Lars Andersson was never destined for greatness.
Born in Stockholm, Sweden, Lars wasn't the type of player who dazzled the crowd with flashy moves or jaw-dropping athleticism. At 6'4", he was an undersized power forward in a game dominated by giants. His shooting was inconsistent, his ball-handling shaky under pressure, and he lacked the raw explosiveness that scouts drooled over.
But Lars had one thing: Heart.
He was relentless on the court, fighting for every loose ball, boxing out players much bigger than himself, and grabbing rebounds with an uncanny sense of timing. Defence was his calling card, and he made a career out of doing the dirty work that no one else wanted to do.
By his early 20s, Lars had managed to carve out a spot on the professional team Umeå in Sweden's domestic league. It wasn't glamorous—his name wasn't in the headlines, and his stats weren't anything crazy, but he was there.
For a few years, Lars held his own. He wasn't a star, but he was dependable, a who earned his minutes through sheer grit and toughness. But the game takes a toll, especially on those who rely on physicality to make up for their shortcomings.
By the time Lars turned 24, the injuries had begun to pile up.
His knees ached constantly, the cartilage worn thin from years of hard landings, and his lower back throbbed after every game—a persistent, nagging pain that refused to fade.
At first, Lars pushed through the pain, gritting his teeth and convincing himself it was just part of the game. But as the injuries piled up, so did the undeniable truth: his body was breaking down. He wasn't fast enough to keep up with the younger, more athletic players, and the sharp defensive instincts that had once been his greatest asset were starting to falter.
Desperation set in. To compensate, Lars began relying on a rougher, more physical style of play—something he didn't like but felt he had no choice but to adopt. He would subtly grab an opponent's jersey as they went up for a shot, just enough to throw off their balance. Or, before a rebound, he'd "accidentally" step on someone's foot, ensuring he had the split-second advantage.
Every time he resorted to these tactics, a bitter taste filled his mouth. It wasn't who he wanted to be. Lars had always prided himself on his honest, hard-working approach to the game. But now, honesty didn't seem to be enough.
The worst part wasn't the guilt—it was how ineffective these tricks were becoming. Even with the extra edge, he couldn't keep up. His opponents were too quick, too skilled, and his body simply couldn't match theirs anymore. Lars felt himself slipping further behind, and the game he had fought so hard to stay a part of was slowly slipping away from him.
It wasn't dramatic, and it wasn't bittersweet.
It was just...inevitable.
One evening after practice, Lars began his walk home. When he had left earlier, the streets were clear, but during his three-hour practice, a snowstorm had blanketed the town. Now, snow reached up to his knees, and he trudged forward, shivering against the horrible weather
The car came out of nowhere.
Its yellow headlights pierced the swirling snow, catching Lars's attention just as the vehicle spun out of control on the icy road. He barely had time to turn his head before the impact hit—a sudden, overwhelming force that sent him sprawling into the snow.
Darkness followed.
And then, nothing.
When Lars opened his eyes, he wasn't in the hospital like he expected.
He blinked, disoriented. His body felt strange—lighter, smaller. The soft light filtering through unfamiliar curtains illuminated a modest but tidy room with a small desk. He was lying on a narrow bed with plain sheets, and the walls were painted a soft beige, adorned with a single poster of a Vince Carter mid-dunk taken from a magazine.
"Where the hell am I...?" he muttered, his voice high-pitched.
Lars swung his legs over the side of the bed. The air felt strange, a quiet stillness unfamiliar to him. Standing unsteadily, he caught sight of himself in a small mirror mounted on the wall by the door.
He froze.
The face staring back at him wasn't his own. It was a boy, no older than 14, with tousled orange hair and wide brown eyes. His features were soft and youthful, completely alien to the face he'd known his whole life.
"This isn't real," Lars whispered, his hands trembling as he touched his unfamiliar face. The reflection moved with him, confirming the terrifying truth.
He wasn't Lars Andersson anymore.
Lars sat at the edge of the unfamiliar bed, staring at his hands. They were smaller, softer than he remembered. The pale morning light streaming through the curtains illuminated his room, bouncing off the faint sheen of dust on the small desk in the corner.
"Boys! Breakfast is ready!" a cheerful voice called out from the hallway, loud and full of energy.
Lars froze, his breath catching. That voice—why can I understand it? It sounded like Japanese, but the words were crystal clear in his mind.
Footsteps thundered in the hall, and muffled voices grew louder as the other boys shuffled past his door on their way to eat. Then the sound faded, leaving the hallway eerily quiet.
Soft, deliberate footsteps approached his door, stopping just outside. A gentle knock followed.
"Riku-chan! Are you awake?"
Lars flinched at the name, confusion washing over him. Riku-chan? Who's that?
The door creaked open, and a kind-faced woman in her late fifties peeked through the gap. She wore a warm smile, her gray-streaked hair tied back neatly. "Riku-chan, breakfast is getting cold. Are you feeling, okay?"
Lars stared at her, struggling to process her words. Why is she calling me Riku? And why do I understand her perfectly?
When he didn't respond immediately, the matron stepped into the room, her expression softening with concern. "You've been so quiet these past few days. I know basketball means a lot to you, and well, I can see it's been hard for you. But you can't stay cooped up forever."
Basketball? The word jolted him, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if she was talking to him or someone else. He looked around the room and saw a familiar object that he hadn't noticed earlier laying on the desk, a basketball.
"Come now," she said gently, breaking him out of his thoughts. "A good breakfast will help. You're stronger than you think, Riku-chan."
"Uh... yeah," he finally managed to reply, his voice shaky and high-pitched. It startled him almost as much as her words.
The matron smiled, reassured by his response. "That's better. I'll see you downstairs."
She left the door slightly ajar as she walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Lars—or rather, Riku, as he now realized—sat frozen on the edge of the bed. His heart raced as the pieces started coming together. This isn't Umeå. This isn't even my life.
His gaze shifted back to the basketball by the desk. The matron's words echoed in his mind: I know basketball means a lot to you.
Whatever life this "Riku" had lived, basketball had clearly been at the center of it. Lars's eyes narrowed as a strange mixture of dread and determination settled over him.
"This isn't just a coincidence," he muttered to himself. His hands clenched into fists. "But what the hell am I supposed to do now?"
Riku made his way downstairs, his steps hesitant and deliberate. The faint chatter of voices and the clinking of utensils greeted him as he entered the dining area. A handful of boys and girls sat at the long table, wolfing down breakfast. He scanned the room, unsure where to sit, until one of the younger kids gestured toward an empty spot.
"Riku! over here!"
The boy smiled innocently, but Riku could feel the curiosity in his gaze. He nodded and slid into the seat, glancing down at the bowl and filling it with some cereal.
"Good morning princess, finally decided to show up?" one of the older boys said, his tone not entirely welcoming. His dark hair fell lazily over his eyes, and he leaned back in his chair, sizing Riku up. "Guess sulking won't change what happened, huh?"
"What do you mean?" Riku asked, feeling defensive.
The boy smirked. "Oh, you know how your team got crushed by Teiko. Everyone's heard about it." His words were sharp, intentionally cutting, and the other boys glanced between them nervously.
The mention of Teiko sent a jolt through Riku. He clenched his spoon tighter, his mind racing. Teiko? The Generation of Miracles? His memories of watching the anime flashing through his brain.
"Hirrrroo stop!" one of the younger girls said, glaring at the older boy. "You are being mean!" the girl said matter-of-factly.
Hiro shrugged, unfazed. "What? Just telling the truth. Riku's team barely managed to score 10 points."
Riku's jaw tightened, his spoon shaking slightly in his hand. He wanted to snap back, to yell at Hiro, but instead, he forced himself to stay calm. Why was he feeling like this? Why is he this mad?
"Don't worry," Riku said, his voice quieter but steady. "I'm going to beat them next time."
The room fell silent for a moment, the tension thick. Then Hiro snorted, clearly unimpressed, and turned his attention back to his food.
But Riku barely noticed. His heart was pounding, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He stared out into the air, not looking at anything.
Teiko.
The name echoed in his mind, and with it came a strange clarity. This wasn't just a coincidence. He wasn't here by chance.
If this world had the Generation of Miracles, then he had a purpose.
Riku set his spoon down, his hands no longer trembling. Determination flickered in his chest, growing stronger with each passing second.
"Let's see how unstoppable they really are," he whispered under his breath, so quietly that no one else at the table heard.