Late at night.
Half the lights in the gym had been turned off, leaving patches of shadow and light scattered across the court.
One by one, the players had dragged their exhausted bodies out and gone home.
Only Makino Juro remained, quietly picking up the basketballs strewn across the floor.
"Juro."
A warm, steady voice came from the doorway.
Coach Anzai adjusted his reflective glasses, holding his ever-present teacup. His round face carried that familiar, benevolent smile—like a living Buddha.
"Coach, you're still here?"
Makino Juro tossed the last ball into the cart and dusted off his hands.
Coach Anzai walked slowly onto the court, his gaze sweeping over the damp floor—as if he could still see the boys fighting with everything they had just moments ago.
"I'm surprised," he said, looking at Makino Juro with quiet curiosity.
"With your personality, I thought you'd have found somewhere to nap… or dumped all the training on Akagi."
Makino Juro chuckled, grabbing the half-finished bottle of cola and taking a long swig.
The carbonation fizzed in his throat, cutting through the lingering heat, making him squint in satisfaction.
"Yeah, it is a hassle."
"Teaching Sakuragi—that single-celled organism—burns through brain cells. And Miyagi? Stubborn as hell. If you don't yell at him, he won't listen."
He leaned lazily against the equipment rack, eyes unfocused.
"Then why do it?" Coach Anzai asked softly, narrowing his eyes behind the lenses.
"You're giving them everything you've got… even tailoring individual growth paths just to counter Kainan."
"That level of tactical vision—even professional coaches might struggle to match it."
"You don't seem like an ordinary high school player."
Makino Juro paused.
He turned to look at the former national player—the legendary "White-Haired Devil."
At this moment, Coach Anzai's gaze was sharp enough to pierce straight through him. There wasn't a trace of his usual mascot-like demeanor.
Makino Juro fell silent for a few seconds.
He couldn't exactly say: I transmigrated. I have a system. I know the script.
"Coach."
He crushed the empty soda can in his hand with a series of crisp crunches.
"Sometimes, I don't feel like a protagonist at all."
"I want to slack off. I want to lie flat. I want to just pass the ball and call it a day… hell, sometimes I even want to take a nap in the middle of a game."
He let out a self-deprecating laugh.
"But there are times when I'd rather watch them grow stronger."
"Some people might not get it. They'd say I'm just playing support."
"Like I have the strength to solo the dungeon, but instead I'm dragging a bunch of newbies along to grind levels."
Coach Anzai listened quietly, not interrupting.
Makino Juro lifted his head.
His gaze passed through the high windows of the gym, toward the dark night sky dotted with a few sparse stars.
Images flickered through his mind—clear as film.
Akagi, stubbornly stepping onto the court with a swollen ankle…
Mitsui, kneeling on the floor, crying, "Coach, I want to play basketball!"…
Miyagi, enduring beatings from delinquents without fighting back, all for Ayako…
Rukawa, whose world consisted of nothing but sleep and basketball…
And Sakuragi Hanamichi—the fool so pure that for the sake of a single girl, Haruko, he threw his entire life into basketball…
Back when he read the manga in his previous life, the regret and passion he felt from behind a screen—
Now, it flowed beside him in real, tangible form.
They weren't just drawings anymore.
They were flesh and blood—laughing, shouting, craving barbecue, bickering like brothers.
"But…"
Makino Juro straightened, looking out over the empty court.
As if those boys—exhausted yet still shining—were still standing there.
His eyes softened in a way they never had before.
There was even a faint trace of affection.
"Because they… are my youth."
(For those readers who don't understand ♡)
For a moment—
Coach Anzai froze.
He looked at the boy in front of him—usually lazy, yet more reliable than anyone when it mattered.
Barely a teenager.
And yet, when he said those words, they carried the clarity and depth of someone who had lived through countless years.
Like a traveler who had crossed time itself.
"Youth… huh."
Coach Anzai murmured, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
"Hohoho…"
His signature laugh echoed again as he patted his round belly.
"Young people these days are truly remarkable."
"Entrusting Shohoku to you may be the best decision I've ever made."
Makino Juro waved his hand dismissively, slipping back into his usual laid-back self as he yawned.
"Don't, Coach. Seriously, don't put a halo on my head."
"Akagi's still the captain. I'm just a benchwarmer trying to coast."
"Don't give me anything too tiring—I'm still growing, you know."
With that, he grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and strolled toward the exit—his silhouette carefree and effortlessly cool.
"I'm heading out. Get some sleep, Coach. Staying up late gives you wrinkles."
Watching Makino Juro disappear into the night—
A glint of light flashed across Coach Anzai's glasses, hiding the sharpness in his eyes.
"Kainan…"
"Maki Shinichi…"
"This time, you might be facing the most terrifying Shohoku in history."
…
A few days later.
Kanagawa Prefectural Gymnasium.
The opening match of the final round-robin:
Shohoku High vs. Kainan University Affiliated High.
Even before the game began, the arena outside was already packed—waves of heat and noise surging like a storm.
"Look! It's Kainan!"
A wave of screams erupted from the crowd.
A bus slowly pulled in, its doors opening.
The kings in purple and gold stepped out one by one.
Maki Shinichi led the way, jacket draped over his shoulders, expression solemn, skin dark.
An overwhelming, imperial aura radiated from him—as if he came with his own background music.
Jin Soichiro, Kiyota Nobunaga, Takasago Kazuma…
Every name represented the pinnacle of Kanagawa.
"Akagi! Today I'm gonna dunk all over that cocky freshman!"
"I'll smash it right on his head!"
Kiyota waved his fists, bouncing like a hyperactive wild monkey.
Maki said nothing, his gaze fixed on the opposite entrance.
There—
A group clad in red uniforms approached.
Akagi Takenori led the way, his ankle wrapped thickly in bandages.
Yet every step he took was firm—like a moving mountain.
Beside him—
Rukawa Kaede, expressionless, eyes cold as ice.
Mitsui Hisashi rolled his wrist, a confident smile playing at his lips—the pride of a shooter.
Miyagi Ryota chewed gum, hands in his pockets, looking laid-back—but his eyes were sharp as blades.
Sakuragi Hanamichi walked with his chin high, looking down on everyone through his nostrils.
"The genius has arrived—mortals, make way."
And at the very back...
Makino Juro.
Headphones on, hands behind his head, eyes half-closed.
He looked less like someone about to play a finals match—
And more like he was out on a casual stroll.
The two teams met head-on at the entrance of the arena.
The air froze instantly, thick with tension—like it could ignite with a single spark.
Maki stopped.
His gaze passed over Akagi and locked directly onto Makino Juro, heavy and tangible.
Juro seemed to sense it. He took off his headphones and lifted his eyelids.
Their eyes met.
No dramatic sparks—
Just a calm surface hiding a raging storm beneath.
"Had enough rest?" Maki asked, his voice deep and commanding, laced with scrutiny.
Juro smiled, flashing a row of white teeth—harmless on the surface.
"Yeah. Slept great."
"Got plenty of energy now… to drag you down from that broken throne."
Maki's eyes sharpened. A cold smirk formed, his aura spilling over with dominance.
"Big talk. Let's see if you can back it up."
"Don't come crying to your mom later."
Makino Juro shrugged, a casual arrogance flickering in his eyes.
"Don't worry. I've already prepared tissues for you."
With that, the two teams brushed past each other.
Akagi took a deep breath and turned to his teammates.
Not a single trace of fear in their eyes.
Only battle intent—overflowing after hellish training. A bloodthirsty gleam.
"Let's go!"
He pushed open the doors of the arena.
Blinding light flooded in.
The roar of the crowd crashed over them like a tidal wave.
This—
Was the stage of the finals.
This...
Was their battlefield.
"SHOHOKU!!!"
"VICTORY!!!"
The roar shook the heavens.
And thus, Shohoku's underdog legend—
Officially began.
END OF CHAPTER
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The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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