"First-year, Class A, Igarashi Yuei. Position: Point Guard. Height: 180 cm. Weight: 140 pounds."
"Hmm…"
Too Academy's coach, Harasawa, stroked his chin as he studied the newcomer who had reported to the basketball club a full week after school had already started.
"Igarashi, from what I've heard, you transferred here from another school, correct?"
Harasawa tapped the desk with his finger, carefully choosing his words.
"If you don't mind, could you tell me why you transferred?"
"Of course, Coach."
To Harasawa's surprise, Igarashi didn't hesitate at all. His answer carried the casual air of someone explaining something ordinary. The calm tone made Harasawa relax a little.
"So I was overthinking it… This kid didn't transfer because of fights or conflict with teammates. Probably just because of his parents' work or a family move."
While speculating inwardly, Harasawa gestured for him to continue.
At the signal, Igarashi's lips curved into a faint smile. He spoke slowly:
"Because… Too needs me. So here I am."
"Oh, I see. So that's—wait, what!?"
Harasawa instinctively nodded, about to give his usual formal response, until the words finally registered. And when they did… there was no way to follow that up!
But Igarashi, oblivious to how shocking his words were, went on confidently:
"Ah, sorry, Coach, maybe I didn't explain clearly. What I mean is—Tōō's been missing a true playmaker. And that spot? It's exactly for someone like me."
"…Uh."
Harasawa was stunned. This guy spoke with so much confidence it radiated off of him. If this world had the slang for it, Harasawa would've instantly labeled him a 'walking ego ad'. Unfortunately, Harasawa's role as coach—and his professional restraint—prevented him from snapping "Get lost!"
So instead…
"Aomine! This one's all yours."
Aomine, who had been practicing passes against the wall, froze mid-motion:
"Hah?"
…
…
"Nice to meet you, Aomine-senpai. I look forward to working with you."
Despite acting a little cocky in front of the coach, Igarashi was still Japanese at heart. The ingrained respect for upperclassmen showed as he gave a proper bow, breaking the silence.
But Aomine, focused only on basketball, had zero interest in senior-junior formalities. He gave Igarashi a single glance, then turned back to his passing drills.
Seeing Aomine ignore him didn't bother Igarashi. He simply stood there quietly, watching.
Time passed—
"Hey, kid. You got nothing better to do?"
Aomine finally stopped and shot him an annoyed look.
Igarashi blinked, surprised by the reaction. Yet even after being brushed off, he showed no irritation. Instead, he nodded slightly and said:
"Aomine-senpai, when you're passing, you should focus more on snapping with your fingertips. Also, your body's too stiff—you're only moving your arms. Passing is a full-body skill."
Aomine, who had just been about to ignore him again, paused. The words caught him off guard. He turned, meeting Igarashi's confident gaze.
Without a word, Aomine tossed the ball over.
"Show me, then."
"Uh?"
Igarashi froze. But Aomine was already crouching into a catching stance, making the invitation clear.
"Well, Aomine-senpai… passing is a delicate skill. You only see the true strength of a passer in a real, high-level game."
He tapped his chest and grinned.
"Like me."
Aomine: "…"
"You really don't think you're laying it on too thick?"
Not getting the demo he asked for, Aomine scratched the back of his head in annoyance and started walking off.
That's when—
"Aomine-senpai, I've watched all of Too's games from last year."
The words made Aomine's steps falter, though he didn't stop.
"You lost to Kaijo in the Interhigh. You lost to Seirin in the Winter Cup. But in terms of pure ability, Aomine-senpai… I don't think you're weaker than anyone."
This time, Aomine halted completely.
Without turning around, his voice was casual, almost lazy:
"So what are you trying to say? If it's just empty flattery, save it."
Igarashi smiled. Looking straight at his back, he answered:
"Aomine-senpai, I came to Too because this team needs me. To be precise — you need me."
And then, with confidence shining in his eyes, he said:
"In the words of the Generation of Miracles — I'll be your shadow."
...
Back on the court. For the first time in his life, Aomine handed over the right to take the first shot. Crouched on the wing, his eyes were locked on the top of the arc, where Igarashi had just crossed half court with the ball.
At that moment, Kuroko — breaking his usual low-profile habit — suddenly stepped forward and shouted to his teammates:
"Watch out! That guy… is definitely not ordinary!"
As Aomine's former partner, the one he trusted most, Kuroko knew him better than anyone. Basketball to Aomine was like a slab of prime steak to a wild beast. If Aomine could resist devouring that "meat" and actually hand it over, there could only be one reason: what he gave up would return to him as an even tastier feast.
At the top of the arc, slowly approaching Izuki, Igarashi shook his head at Kuroko's warning.
"Not ordinary? I'm way too ordinary. So ordinary that just one look is enough to know exactly what I'm here to do."
The moment his words fell, Igarashi raised his hand and dished the ball straight to Aomine. The Seirin players froze for a second.
What the heck? After all that buildup, he's just a ball-delivery service for Aomine?
Izuki, being the closest defender, felt the sting most. He had activated Eagle Eye, scanned every angle, checked for screens, adjusted his stance perfectly — ready for Igarashi's attack… only for the guy to pass the ball away?
"…I don't even know where to start complaining."
Izuki muttered. But before he could settle his thoughts, he noticed something alarming — there was nobody in front of him anymore!
In that brief moment of confusion, he activated Eagle Eye again and spotted Igarashi already sprinting toward Aomine's side. But it was too late—Izuki couldn't rotate in time.
"Switch! Switch defense!"
Seirin's strength had always been their flawless help defense and rotations, unmatched in Japan. On the other side, Hyuga instantly read the play and stepped forward to delay Igarashi's cut, buying time for Izuki.
But Too Academy wasn't about to waste this golden opportunity.
Aomine immediately executed a hand-off pass to the cutting Igarashi and then bolted to the opposite side, leaving center stage wide open for his new teammate.
"Thank you, boss!"
Igarashi grinned, received the ball on the move, and exploded forward before Izuki could close the gap.
Switch defense often neutralizes an attacker, but it also exposes cracks.
Exploiting those gaps in a tight two-on-one, Igarashi ran a quick give-and-go, shredding Hyuga's lone defense. In an instant, the Seirin paint collapsed into a three-on-one! Standing alone at the rim was Kiyoshi, arms spread wide, eyes firm. Even if he was the last line, he wasn't about to let Too score freely.
It looked like a classic "tragic hero" scene—one man standing tall before being inevitably overwhelmed. But Seirin's defense wasn't weak because they lacked effort. It was because, while one defender was missing, an extra weapon had already been unsheathed.
Whoosh!
A sharp breeze passed Igarashi's ear. He widened his eyes, but before he could even react, the ball in his hands had vanished.
"Kagami-kun!"
A cool voice rang out. Turning his head, Igarashi saw a flash of orange streaking down the court—Kagami had already snatched the ball and was flying toward the frontcourt.
Luckily for Too, Aomine was there. Matching Kagami stride for stride, he chased him down and, just as Kagami gathered for his drive, Aomine smacked the ball out of bounds.
BEEP!
Too ball out of bounds. Seirin possession.
The referee's whistle was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.
That exchange between Too and Seirin had been so fast-paced it was dizzying.
Even Kota, who thought he had seen it all, couldn't help but sigh:
"What a shame these two teams had to meet in the round-robin."
From that single sequence alone, the level of play was so high it would have been worth the price of admission even in the championship finals.
Fortunately, the round-robin wasn't an elimination format. Even if one team lost, they'd have another chance. And in truth, three of the four advancing slots in the Tokyo prelims were practically reserved for Seirin, Too, and Shutoku.
What about the fourth? Sure, Yosen's in the other bracket, but here you had Kirisaki Daiichi with the infamous "bad boy" Hanamiya still around. Tomorrow's sports papers were going to have a field day.
"Former 'Uncrowned Kings' now bullied by three different Generation of Miracles back-to-back, ending the summer with three straight losses…"
Yikes. Poor Hanamiya.
Back to the game.Igarashi's first orchestrated offense was textbook-perfect—at least in the real world. In Kuroko no Basket, though, "textbook" plays were more like light reading material.
Too's next possession, Igarashi called for a pick-and-roll. But the moment he rounded his teammate, before he could even read the defense, Kuroko struck again!
Whistle!
Offensive foul, Too. Turnover.
"…What the hell??"
Igarashi, who had been trying to keep up an air of mystery and confidence, completely cracked. He hadn't even had the chance to prove himself, and already Kuroko had forced him into both a turnover and a foul.
"Damn it. If this keeps up, everything I said to Aomine-senpai and coach will just sound like a bad joke!"
As he jogged back on defense, his fists clenched tighter, his face growing impatient.
On the bench, Kota caught the change in expression and smiled.
"Still just a first-year rookie. This is probably his first time going up against someone like Kuroko."
Players like Kuroko Tetsuya, whose abilities were so unorthodox, were a nightmare matchup for cerebral point guards like Igarashi. His ability to disappear made him a wild card that could shatter any carefully laid strategy.
Kota knew that firsthand. Back in his first year, he too had suffered under Kuroko's presence. Fortunately, Seirin then was far less polished, so it hadn't been too threatening. Now, though, Kota had long since adapted.
The game pressed on, Seirin on offense. Too's players were individually gifted—exactly what Coach Harasawa envisioned. But talent without chemistry only carried you so far.
A dazzling series of screens freed up Izuki, who found Kuroko waiting in the paint. Kuroko quickly dished to Hyuga, who had just shaken loose off Kagami's screen for a wide-open three.
Elbow tucked, release smooth, stamina fresh — Hyuga's three-point stroke was no weaker than even Mibuchi's, one of the Uncrowned Kings.
Swish!
Seirin three-pointer!
"Nice shot, Hyuga-senpai!"
"Keep it up!"
"Let's get another stop!"
The Seirin bench was on fire.
Barely a minute into the game, Seirin was already up 5–0. For them, it was a rare perfect start.
Hearing the cheers, Igarashi frowned tighter. Taking the inbound, he dribbled up the floor. Looking at Seirin's deceptively loose formation, he felt suffocated—like he couldn't find any openings at all.
Damn it… where is he?
He scanned for Kuroko, but the shadow had already perfected his invisibility. For a rookie without special vision like Eagle Eye, locating him in advance was nearly impossible.
Afraid of another steal, Igarashi hesitated, unwilling to initiate. The shot clock ticked down.
With single digits left, panic flashed across his face. Should he attack? But—
"Pass it!"
Aomine's sharp bark snapped him out of it. On the wing, half-shielding Kagami, Aomine extended his arm.
Realizing too late, Igarashi lobbed the ball over. Seven seconds remained.
Aomine caught it, glanced at the clock. Kagami's defense was suffocating, but it couldn't stop him.
One jab step, explosive drive, Kagami left behind.
Feeling Kagami's pressure at his back, Aomine didn't rush the layup. Instead, he rose smoothly into a mid-range jumper—something he rarely used. Kagami could only watch as Aomine stretched in midair and flicked his wrist.
Swish!
Too, two points.
"Hey, rookie."
Walking back, Aomine's face carried no joy. He stepped up to Igarashi.
"As a first-year, I'll cut you some slack for now. But—"
His hand pressed firmly on Igarashi's shoulder, eyes glaring past him at Seirin.
"Remember their faces. Find a way, your way, to beat them. Because when the real games start, if you show this kind of timid crap again—expect me to knock you flat."
With that, Aomine turned and jogged back on defense.
Igarashi stared at his back, feeling the weight of his hand still lingering on his shoulder. Slowly, his fists clenched, his eyes steeled.
From there, Seirin continued to dominate both ends, proving they were no longer a fluke. Too, meanwhile, didn't collapse like last year. Even as Kuroko wrecked Igarashi's setups, they didn't just dump everything onto Aomine.
On the bench, Harasawa lounged casually, twirling his hair. He wasn't aiming for victory today—he was gambling on the future.
Final buzzer. 97–78. Seirin took the opening round-robin win.
"Using a round-robin to train your rookies, huh? Too sure has guts."
Kota smirked, eyes drifting toward Aomine, towel draped over his neck, silent. For once, even in defeat, the arrogant ace hadn't tried to play the hero. Instead, he treated this loss as a chance to harden his teammate.
"When the real tournament comes, they'll be on another level."
Kota's tone was calm, but full of certainty.
Igarashi might just be the missing piece Too needed — a true floor general, their final championship puzzle. If they could bring him up to speed, Too Academy would absolutely be title contenders.
On the sideline, Araki quietly observed as the referee stepped up to announce the next match of the Tokyo round-robin.
"Second match of the round-robin—Shutoku versus Seirin!"