Hearing Kise's playful jab, Kota grinned and fired back with a joke of his own. Having such strong teammates was a blessing—he could just casually toss the ball up and still bag an assist.
In the stands, the U-18 Japan National Team's starting point guard — No.1 — watched Kaijo's offense, his face clouded and unreadable. No matter how much he disliked Kota personally, he had to admit — it was a textbook play.
As much as his personality sucked, he had a keen eye for the game. After all, he was the national team's starting PG. Leaving aside Kise's absurd athleticism, Kota's drive-and-dish paired with Seirin's double team? Even from a pro's perspective, it was flawless.
No.1 frowned deeply, muttering under his breath, "I could've done that too."
Unfortunately, the Kaijo fan sitting next to him caught that murmur. Coincidentally, he was a hardcore Kaijo supporter.
Hearing it, the fan looked him up and down and let out a sneer,
"There's always someone who thinks they're better than everyone else, huh."
No.1 froze mid-scribble, realizing the guy was talking about him. With his short fuse, he immediately turned and glared, his towering frame over 190cm, expecting that alone to shut the guy up.
Instead, the Kaijo fan stared right back, completely unfazed, and even snapped,
"What're you staring at?"
No.1 was stunned. In a world where basketball was king, being a national team member usually meant everyone treated him with respect. Now a random fan was barking at him?
He clenched his fists, but in the end, held back. If the Basketball Association caught wind of him brawling in the stands during player scouting, a suspension would be the least of his worries.
Seeing No.1 stay silent, the Kaijo fan looked a little surprised. He had a few choice insults queued up, but swallowed them down, thinking:
"Maybe I was too harsh..."
A few minutes later—
"Hey, I didn't mean anything by it, you okay?"
The Kaijo fan scratched his head awkwardly. Sure, he had a quick temper, but he wasn't the kind to pick fights without cause. Now that he realized No.1 looked a bit shaken, a pang of guilt surfaced.
No.1 scowled but, seeing the man's apologetic face, he muttered,
"…I'm fine."
"Haha, good, good…"
The fan chuckled dryly, turning his eyes back to the court. Trying to smooth things over, he added cheerfully,
"Man, look at our Kaijo go! We're totally taking the championship this year!"
On the court, the third quarter was fully underway. Kota and Kise, no longer conserving energy, were spearheading an all-out assault. Seirin was holding their ground but still gradually falling behind—the gap widening to 12 points.
59-47, Kaijo in the lead. And climbing.
What the fan thought was a friendly chat only made No.1's face darker. He shut his notebook and sneered,
"Eh, they're okay. For high school level."
"You—!"
The Kaijo fan almost erupted again but caught himself.
"Can't scare this poor guy again" he thought. "Tall as he is, dude's got a soft stomach or something… but why's he talk like such an ass?"
After thinking it over, the fan softened his tone, speaking earnestly,
"Listen, kid, no harm admitting when someone else is good. Aiming high is fine, but don't get too full of yourself, yeah?"
"What?"
No.1 was stunned. He opened his mouth to explain but the fan waved it off,
"I get it, I get it. Young guys your age always think they're the best—been there myself! But trust me, that attitude won't get you far."
The fan's patronizing I'm just looking out for you expression nearly made No.1 explode.
"Uncle! I'll just tell you straight — I'm a starting point guard for the Japan U-18 National Team!"
He put extra emphasis on starting and continued smugly,
"I'm here scouting players for the national team! So when I say these guys are good—for high school—but still miles behind me? I know what I'm talking about!"
He glanced at Kise and Kagami dueling on the court, silently adding,
"Okay... those two are exceptions"
Then his eyes drifted to Kota orchestrating from beyond the arc, his mind filling with irritation:
"But that guy? Still not as good as me."
He expected the fan to be impressed. Instead, the guy chuckled and looked at him with the kind, almost pitying gaze one might give a special needs case.
"Right, right, starting PG, huh. Well, when you make the national team roster, let me know — I'll come watch your games, yeah?"
"Something's off here..."
No.1's brain stalled briefly before he realized — the guy didn't believe him!
"Uncle! I'm not lying! I am the starting PG for the national team!"
"Yeah, okay, enough already" the fan waved him off impatiently. He'd just been trying to ease his guilt for earlier—he didn't want to play make-believe with some tall kid.
"Besides, even if you are from the national team, why would they send you to scout players?"
No.1 froze. That was... a fair point.
Technically, this wasn't even his job. He'd pulled strings through a relative high up in the Association to get this gig. The Association barely paid attention to high school tournaments, only starting to scout from the semifinals onward. That's why it had been easy for him to claim the role—it wasn't even official.
"I'm just... really passionate about scouting talent…"
Even as he said it, he knew how weak it sounded. The fan's skeptical look remained.
Flustered, No.1 shoved his notebook at the fan.
"Look, look! I really am the national team starting PG! And I really am here to scout!"
The fan sighed but humored him, flipping through the notebook lazily. His expression grew more serious as he read.
No.1 peeked, inwardly smug:
"That's right. Be in awe, peasant. Beg me for an autograph, maybe I'll even toss in a selfie."
But that wasn't what happened.
The fan's expression hardened. He abruptly stood up, tossed the notebook back into No.1's lap, and stormed off.
No.1 hadn't even processed it when he faintly heard the guy mutter:
"What a nutcase"
"Wait—he thinks I'm crazy?!"
No.1: FUCK!.
He couldn't exactly chase after the guy and yell, "I'm not crazy!" That'd only make it worse.
Fuming, he reopened his notebook and vented his frustration into his scouting notes, oblivious to the fact that someone had quietly taken the empty seat next to him.
"Hm? You're...?"
A woman's voice interrupted his scribbling. He turned, thinking:
"A fan? Recognized me?"
"Hi there—oh! Masako-san?!"
His forced gentlemanly smile collapsed. Right in front of him was Araki — former Japan women's national team star. Everyone in the U-18 squad knew her.
Araki looked mildly surprised, but nodded in greeting. She vaguely recognized him, but didn't recall his name — whatever. She'd only sat here because her legs were tired, didn't expect to run into a familiar face.
In his excitement, No.1 accidentally dropped his notebook at her feet.
Out of courtesy, Araki bent down to pick it up and was about to hand it back.
"Don't! Don't touch that—no, don't open it! Wait—!"
His panic made Araki pause, her gaze sharpening.
"This a scouting notebook from the Association?"
No.1 didn't answer—he lunged to snatch it back.
A flash of steel stopped him cold—a katana pressed flat against his neck.
No.1: ???
Chaos rippled through the nearby spectators, people scrambling back. One second you're watching a basketball game, the next, someone's getting executed in the stands.
"Don't move. I'm using the back of the blade, but at this angle? You'll still end up in the ER" Araki said coolly.
Cold sweat drenched No.1's back. She was still as dangerous as ever — born from a Yakuza family, Araki wasn't bluffing. She would cut him.
With his life on the line, all No.1 could do was sit and watch helplessly as Araki flipped through his notebook, reading every word.
At first, her face was blank. But when she read Kota's evaluation, her pupils contracted. The blade dug slightly deeper into his neck—thankfully, it was still the dull side, or there'd have been blood on the seats already.
"Is this your opinion, or the Association's?" Araki's tone was calm, but the pressure was suffocating.
No.1 stammered, "I am just following the procedures, Masako-san! No one else, I swear!"
Araki frowned, about to press further, when security finally arrived — late as ever — batons in hand, eyeing her warily.
"Ma'am, please don't do anything rash! Put down the weapon! The police are on their way—no matter what this is about, killing him won't help! Don't throw your life away!"