Ace of the Bench

The gym erupted as the ball swished through the net. Even before the buzzer could echo, Yuuto snatched the rebound, the leather cool and firm under his fingers. Pivoting with his injured leg carefully loaded but steady, he surveyed the court like a general assessing a battlefield. Marcus sprinted alongside him to the wing, sneakers squeaking in perfect rhythm with the pounding of the hardwood.

Two rookies from Shikoku, Daigo Nishimura and Akira Hoshino, lunged toward him in tandem. Their timing was near flawless, anticipation sharp as a blade. Yet, Yuuto's mind and body were attuned to rhythm to the subtle gaps, the fractions of a second that revealed openings. He dribbled low, chest bent, right-left, slight hesitation, then spun past Akira with a fluid twist.

Thump. Thump. The ball hammered the polished floor, sending vibrations up his arms. The crowd seemed to pulse with each bounce, their energy almost tangible.

Marcus's voice cut across the court. "Yuuto! Here!" He sprinted to the corner, eyes scanning, ready for the darting pass. Yuuto's fingers flicked the ball with precision, and Marcus caught it mid-stride. With a graceful leap, he floated over Daigo's outstretched arm. The floater kissed the glass and dropped in, soft and clean.

The crowd erupted. Clack! Clack! Shoes squeaked, fans shouted, phones flashed in the bleachers. Seiryō's side surged forward, renewed energy coursing through each player.

But Shikoku's rookies were not fazed. Haruto Fujii and Kaito Mizuno had synchronized instinctively, passing with surgical accuracy. Every motion precise, eyes scanning, always a step ahead. Their fast-break was textbook clean, disciplined, sharp. The rookies were moving like predators, using every inch of court spacing, forcing Seiryō to scramble defensively.

Yuuto read them like a living blueprint. He anticipated Haruto's cuts, intercepted a chest pass at the top of the arc, and instantly pivoted. Step-back. Three-pointer. Swish. Clean. The net barely moved.

The gym erupted again. Students screamed. "Kai! Kai! Kai!" The cheerleaders waved in unison, foam fingers shaking. Even the King of the Court leaned forward, a faint green aura pulsing behind him, visible to those who watched closely.

Marcus caught the next pass from Yuuto, weaving between defenders, spinning midair to avoid Daigo's hand, laying the ball in with finesse. He and Yuuto exchanged a fleeting glance. Understanding. Communication without words. The spark of leadership ignited in Marcus once more, his command subtle but noticeable.

Shun and Kento ran in tandem, screening, cutting, reading the defense. Every player sensed Yuuto's rhythm now. He was orchestrating the offense, dictating pace and flow.

Shikoku adjusted, passing crisp, switching defenders, cutting off lanes. But Yuuto moved like water, flowing around obstacles. He stole a rebound, drove past one defender, passed another, kept his head up, analyzing. Sweat ran down his forehead, sting of exertion in his lungs, but his Technique that almost invisible sixth sense was beginning to emerge.

Boom. The ball slammed into Marcus's hands on the push. Marcus pulled up, jumper clean, swish. The scoreboard flickered: 61–47Still behind, but the momentum had shifted.

The crowd rose to their feet, chanting, stomping, a sea of energy surging with every possession. Teachers clutched clipboards, students screamed names, and the bleachers trembled as if the building itself was alive.

Yuuto sprinted back downcourt, knees burning slightly but moving with precision. He anticipated passes, created angles for teammates, and hustled for rebounds. Each touch, each dribble, each strategic glance from Marcus amplified his confidence. He was raw, unpolished, but the spark of a prodigious Technique was lighting up the floor.

Shikoku's rookies countered with textbook execution crisp passes, sharp cuts, disciplined spacing. Yet, Yuuto's awareness and instincts carved openings. He moved Marcus into lanes for dunks, set up Shun with pick-and-rolls, and even improvised mid-flight to pass in tight spots. The rookies' eyes flickered, a subtle hint of recognition this kid's different.

Another pass intercepted. Another three-pointer. Another roar from the crowd. Yuuto's focus never wavered. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but the System's guidance pulsed in his mind: Lead the offense. Close the gap. Dominate.

Marcus's voice cut through: "YUUUUTO! Watch Daigo!" He darted into space, setting up the next sequence. Yuuto dribbled low, feinted, a micro-step left, then spun right. The ball flicked into Marcus's hands. Another floater. Another swish.

The scoreboard blinked: 65–56. Double digits behind before, now down by only eight. The energy in the gym surged like electricity, hearts beating in unison with the squeak of sneakers.

Marcus's command grew subtle but tangible. He called out defensive switches, positioning, off-ball movement. He wasn't perfect, but he was rediscovering his leadership, empowered by Yuuto's presence as point guard.

The rookies faltered slightly, hesitation just a fraction of a second. Yuuto seized it. Dribble. Step-back. Three-pointer. Swish. Crowd went wild.

The tension was electric. Shikoku's rookies reset, refocusing, adjusting on the fly. Haruto ran to intercept, Kaito shadowed, Daigo stretched to block. But Yuuto's Technique was beginning to crystallize subtle footwork, explosive yet cautious, reading defenders like chess pieces.

Marcus glanced at him mid-run, eyes narrowing, comprehension dawning. He realized: Yuuto's not just a temporary solution he could change the game.

The scoreboard blinked: 68–63. A five-point gap now. Seiryō was clawing back, inch by inch.

Two minutes left. Every possession counted. The crowd screamed like a living organism, the gym vibrating with anticipation. Marcus positioned himself for a potential alley-oop. Shun and Kento cut hard, trying to create space. Yuuto's focus intensified he knew the rookies were disciplined, but he also knew they weren't used to a point guard with his vision.

He dribbled, feinted, eyes flicking up. Daigo lunged. Akira shadowed. Yuuto shifted, hesitated then spun, the step-back three flashing in his mind as the shot clock ticked down.

He rose and released. The ball arced high, hanging in the air as the gym held its breath.

Swish! Right through the net. Another three points.

68–66.

Shikoku clung to a slim two-point lead, but the momentum was shifting. At this pace, Seiryō looked ready to catch up and maybe even overtake before the third quarter ended.

The gym thundered with life. Each bounce of the ball echoed through the rafters, reverberating like the heartbeat of the court itself. Sweat-slicked sneakers squeaked against polished hardwood. The scoreboard flickered and glowed, every point a dagger in the back-and-forth struggle between Seiryō and Shikoku.

Yuuto Kai, limping slightly but determined, darted across the floor. His dribbles were measured, almost mechanical in their precision. Marcus Inoue barked orders, guiding his team, his eyes scanning every movement. Shunjin James sliced through the defense with wiry speed, and Riku Tanaka dominated the paint with calm, collected authority. Yet the game was teetering, each team clawing for dominance, the momentum swinging like a pendulum.

From the bench, one figure observed in a way no one else could. The King of the Court leaned forward, green aura pulsating subtly behind him, a living echo of his power and presence. Something about his calm, piercing gaze, the way the gym seemed to hum around him, made every movement on the floor feel magnified.

This kid… Yuuto Kai. The thought hit him like a spike to the chest. Yuuto wasn't flashy, not yet. But the rhythm of his dribbles, the precision in his passes, the way he calculated the floor like a living chessboard it reminded the King of every worthy opponent he'd ever faced.

He clenched his fists, feeling the fire inside ignite. His legs itched to move, his lungs to roar, his body to explode into action. Yet he stayed on the bench, restraining the instinct to leap into the fray prematurely.

I want in. I have to be on the court.

The sound of the ball bouncing, sneakers squeaking, and the crowd chanting was a symphony, a storm that resonated deep within him. Every possession, every shot, every subtle misstep of the rookies on the opposing team he cataloged them, analyzed them. His mind raced faster than any dribble.

From the stands, whispers spread. Students noticed the subtle glow of green, the intensity radiating from the king of the Court. Teachers exchanged glances, sensing something extraordinary was unfolding. Even some of the rookies, previously unaware, felt the shift, hearts racing in anticipation.

Yuuto, oblivious to the full weight of the presence behind him, dribbled and passed, adjusting his pace, threading gaps in the defense, initiating plays, his face a mask of determination. Yet the rookies of Shikoku countered with precision crisp passes, smart rotations, and sudden, unexpected drives. The scoreboard shifted, possessions flipped, and the back-and-forth energy of the game seemed almost alive.

The King of the Court's thoughts raced, each one a spark of fire. He's good, but how good? Can he push himself further? Can I push him further? His muscles tensed, fingers curling. The minutes melted like wax, each one fueling the intensity in his chest.

Four minutes. Three. Two. One.

The green aura behind him pulsed, almost in sync with his heartbeat. The gym seemed to lean closer, holding its collective breath. He flexed his fingers once more, feeling the texture of the jersey against his skin, the anticipation rising to a fever pitch.

This is it. Time to remind them why I am the King of the Court.

The players on the court were oblivious to the force waiting silently, poised to descend and challenge the very balance of the game. Every eye in the gym students, teachers, coaches subconsciously registered the tension, the impending moment that would change the rhythm of the match.

The King of the Court sat, silent, analyzing, calculating, waiting. Four minutes of game time, a sliver of reality in which he could ignite the court with every ounce of skill, intuition, and fire he possessed. Every dribble of Yuuto, every call of Marcus, every slice of Shunjin through the defense it all built the perfect storm.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tension coil into controlled energy. Soon, the referee's whistle would slice through the gym like a knife. Soon, the floor would be his arena. And when that moment came, every move, every thought, every flicker of energy he'd stored would explode into action.

For now, he waited.