While the courtyard buzzed with the chaotic energy of a dozen over-caffeinated clubs, the Northwood High gymnasium was as quiet as a tomb.
The air was cool, smelling of old wood, floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of decades of sweat. High above, sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced over the polished floor. But the light barely reached the rafters, where the school's championship banners hung in the gloom.
Most were faded, their felt letters peeling. "District Finalists 1998." "Prefectural Quarter-Finals 2003."
And then, right in the center, there was the one that still looked immaculate, as if protected by its own aura. It was simple, gold on maroon.
"NATIONAL CHAMPIONS - 1998"
No names. No stats. Just the fact.
Coach Evans sat on the bottom bleacher, staring at that banner. It was a daily ritual for him, and it never got less painful. He wasn't just on that team; he'd been the sixth man, the one who'd watched from the bench as his best friend, Kenichi Ishikawa, led them to that impossible victory.
He took a long, pained sip from a "World's Best Coach" mug. The coffee inside was thick, burnt, and tasted like battery acid. It perfectly matched his mood.
The only sound in the vast, empty space was the rhythmic thud... thud... thud... of a single basketball.
Jin Tanaka, the team's 2nd-year captain, was on the free-throw line, his body a wire of coiled energy. He wasn't just bouncing the ball; he was attacking the floor with it.
Next to the coach, looking less like a high school student and more like a refrigerator in a jersey, sat Takeda Hiroshi. The 3rd-year center was motionless, his huge hands resting on his knees.
SCREEEEEEECH!
A blast of megaphone feedback, so loud it echoed even inside the gym, made all three of them wince. It was followed by a muffled, cracking shriek of "NATIONALS THIS YEAR!"
Takeda let out a heavy sigh, his voice a low rumble. "That booth is embarrassing, Coach. Ryota is going to scare off any kid who actually knows how to play."
"It's a 'character-building exercise,' Takeda," Coach Evans grumbled, taking another sip. "And besides, the real players know to come here. Anyone who actually wants to join a winning team wouldn't be swayed by... whatever that is."
"Are we a winning team, Coach?" Takeda asked, not out of malice, but pure, heavy honesty.
Evans didn't answer. He didn't have to. The memory of last season's first—and only—playoff game was seared into all their minds. They hadn't just lost to Seiyo Academy; they had been dismantled. The final score was 112 to 45. It was a public execution. Jin had fouled out in the third quarter from trying too hard, and Takeda had looked like a man trying to stop a flood with a paper towel.
Jin finally stopped bouncing the ball, the sudden silence deafening. "We're better this year, Takeda-san. I can feel it."
"We're faster, Jin," Takeda corrected, his gaze fixed on the hoop. "Not 'better.' We still run around like chickens. We still don't have a plan."
"We have a plan!" Jin argued, spinning the ball in his hands. "We run the floor! We play hard defense! And don't worry, we've got a good crop of 1st-years coming in. My little brother, Kaito, is finally here. He's... uh... he's fast."
Coach Evans let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. "Fast. Yes. He is very fast, Jin." He rubbed his temples, the pressure behind his eyes starting to throb. "He's also got all the court-awareness of a startled bird. I watched him practice with you this summer. He ran into Takeda. Twice. Takeda was standing still."
Takeda nodded grimly. "He ran into me. My knee still feels it."
"He just needs polish! He's got heart!" Jin said, his voice rising with his trademark, fiery optimism.
"Heart is great. I love heart," Evans shot back, his patience wearing thin. "But 'heart' is how you get charging fouls and 112-to-45 losses. We have heart. We have Takeda's size. We are missing a brain, Jin. We don't have a single player who can run the floor, who sees the pass before it's open."
The pressure was mounting. Evans could feel it. The Principal had cornered him last week, all fake smiles and sharp words. "Enrollment is down, Coach. The alumni... they're concerned. They remember the 'glory days' and wonder why the program isn't what it used to be."
Evans knew what that meant. "The 'glory days'" meant that one, single team from 1998. "The alumni" meant the Old Boys' club who had played with Kenichi. And "concerned" meant "we're cutting your budget and giving it to the girls' team, because they actually win."
He was coaching a ghost. He was haunted by his own memories.
"That's why this is our year! I can feel it!" Jin insisted, slamming the ball on the floor. "We have to make a run. This is your last year, Takeda-san. We can't let you graduate with another losing season! We can't!"
Takeda clenched his massive fist, his eyes finally lifting to stare at the banners. "The legacy... We have to protect it."
Evans looked at them—the unstoppable heart and the unmovable body. They were great pieces. But they weren't a team. He stood up, his knees cracking in protest, and looked up at that lone championship banner.
"We don't just need to protect it, Takeda. We need a team like ours back in the day. A team that played smart. A team that had... him." He was thinking of Kenichi, of his impossible passes, of his ice-cold leadership.
"We don't have a leader like that, Coach," Takeda said quietly.
"I know," Evans said. He turned his back on the banner. "Heart is great, Jin. But that '98 team... it had a brain. We're missing a brain."
He looked at the gym doors, where a few nervous-looking freshmen, Kaito Tanaka among them, were starting to gather for the assembly.
"We need a miracle," Evans whispered to himself.
BRRRRRIIIIINNNGGGG!
The sharp, jarring sound of the first school bell echoed through the gym, signaling the start of the opening assembly.
"Let's go," Evans sighed, shoving his mug into the pocket of his windbreaker. "Time to see if our 'miracle' is a five-foot-nothing freshman who thinks a crossover is something you do at a traffic light."
He shuffled toward the exit, the picture of a man already defeated. Jin and Takeda shared a look of grim determination, then followed their coach, leaving the gym to its ghosts.