already past him.
"What the—"
The crowd gasped.
Sora's speed was incredible. Not just fast, but efficient—every movement precise, every step calculated. His low center of gravity made his direction changes almost impossible to read.
Madoka stepped up to contest, her defensive stance solid. But Sora didn't try to go around her. Instead, he performed a quick hesitation dribble, his body dropping even lower.
"He's so fast!" one of the girls' team members shouted.
"Look at how low he is!"
"Like a duck diving underwater!"
Madoka reached for the ball, but Sora was already spinning away, the basketball seemingly magnetized to his hand. Chucky tried to step in front, his bulk filling the lane—
Sora stepped back.
His small frame slipped through a gap that shouldn't have existed, threading between Chucky and Yasuhara like water flowing around stones. His height, his thin build—everything that made him seem weak—became weapons.
"He's like a duckling!" someone from the crowd shouted, and the name stuck immediately.
The Duckling.
Sora drove toward the basket, the rim suddenly in view. His hand went up for the layup—
THUD.
Yasuhara's foot shot out, catching Sora squarely in the groin.
Sora crumpled to the ground, the ball bouncing away. Pain radiated through his body as he curled up, gasping for air.
"Foul!" One of the girls' team members shouted. "That's a foul!"
"Yasuhara, what the hell!" Another voice called out.
But Yasuhara just smirked, looking down at Sora's writhing form. "Oops. My bad."
Momoharu walked over slowly, picked up the basketball, and stood over Sora. His shadow fell across the smaller boy's face.
For a moment, there was silence except for Sora's labored breathing.
Then Momoharu bounced the ball—hard—off Sora's back.
"Get up."
Sora gasped, the impact driving what little air remained from his lungs.
"I said, GET UP!" Momoharu's voice cut through the courtyard like a whip. "You wanted to play basketball? This is basketball at Kuzuryu High. No refs. No rules. No mercy." He kicked the ball toward Sora. "We're playing for ten minutes straight. First to ten baskets wins. And if you can't handle that, then quit right now."
Madoka stepped forward, her expression conflicted. "Hanazono-senpai, that's going too far—"
"Stand back, Yabuchi." Momoharu didn't even look at her. "This is about to get rough. If you can't stomach it, leave the court."
"I'm not leaving," Madoka said firmly. She looked at Sora, still on the ground, and her jaw set. "And I'm not going easy on him either. He said not to hold back, right?"
Sora heard all of this through a haze of pain. His groin throbbed. His back ached from where the ball had hit him. His earlier injuries from the thugs were screaming in protest.
But slowly—painfully—he pushed himself up to his knees.
Then to his feet.
The crowd fell silent, watching.
Sora bent down and picked up his basketball. His hands were shaking slightly, but his grip was firm. He looked at his shoes—his wings—and carefully retied the laces, making sure they were secure.
"Ten minutes," he said quietly. "No rules. First to ten baskets."
He straightened up and looked at Momoharu. Despite the pain, despite the impossible odds, Sora was smiling.
"Then let's really play basketball."
Something shifted in Momoharu's expression. Just for a second, the hostile mask cracked, and beneath it was something else—surprise? Respect? It vanished too quickly to tell.
"Check ball," Momoharu grunted, tossing it to Sora.
Sora caught it, took a deep breath, and passed it back. "Let's go."
The ball was in play.
This time, Momoharu didn't underestimate him. The moment Sora touched the ball, Momoharu was there, his defensive stance low and aggressive. Behind him, the other four players formed a zone, cutting off every angle.
Sora dribbled left, testing. Momoharu shadowed him perfectly.
He crossed over right. Momoharu stayed with him.
Mom, Sora thought as he dribbled, remember what you told me about being small?
A memory flashed—his mother demonstrating on their apartment's tiny balcony, using a broomstick as her opponent.
"Tall players can reach higher, but they have weaknesses. Their center of gravity is higher, making them slower to react. They have to bend down to reach you, which throws off their balance. Use that, Sora. Make them come to your level."
Sora suddenly stopped dribbling.
Momoharu, caught off guard by the lack of movement, hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
Sora stepped back—not a retreat, but a calculated movement. His feet set, his knees bent, his arms raising in one fluid motion.
"He's shooting!" Chucky yelled, rushing forward.
But it was too late.
Sora released the ball in a high, arcing shot. His form was unorthodox—a product of necessity rather than coaching—but devastatingly effective. The ball seemed to hang in the air for an eternity.
Momoharu and Madoka both jumped, their hands reaching—
SWISH.
The ball passed cleanly through the net without touching the rim.
The crowd exploded.
"HE SCORED!"
"A THREE-POINTER!"
"NO WAY!"
Sora landed lightly on his feet, his breathing heavy but his expression calm. "That's one."
Momoharu stared at the basket, then at Sora. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Your shooting range..."
"It's my wings," Sora said simply. "Being short means I had to develop a longer range earlier. If I can't shoot over people, I have to shoot from where they can't reach me."
Madoka's eyes were wide. "That step-back... and from that distance..."
"Alright, fine!" Chucky laughed, his earlier hostility giving way to genuine excitement. "Kid's got some game! Sora, right? When you join the team, you can be our errand boy! We'll get you a cute little manager uniform and everything!"
"Yeah!" Yasuhara added, though his enthusiasm seemed forced. "You passed the test, shrimp!"
"Shut up!" Momoharu's voice cracked like thunder. His face was flushed, his fists clenched. "The match isn't over! We've still got eight minutes left, and it's only one basket!" He pointed at Sora. "We're going all out now. No more messing around!"
The temperature on the court dropped several degrees. This time, when Momoharu checked the ball, his eyes held no mockery—only fierce determination.
The game continued.
Eight Minutes Later
Under the Kawasaki Bridge, Chiaki sat on the concrete stairs, staring at the empty spot where Tomo was supposed to meet him. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the water.
He heard footsteps approaching—multiple sets, dragging and heavy.
Chiaki turned to see his twin brother and the rest of the team trudging toward him. They looked exhausted—shirts soaked with sweat, faces red, breathing labored. Momoharu's usually pristine bleached hair was plastered to his forehead.
But what caught Chiaki's attention was their expressions. Not angry. Not frustrated.
They looked... relieved. Maybe even happy.
"She didn't show up, huh?" Momoharu said, slumping down beside his brother.
"Nope." Chiaki smiled softly. "Maybe next time."
"Bro..." Momoharu leaned back against the concrete, staring up at the bridge's underside. "That kid... Sora..."
"Let me guess," Chiaki said. "He won?"
Momoharu let out a long breath. "He didn't just win. He destroyed us. Every time we thought we had him figured out, he'd do something else. That speed, that shot, that ridiculous determination..." He laughed—genuinely laughed—for the first time in what felt like months. "He kept getting knocked down, kept taking hits, but he never stopped. Never gave up. Just kept scoring."
Chucky sat down heavily on another step. "Final score was 10-2. We only got two baskets the entire match."
"And those were because he was too exhausted to guard us properly near the end," Yasuhara added, wincing as he stretched his legs.
"Ten baskets in eight minutes," Madoka said quietly, joining them. Unlike the boys, she didn't look tired—just thoughtful. "Against five players. That shouldn't be possible."
"But he did it," Momoharu said. There was something in his voice—not quite admiration, but close. "The kid's got a monster heart."
Chiaki smiled wider. "So what are you going to do now?"
Momoharu was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood up, dusting off his pants.
"What I should've done a long time ago," he said. "Start playing real basketball again."
Back at the Court
Sora sat on the ground, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His school uniform was drenched in sweat. His lip had split open again, and he could taste blood. New bruises were already forming on his arms and legs where he'd been hit, shoved, and knocked down.
But his shoes—his wings—were still on his feet.
And the basketball was in his hands.
Madoka approached him, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. "Here. For your lip."
Sora looked up at her, surprised. "Thanks."
As he dabbed at the blood, Madoka crouched down beside him. "Are you okay? Nothing broken?"
"I'm fine," Sora assured her, though his body disagreed. "Just tired."
"That was..." Madoka searched for the right word. "Incredible. I've never seen anyone play like that."
Sora smiled weakly. "I just did what I had to do."
"Hanazono-senpai is really good, you know," Madoka said suddenly. "His defensive instincts, his court awareness—he's experienced. More than the others." She looked toward where the boys had left. "He and Chiaki-senpai... they both played basketball at an elite level in middle school. They were supposed to be stars here at Kuzuryu."
"What happened?" Sora asked.
Madoka's expression darkened. "That's... complicated. Maybe he'll tell you himself someday." She stood up, offering Sora her hand. "But I think you already figured something out that took me a long time to learn."
"What's that?"
"That under all that anger, Hanazono-senpai still loves basketball. He just forgot how to show it."
Sora took her hand, letting her help him to his feet. His legs wobbled, but he stayed upright.
The crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few students remained, whispering excitedly about what they'd witnessed. The legendary 5-on-1 game. The first-year who could fly.
The Duckling who had wings.
Sora looked at the basketball court—his court now, earned through sweat and determination—and felt something warm spread through his chest. This was just the beginning. The first day of his high school basketball career.
He had no idea how much harder the road ahead would be.
He had no idea about the powerhouse schools waiting to crush them.
He had no idea that lying dormant within him was something that would change everything.
But for now, Sora Kurumatani simply smiled, picked up his backpack, and limped toward the school building.
His wings had helped him fly today.
Tomorrow, they would help him soar even higher.
That Night
Sora collapsed on his futon in his small apartment, his body finally giving in to exhaustion. His muscles ached, his bruises throbbed, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled something in his back.
But he'd won.
He'd actually won.
As his eyes grew heavy and sleep pulled him under, Sora's last conscious thought was of his mother—of her smile, her encouragement, her absolute faith in him.
"You have wings, Sora," she'd said. "You just have to learn how to use them."
"I used them today, Mom," he whispered to the empty room. "Did you see?"
Sleep claimed him.
And as Sora Kurumatani drifted into unconsciousness, somewhere deep within him, something began to awaken.
A system.
A power.
A gift that would transform not just his game, but the entire future of Kuzuryu High basketball.
The Player's Road to Glory was about to begin.