The bathroom in Mito's house was filled with a faint, clean scent of soap.
Yohei stood before the sink, his hands braced against the cool ceramic edge, knuckles slightly white. He looked up, his gaze meeting his reflection in the mirror.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
In the mirror was a face both incredibly familiar and utterly strange.
Familiar was the outline belonging to "Mito Yohei"—neat black short hair, just the right length, neither overly obedient nor unkempt. His features were delicate, lines soft, combining to create an inherently gentle and reassuring aura. His eyebrows weren't as bold and sweeping as Sakuragi's, but they were well-defined, and beneath them were a pair of… eyes that currently expressed an extremely complex emotion.
These eyes were unfamiliar.
The original owner's eyes should have been clear, with the unique brightness of youth, a hint of precociousness that saw through worldly affairs, and an occasional flash of playfulness. Now, these eyes held too much—shock, bewilderment, a sense of detachment brought by transmigration, and deeper still, the caution and calmness of "Lin Mo" after being tempered by society.
Two entirely different soul characteristics intertwined and clashed on this fifteen-year-old face, creating a peculiar sense of contradiction. This made a face that should have been purely youthful acquire an indescribable depth.
"Is this… me?"
Yohei (with Lin Mo's consciousness in control) murmured to himself, his voice echoing slightly in the small bathroom. He reached out, his fingertips trembling as they touched the mirror's surface. The cool sensation from his fingertips confirmed that this was not an illusion.
His fingertips slowly traced the contours of his reflection—a smooth forehead, a straight nose bridge, slightly thin but well-defined lips, and finally, his jaw.
The skin felt real and elastic, full of youthful vitality. There was no dullness or eye bags from long nights, no roughness left by computer radiation. This was a face so clean it felt somewhat luxurious to him, a former corporate drone.
He leaned in closer, carefully observing his pupils. In the black irises, the faint light of the bathroom ceiling lamp was reflected, as were the turbulent waves deep within his soul.
"Mito Yohei… fifteen years old…"
He repeated the identity softly, trying to more thoroughly integrate the body's instinctive memories with "Lin Mo's" consciousness. Fragmented information naturally surfaced: graduated from Wakaba Junior High, about to enter Shohoku High School as a first-year, parents working away from home long-term, living alone in this small apartment, and having a few close friends with whom he could entrust his life (or perhaps, in the eyes of elders, they were just idle youths)—led by that red-haired idiot.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the youth in the mirror also showed a slightly stiff smile. It was no longer the professional facade or weary helplessness of his previous life, but an expression natural to this age, born from the movement of muscles. However, this smile lacked the original owner's innate nonchalance, having a bit more tentativeness and scrutiny.
He withdrew his hand and began to take off the T-shirt he had worn back from the hospital.
His movements were a bit awkward at first, but the body's muscle memory quickly took over, smoothly pulling off the clothes and tossing them into the laundry basket nearby.
In the mirror, a fifteen-year-old boy's body was revealed.
The frame was well-proportioned, and the width of his shoulders already showed potential for future growth, no longer as slender as a child's. Muscle lines were smooth and clear, covering his arms, chest, and abdomen; they were not the exaggerated bulk deliberately sculpted in a gym, but a lean and powerful physique accumulated over time (perhaps from fighting, perhaps from running and playing), containing agility and explosiveness.
His skin was a healthy wheat color, scattered with a few small scars and bruises—these were the badges of "Mito Yohei" and the Sakuragi Legion, recording their "achievements" in the streets and the thoughtless play of youth.
Yohei's gaze fell on his left arm, where there was a shallow, already healed scratch. Memory fragments told him that this was left last month when he was helping Takamiya get rid of some persistent seniors during a "discussion."
"Truly… a passionate youth," he murmured, his tone complex.
In his previous life, his body was in a sub-healthy state; long hours of desk work led to stiff shoulders and neck, lumbar muscle strain, and declining eyesight. But the body before him was like a newly manufactured, high-performance precision instrument, yet to be fully developed, full of infinite possibilities.
He took a deep breath, feeling his chest expand, his lungs filling with fresh air, bringing an unprecedented sense of clarity.
However, this body needed to be "re-tamed."
His core advantage was his basketball philosophy and tactical mind from the future. But even the most advanced concepts needed a body that could perfectly execute them as a vessel.
He raised his hands and held them before his eyes.
His fingers were long, knuckles distinct, and there were some thin calluses on the edges of his palms; the feel for the ball should not be bad. But these hands were more often used for clenching fists than for dribbling and shooting.
He tried to make a virtual behind-the-back dribble motion.
The movement was a bit stiff, his wrist rotation not flexible enough, and the virtual landing spot of the ball seemed blurry. This body possessed good coordination and reflexes (honed from fighting), but it lacked the refined muscle memory specifically for basketball, built through countless repetitions.
"Dribbling… shooting… footwork…"
He softly recited the keywords of basketball fundamentals. In his previous life, as an avid theoretician and amateur, he had a basic grasp of basketball techniques, but only to the extent of "knowing how." He wasn't bad on the street courts, but far from professional standards. Now, he needed to combine his former "theoretical knowledge" with this body's excellent "athletic talent" for a systematic, scientific re-shaping.
His gaze shifted downwards, falling on his legs.
The smoothly contoured thigh muscles contained considerable explosive power. His calf Achilles tendons were of average length but looked strong enough. These legs should provide a good foundation for speed and jumping.
He tried an in-place jump.
His body lifted lightly off the ground, the height… perhaps just barely enough to touch the net? Or maybe not even the net? He needed actual measurements.
"Height… probably between 1.72 and 1.73 meters," he estimated. For a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy, this wasn't short, but on the basketball court, especially against the monsters he might face in the future, it offered no advantage.
"There's still room to grow," he encouraged himself. Adequate nutrition, scientific stretching, and jumping exercises should still stimulate growth. His goal was to grow at least a few more centimeters before entering the high school league.
He turned around, his back to the mirror, then twisted his head to look at his reflection's back.
The outline of his shoulder blades was clear, his waist tucked in, forming the prototype of an inverted triangle. His core strength looked good, which was crucial for confrontation in defense and stability in offense.
He did a few simple stretches, feeling the extensibility of his muscles and ligaments. Very good, very flexible, far exceeding his rusty body from his previous life.
"Flexibility, agility, core strength… the foundation is excellent," he analyzed calmly, as if evaluating a tool. "The drawbacks are crude specialized basketball techniques, a need to reshape his shooting form, unknown stamina reserves, and height as a weakness."
Strengths and weaknesses were clearly laid out in his mind.
He knew he couldn't become a scoring machine like Rukawa Kaede, soaring and evading, nor could he be an unshakeable pillar in the paint like Akagi Takenori. His path was destined to be different.
He wanted to be the brain on the court, the one who controlled the game with wisdom and insight.
A point guard with a basketball philosophy beyond his era, tenacious defense, accurate shooting, and elusive passing? Or an all-around Swingman?
A plan gradually formed in his mind.
First, restore and strengthen basic physical fitness. Running, shuttle runs, core strength training.
Second, reshape his shooting. In his previous life, he had studied the most scientific shooting dynamics, analyzing countless videos of Curry, Thompson, and others. He needed to adjust this body's hand form and force application to the optimal mode. This would be a long and tedious process.
Third, ball feel. Several hours of dribbling practice daily, developing both hands equally, and ball-handling ability under various interferences.
Finally, and most importantly, observation and learning. Observe the basketball style of this era, observe what those future legendary players are like now, learn their strengths, and think about how to use future concepts to counter them.
He put his clothes back on and tidied his collar.
When he looked in the mirror again, much of the confusion and shock had faded, replaced by a firm, eager glint.
The youth in the mirror still had that delicate and gentle face, but the soul within was entirely different.
He was no longer Lin Mo, who could only analyze basketball through a data screen, nor was he merely Mito Yohei, who existed solely as Sakuragi Hanamichi's protector.
He was a "reborn" person carrying future memories, a "challenger" about to step into the Shohoku basketball gym.
He reached out and gently touched his reflection in the mirror, as if making a silent vow.
"From today, I am Mito Yohei."
"With these hands, I will grasp the basketball, and I will grasp our future."
"The National Tournament… wait for me."
With that, he turned, twisted the faucet, and vigorously washed his face with cold water. The icy sensation stimulated his skin, making him even more awake.
He looked up, water droplets sliding down his cheeks. The youth in the mirror had sharp eyes, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly upwards, with a hint of confidence.
A brand new journey began with fully accepting this body and resolving to forge it stronger.
He pushed open the bathroom door and walked out. The sunlight outside the window was just right, spilling brightly onto the living room floor.
Mito Yohei's basketball life officially began. And the first step was to find that red-haired "genius," to guide him, and to guide himself, down the path to the top of the nation, a path filled with sweat and glory.