"What the hell was that?" The older brother's voice was ragged as he hunched over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sweat dripped steadily down his face as he stared at Riku, a mix of disbelief and begrudging respect in his eyes. "Seriously, what school do you play for?"
Riku opened his mouth, intending to shrug off the question. But before he could stop himself, the words spilled out, clear and automatic. "Shōei Junior High."
The air seemed to freeze.
The older boys exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed. But the reaction from the two younger ones was immediate.
"Shōei?!" the taller boy exclaimed, his voice cracking. His jaw practically hit the ground as he pointed at Riku. "Wait—you're telling me you're from that Shōei? Here in Tokyo?"
Kenji's jaw dropped next. He whistled low, shaking his head in disbelief. "No way... Shōei? That's where Teppei Kiyoshi plays, right? That guy's a beast. I can't believe you're from the same team."
The older brother frowned. "Who's Kiyoshi?"
Kenji turned to him, utterly aghast. "You're joking, right? Teppei Kiyoshi? Shōei's captain? He's practically a legend. One of the Uncrowned Kings. Everyone knows him!"
The taller boy nodded. "Yeah, but didn't Shōei just get annihilated by Teikō? Murasakibara crushed them, didn't he?" he said solemnly.
Kenji nodded solemnly, crossing his arms. "Yeah, but it wasn't just him. Teikō's whole team was insane faster, stronger, smarter. It was like they were playing a completely different sport. My team went up against them in the first round, and man, we didn't even get a chance. They had an answer for everything." He paused, shaking his head as if the memory stung. "And that big guy in the paint? Forget it. Every time we went near the hoop, he swatted us away like flies."
Riku's breath caught. Kenji's words stirred something deep within him, as if they'd unlocked a door in his mind. Suddenly, he wasn't just listening anymore—he was reliving it.
The memories were vivid, overwhelming. He could see himself—no, the previous Riku on the bench, watching helplessly as Shōei struggled against Teikō's relentless onslaught. Murasakibara was a fortress in the paint, his towering frame and effortless power shutting down any attempt to score. Kiyoshi had fought valiantly, throwing himself into the paint again and again, but Murasakibara had blocked him every time, his towering shadow swallowing Kiyoshi whole.
The court had felt like Teikō's domain—every pass, every movement, perfectly calculated and executed. Riku remembered stepping onto the floor, feeling the weight of the moment. The crowd, the expectations—it had been suffocating. He'd been recruited as a project, a 6'0" player with potential but no skill. His movements were stiff, uncoordinated. He could see the looks on the coaches face, the disappointment as he failed to keep up with Teikō's lightning-fast transitions.
And Murasakibara? Riku remembered the overwhelming sensation of standing in his shadow, the futility of trying to defend against him. The big man had tossed him aside like a ragdoll. Every drive, every rebound, every defensive effort had been in vain.
The weight of the memory settled over him, and Riku stumbled back a step, his hand tightening around the ball. How do I know this? These memories—they weren't Lars'. They were Riku's. But now, they felt real. They felt like his.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. He hadn't just inherited this life—he'd inherited its frustrations, its failures. The realization hit him hard. And yet, somehow, he didn't resist it. These memories, this life... they belonged to him now.
"Yo!" Kenji's voice snapped him back to reality. "You good? You've got that spaced-out look again."
Riku blinked, forcing himself to focus. "Yeah... just tired."
Kenji grinned, slapping him on the back. "Man, if you're from Shōei, that makes sense. You're the size of Kiyoshi already."
The taller boy nodded eagerly. "For real! You're insane. I bet even Kiyoshi would've been impressed."
Riku froze at the mention of Kiyoshi, his memories swirling once more. The old Riku hadn't been a star. He hadn't even been a starter. But now? This body moved differently. His instincts, his control, his dominance—they weren't the old Riku's. They were his.
"I don't get it," Riku muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the ball. How do I know all of this? It didn't make sense. This life—it wasn't supposed to be his. And yet, it was.
The older brother scoffed, breaking the silence. "Shōei or not, don't think you're invincible. Next time, we'll bring our A-game."
Kenji smirked, spinning the ball on his finger. "Yeah, sure. Bring whoever you want. You could have Murasakibara on your team, and Riku would still crush you."
"Mura-who?" the older brother muttered, clearly uninterested.
Kenji waved him off, turning back to Riku. "Anyway, seriously, how are you not starting for Shōei already?"
Riku hesitated, the weight of the question sinking in. He remembered the bench, the clumsy minutes he'd played, the frustration of feeling like he was holding the team back. But that was the old Riku. The one who hadn't been ready.
"I guess..." Riku started, his voice trailing off. "Maybe it just wasn't my time yet."
Kenji grinned. "Well, after today, it better be. No way you're sitting on the bench with skills like that."
As the others packed up and left, Riku lingered behind, staring at the rusted hoop. The court was silent now, bathed in the soft light of the morning. Shōei Junior High. Fourth-best in the country. A team crushed by Teikō's monstrous talent, left trying to pick up the pieces. And now Teppei Kiyoshi was leaving, moving on to high school after that devastating loss.
Riku took a deep breath, gripping the ball tightly. His memories swirled in his mind, too vivid to ignore. They weren't his. They couldn't be. But somehow, they were.
He raised his head, his gaze hardening. I'm going to become a miracle.
With that, he turned and started walking home, the ball bouncing steadily at his side. Whatever this new life had in store, he was ready.