"eting gift?"
A strange system ssage flashed by:
Miyagi froze for a mont, then pointed at himself.
"Mine?"
"Quit talking and follow ."
Makino Juro yawned and walked straight out the door.
Sakuragi Hanamichi imdiately followed, patting Miyagi on the shoulder with the air of a seasoned veteran.
"Let's go, Ryo-chan."
"Master might be lazy, but when it cos to spending money—he's got real boss energy."
…
Half an hour later.
They arrived at the sa luxury sports store Makino Juro had bought.
Miyagi Ryota held a pair of red-and-black Converse Conquest sneakers in his hands, fingers trembling slightly.
He had seen this pair countless tis in magazines.
His dream "girl-picking battle shoes."
"Y-You're really giving these to ?"
Miyagi looked up at Makino Juro, who was sprawled on a VIP sofa drinking cola, his throat suddenly dry.
"Yeah."
"Consider it an advance on your salary."
"Just pass more good balls in future gas—that'll be your repaynt."
Makino Juro didn't even bother opening his eyes.
Miyagi looked down at the shoes in his hands.
Then at Sakuragi beside him, who wore an expression that clearly said I knew it.
For so reason…
Being this dead-fish-eyed guy's disciple…
Didn't seem so bad after all.
"…Thanks, Master."
Miyagi's voice was quiet, awkward.
"Louder! Didn't you eat or sothing?!" Sakuragi barked from the side.
"Shut up, you red-haired monkey!"
…
By the ti they left the store, it was already evening.
Right on cue, their stomachs began to rumble.
The three of them sat down at a roadside ran stall.
Steaming bowls were placed in front of them, white mist blurring their vision.
Maybe it was the comfort from carbs.
Or maybe it was guilt from receiving such an expensive gift.
Sohow, the topic drifted to Miyagi's crush on Ayako.
Miyagi slowly opened up.
"Actually…"
He stirred his noodles with his chopsticks, his gaze turning distant—like a weathered poet.
"Ayako… she doesn't even look at properly."
At those words, Sakuragi—who had been slurping noodles loudly—froze.
The usual energy in his eyes instantly turned into shared sorrow.
He set his bowl down, voice trembling.
"I understand…"
"Haruko… she fell for that basketball guy, Oda…"
"This is already my fiftieth rejection."
Miyagi stared at him in shock.
"Fifty tis?!"
"Yeah." Sakuragi nodded solemnly. "What about you?"
"Just one girl… but I've been rejected ten tis," Miyagi sighed, raising one finger.
The air suddenly grew heavy.
Two boys who had been full of spirit just monts ago…
Now looked like drenched puppies, huddled together under the dim ran stall lights.
"Waaah! So you're a fellow sufferer!"
"Red hair—no, Hanamichi! I feel your pain!"
"Ryota! We have to stay strong!"
They grabbed each other's hands, crying ssily.
It was like tragic background music had started playing.
Makino Juro sat beside them, watching the scene with a twitching mouth.
Silently, he moved his bowl a little farther away—just in case sothing unidentifiable splashed in.
"…Hey."
"The noodles are getting soggy."
He couldn't help but interrupt.
The crying stopped instantly.
Four red, swollen eyes turned toward him at the sa ti.
Their gazes carried an intense, desperate need for validation.
"Master!"
Sakuragi sniffed. "You've been rejected a lot too, right?"
Miyagi leaned closer.
"Yeah, Master!"
"A guy like you who sleeps all day and looks completely unmotivated—no way girls like you, right?"
"Co on, say it! Make us feel better!"
Both of them looked at him expectantly.
Makino Juro set down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
He looked at them with clear, innocent eyes.
"Huh? Rejected?"
He scratched his head, as if genuinely thinking.
"Nope."
"It's always girls writing love letters… or waiting at the school gate with lunchboxes."
"It's honestly kind of annoying…"
"..."
"..."
The ran stall fell into a deathly silence.
Even the sound of boiling water behind the counter beca crystal clear.
Sakuragi and Miyagi froze, tears still hanging at the corners of their eyes.
But their expressions shifted from sorrow…
To pure murderous rage.
"GO DIE!!"
"All you normies should explode!!"
The two lunged at the sa ti, grabbing Makino Juro from both sides.
"Give back my tears!"
"I'm gonna shove your handso face into the soup!"
"Cough—hey—let go—this is attempted murder of your master!"
That night, the ran stall was filled with both laughter…
And killing intent.
…
The next morning.
Shohoku Gym.
When Akagi Takenori pushed open the door, he was so shocked he almost dropped his water bottle.
At this hour, the two problem children should've been mocking each other—or outright fighting.
But now—
They were on the court, arms slung over each other's shoulders, practicing passes.
"Hanamichi! Catch!"
"Got it! Ryota! Watch my genius dunk!"
"Nice pass! As expected of my best bro!"
"Hahaha! You're not bad yourself!"
Pink bubbles practically floated around them.
It was so sickeningly sweet that even Rukawa Kaede shivered slightly and quietly moved farther away.
"W-What is going on?"
"Weren't they about to duel yesterday?" Kogure adjusted his glasses, confused.
Ayako blinked. "Did aliens possess them or sothing?"
Everyone's gaze slowly shifted toward Makino Juro.
Makino Juro raised his hands.
"Don't look at ."
"That's the great friendship of the Heartbreak Alliance."
"Ordinary people wouldn't understand."
Even though no one understood what happened, the team's atmosphere had never been better.
Miyagi's return filled the gap at point guard.
Sakuragi wreaked havoc in the paint with his raw athleticism (like a human wrecking stick).
Rukawa remained sharp.
Akagi dominated under the basket.
And then there was Makino Juro—unfathomable as ever.
This year's Shohoku…
Actually seed to have a real chance.
However—
Storms often co without warning.
That afternoon, just before practice.
Akagi was absent due to a make-up exam.
Kogure was organizing warm-ups.
"BANG!"
The gym doors were kicked open violently.
The heavy wooden door slamd against the wall with a painful creak, dust falling from above.
The noisy gym fell silent instantly.
Backlit by the doorway—
A group of delinquents walked in.
At the front was a long-haired man, a cruel smile hanging from his lips, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers.
Mitsui Hisashi.
Behind him stood a large, cold-faced man.
Tetsuo.
And behind them, Hotta and a group of thugs—reeking of smoke and hostility.
"Yo."
"So this is… the basketball team?"
"Slls like sweat in here. Disgusting."
END OF CHAPTER
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