The moment he saw the name, that broad, bear-like figure immediately flashed through Sakuragi's mind.
Hiroshi Morishige.
That first-year monster who had sent him flying with nothing more than a casual bump in the hallway.
Sakuragi instinctively rubbed his shoulder, as though the pain from that encounter still lingered there.
"Meihou Industrial…"
Sakuragi muttered under his breath, a blazing fighting spirit igniting in his eyes.
"That fat gorilla should be there too."
"If we run into them, that'd be perfect. This genius will definitely pay him back for that hit!"
The carriage door opened.
Several passengers wearing colorful Hawaiian shirts and carrying bags of all sizes stepped inside.
Their loud Kansai accents filled the carriage like they had brought their own sound system.
Kogure Kiminobu sighed and stood up, walking into the aisle to stretch his stiff legs.
Looking at the crowds on the platform outside, his emotions were complicated.
"Sannoh Industrial… Aiwa Academy…"
Kogure rested a hand on the back of a seat and gave a bitter smile.
"We really did fall straight into a den of monsters."
"So this is what the National Tournament is like?"
As vice-captain, the pressure weighing on him was no less than what Akagi carried.
This was Akagi's final chance.
It was also the final summer for all of them as third-years.
If they were eliminated here…
Just imagining the regret was enough to make it difficult to breathe.
"I really hope things go smoothly…"
Kogure murmured to himself.
Just then, a shadow suddenly fell over him.
A figure half a head taller than Kogure had appeared behind him without him noticing.
Hawaiian shirt.
Slicked-back hair.
A wave of oppressive pressure carrying the cheap scent of cologne washed over him.
Kogure had just begun to turn around when a thick, powerful arm naturally draped itself across his shoulders.
Like they were old friends meeting again.
But the strength in that hand was astonishing, as though it could crush Kogure's shoulder blade.
"Hey, four-eyes."
The man's voice was thick with a strong Kansai accent, casual and arrogant, carrying an overwhelming sense of superiority that was incredibly irritating.
"I heard you guys having quite the lively conversation just now."
"Something about a Group of Death, and Sannoh Industrial."
The man lowered his head until his face was beside Kogure's ear.
Hot breath brushed against Kogure's neck as his tone turned cold.
"What?"
"You country bumpkins from Kanagawa are a C-ranked team, aren't you?"
"Getting a little too confident and forgetting about Toyotama?"
Kogure's entire body stiffened.
The atmosphere inside the carriage instantly froze.
Akagi Takenori shot to his feet, his eyes cutting toward the uninvited intruder like blades.
The cola can spinning between Makino Juro's fingers stopped.
The oppressive atmosphere inside the carriage was almost enough to freeze everyone solid.
The fingers resting on Kogure's shoulder were thick, radiating undisguised malice.
Akagi stood up completely.
His 197-centimeter frame was like a moving wall, completely blocking the overhead light from the aisle.
The pressure belonging to Shohoku's captain descended like Mount Tai itself, crashing down without warning.
"Take. Your hand. Off."
Akagi's voice was deep, like thunder rumbling inside his chest, making everyone's eardrums tremble.
The man with slicked-back hair and his Hawaiian shirt hanging open at the collar turned his head.
A trace of contempt hung at the corner of his eyes, while his gaze was as vicious as a stray dog.
Not only did he refuse to let go, he squeezed even harder.
Kogure sucked in a sharp breath from the pain, his brow furrowing tightly.
"Oh?"
"Isn't this Takenori Akagi?"
The man's lips curled into a mocking smile as he spoke in a thick, grating Kansai accent.
"What?"
"You wanna have a little practice match right here on the train?"
"Go ahead."
"As long as you don't mind getting disqualified from the tournament."
Akagi clenched both fists.
The veins on his forearms bulged like fuses waiting to explode.
The powder keg was about to go off.
Then...
A series of hurried footsteps came from behind.
"Hey! Kishimoto! Have you lost your damn mind?!"
A middle-aged man in a tracksuit came rushing over, drenched in sweat.
He desperately grabbed the Hawaiian-shirted man's arm and dragged him backward.
"This is a public place!"
"Are you trying to ruin the tournament for us?!"
It was Toyotama High School's coach.
Kishimoto Minori, Toyotama's star power forward.
The man known as the "Osaka Scoring Machine."
Yet right now, he looked like nothing more than a street thug.
He disdainfully shook off the coach's hand.
"Tch…"
"What a buzzkill."
Kishimoto released Kogure's shoulder and exaggeratedly wiped his palm against his trouser leg.
Kogure rubbed his bruised, purpling shoulder.
His face was pale.
Yet he still pushed his glasses back into place, his eyes stubborn and unwavering.
He hadn't taken a single step back.
Coach Kanpei hurried forward and repeatedly bowed toward Akagi and Kogure, bending at a full ninety degrees.
"I sincerely apologize!"
"My player acted impulsively. Are any of you injured?"
Akagi looked down at Kishimoto from his towering height, his eyes as cold as though he were staring at a corpse.
That gaze immediately struck Kishimoto's pride.
He stiffened his neck and pointed at the Shohoku players, shouting:
"Coach, what are you apologizing for?!"
"These country bumpkins were the ones running their mouths first!"
"They don't give a damn about Toyotama!"
"I wasn't going to sit there and listen to that crap!"
Miyagi Ryota closed the magazine in his hands.
Smack!
He planted one foot on the seat.
He might not have had the height.
But he certainly had the presence.
With both hands in his pockets, he raised his chin even higher than Kishimoto's.
His eyes practically screamed:
I'm your daddy.
"Huh?"
"You really think you're something special, don't you?"
"I was just telling the truth."
"You guys aren't even within our field of vision."
"Got it?"
"What did you say?!"
"Idiot."
"I mean we haven't even bothered to look at you."
"Understand now, illiterate?"
Miyagi rolled his eyes so dramatically that it was almost painful, looking at Kishimoto with the patient, affectionate expression one might reserve for a complete idiot.
"You little brat…"
Kishimoto laughed in fury, the muscles in his face twitching.
He yanked his sports bag over, pulled out a dog-eared magazine, and slammed it onto the small table in front of Kogure.
BANG!
The magazine fell open to the latest issue of Basketball Weekly.
Kishimoto's thick finger stabbed forcefully at the glaring letter, his fingernail nearly tearing through the page.
"Open your damn eyes and read it!"
"This is the rating given by professional basketball experts!"
"Numbers don't lie!"
Everyone's eyes followed his finger.
On the page analyzing the teams participating in the National Tournament, there was a section dedicated to Shohoku High School.
Beneath the name was a block of bold black text that felt like a slap straight across everyone's faces:
[Overall Rating: C]
[Reasoning: A textbook one-man-core team.]
[Aside from center Takenori Akagi possessing near-national-level ability, the remaining positions have obvious weaknesses.]
[Rookie Kaede Rukawa and substitute Makino Juro have shown flashes of potential, but lack major-tournament experience.]
[Their victory over Kainan in the prefectural tournament was purely a matter of luck. They are advised to pray that they do not suffer an embarrassing defeat.]
And right beside it...
Under Toyotama High School was a glaring, crimson A.
And Sannoh Industrial was rated AA.
The entire carriage fell into dead silence.
Mitsui Hisashi leaned closer and glanced over the page.
The vein in his temple began throbbing violently.
"Those bastards…"
"What kind of bullshit is this?"
"Luck?"
"You're saying the three-pointers I made were because of luck?!"
END OF CHAPTER
The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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