Referee Sung Wo raised the ball to face level. The five players of So Ho's team formed a semicircle, and opposite them, standing completely alone, was Ming You. His gaze was fixed on the shortest rookie chosen for the jump ball.
"Well, scared already?" one of the five hissed mockingly, a guy with a shaved temple. "Watch out, you might embarrass yourself all alone."
Ming You did not dignify him with an answer. He merely tilted his head slightly, his posture deliberately relaxed, almost careless.
"The bets are placed," Sung Wo barked. "Jump ball!"
The ball soared upward. The rookie jumped, and Ming You, taking only half a step back, allowed him to take possession of the ball unimpeded. That same icy smile played on Ming You's lips.
"See? He's not even trying!" So Ho shouted from his position, but his voice carried not confidence but an anxious note. "We're on offense! Steady!"
The rookie froze with the ball in his hands, and Ming You stood before him, his feet slightly apart, his gaze utterly empty and unreadable. He wasn't taking a defensive stance; he was simply observing.
"Hey, why are you so relaxed?" came Mei Yu's voice from the bench. He couldn't hold back and jumped to his feet. "He's going to get past you right now! Did you even come here to play or just to stand there?"
Ming You slowly shifted his gaze to Mei Yu and then back to the rookie. The smile widened slightly.
"There's no need to hurry," he finally uttered, and his quiet, even voice sounded louder than any shout. "Let him think. To pass or to drive. An interesting choice, isn't it?"
The rookie flushed. His eyes darted from Ming You's motionless figure to his teammates.
"Don't listen to him!" So Ho yelled. "He's messing with your head! Stick to the plan!"
The plan, however, crumbled under the pressure of this hypnotic calm. The rookie lunged forward, desperate and clumsy.
"Go, go! Get past him!" So Ho roared, cheering him on.
At that moment, Ming You came alive. His movement wasn't a leap but a sharp, whiplike lunge, precise and merciless. His hand flashed—and the ball, with a loud smack, was already in his grasp. The rookie froze with empty, splayed palms.
"What?!" he exhaled, his face contorted with shock.
But Ming You had already turned. He didn't even glance at the disarmed opponent.
"Hey! Stop him!" screamed the guy with the shaved temple, rushing to intercept.
Ming You dribbled not with a run but with a quick, sweeping stride, as if strolling through a park.
"Where are you looking?! Five of you! There are five of you!" So Ho shrieked hysterically, but panic reigned in his team.
The first defender tried to knock the ball away. Ming You simply put it through the opponent's legs, slipping past so easily it was as if the defender were not a player but a shadow.
"What the... Shut down his path!" This was Jen Ryu's voice, breaking into a falsetto.
Two others tried to close in. Ming You faked a body movement to the right, the ball thumped behind his back, and he passed between them, leaving the two guys colliding with each other.
"Foul him! You can foul him!" someone shouted in despair.
The last defender rushed at Ming You from the side, but he, without losing speed, merely ducked, and the attacker flew past, tumbling head over heels across the asphalt.
Now the path to the hoop was clear. The crowd of spectators, a second ago buzzing with noise, froze with mouths agape.
Ming You soared toward So Ho's team's hoop. His shot wasn't forceful but rather neat, almost gentle. The ball, tracing a short arc, silently dove into the net.
Plop.
The sound of the ball hitting the asphalt rang out deafeningly in the sudden silence.
Ming You landed, turned his back to the defeated hoop, and walked back to center court. His face became a stone mask again.
And So Ho stood rooted to the spot. He watched the back of Ming You, slowly retreating toward the center of the court, and clenched his teeth so hard that white spots appeared on his cheekbones.
"What the hell is this?!" escaped his lips through clenched teeth, no longer a whisper but a strained, hoarse voice.
Ming You turned around. His grin was wide, exaggeratedly friendly, and all the more caustic for it.
"Calm down, So Ho. It's just a game," he said in a sugary tone, addressing the crowd of spectators for a moment, where commotion had already begun. "I just want you all not to get complacent. Even with your cute point advantage."
"Advantage?!" So Ho exploded, taking a step forward. His face flushed with rage. "Are you taking us for idiots?! What are you plotting, Ming You?! Speak!"
Ming You merely shook his head, feigning slight disappointment, and turned back to his position, demonstratively ignoring the shout. That gesture—a back turned to the screaming opponent—humiliated So Ho more than any answer could have.
Chaos erupted in the team. The players huddled around their captain, their whispers like the anxious hum of a beehive.
"He… he's not even sweating," muttered that very rookie, still staring blankly at his palms.
"He read me like an open book! I didn't even have time to…"
"Shut up!" the guy with the shaved temple cut him off sharply, but panic was visible in his eyes too. "It was a slip-up. One slip-up!"
"Slip-up?" another one interjected sharply, the tallest one, the one who had tried to foul. "He went through us like we were made of paper! Five against one!"
So Ho shook his head, trying to shake off the stupor. He slapped his own cheeks hard, forcing himself to focus.
"Everyone, shut up!" his voice rang out sharply, silencing them all. "Listen up. He's alone. ALONE! We are five. He's playing mind games. No more nervous breakdowns! We play according to Scheme 'B.' Precisely. No improvisation. Understood?"
The players nodded uncertainly, exchanging quick glances. Their confidence, the very same that burned in the locker room, now smoldered like damp firewood.
"Hey, guys," the youngest one tried to encourage them, his voice trembling. "We… we can do this. We practiced."
"Yeah… yeah, we just need to focus," another supported him, but his words hung in the air, finding no echo.
Referee Sung Wo signaled the start of the second round. So Ho's team would inbound. The ball went into play. This time they moved more cautiously, as if wary of a trap. Short, careful passes around the perimeter.
Ming You didn't rush into a desperate press. He stood in the center of his zone, knees slightly bent, and his eyes, cold and analytical, followed not the ball but the players' eyes, the tension in their shoulders, their preparation for a dash. He allowed them to feel a false sense of security.
"You see? He's just standing there!" whispered one of the five, passing the ball on.
"Don't relax!" So Ho barked, receiving a pass at the three-point arc. "This could be a trap!"
So Ho caught the ball, gripping it tightly with both hands. He saw Ming You in front of him, slowly, almost lazily, approaching. Time slowed down. So Ho felt the weight of the ball, saw a teammate open under the hoop from the corner of his eye.
"Plan 'B.' Draw him out, make him believe in the attack, and—pass for the cut." The thought raced through So Ho's mind.
He made a sharp fake to the left, then swayed to the right, trying to gauge the reaction. Ming You reacted minimally, merely shifting his center of gravity.
"Too easy. He's waiting for something… But what exactly?" So Ho, following the plan, pretended he was about to drive, raised the ball for a shot fake—and at the last moment, taking a sharp step back, extended his arms for a precise, slicing pass to that very open player.
At that instant, Ming You lunged. Not at the shot, but precisely at the pass. His lunge was lightning-fast and calculated to the millimeter. A long arm cut into the ball's trajectory, fingers snapping with a sharp click to intercept it right at So Ho's very hand.
"You were going to pass," Ming You stated calmly, his voice sounding right at the stunned So Ho's ear. "Too obvious."
Having gained possession, Ming You didn't retreat. He turned and went on the attack. This time, the defenders rushed to intercept him not in panic but with the desperation of the doomed. But it didn't matter. He went past them not just quickly—he went past them inexorably.
A sharp change in dribbling rhythm, a deceptive shoulder movement followed by the ball going behind his back, and he slipped between two opponents who collided with each other. The last barrier tried to stand chest-to-chest, but Ming You, without slowing down, spun on the spot, shielding the ball with his body, and left him in a helpless turn.
The path to the hoop was clear again. On the bench, Jen Ryu jumped up, clenching his fists. Mei Yu cursed through his teeth. Xiao Li froze, holding his breath.
Ming You soared toward the hoop. His shot again was not forceful but technical, with a soft flick of the wrist. The ball, without touching the rim, silently dropped through the net.
So Ho's team now resembled a disturbed anthill. The players huddled together, their faces pale, their gestures sharp and nervous.
"This can't go on!" exclaimed one of the players. "He… he's just toying with us! We have to do something!"
"Do what exactly?" the guy with the shaved temple retorted with bitter irony, rubbing his bruised shoulder. "He reads every pass and every step we make!"
"Stop it!" the rookie with light hair interjected sharply, his usually calm face distorted by inner turmoil. "We have to pull ourselves together. We have to breathe. Panic is exactly what he's waiting for. We can't let him continue like this. Five against one, and with double points—it's absurd to be losing like this!"
So Ho listened to them, feeling the ground slip from under his feet. His own confidence had cracked after that pass. He saw in his comrades' eyes not just fear but a budding conviction of their own worthlessness. That was scarier than any score.
"You're right," he said, and his voice, though hoarse, carried a new, desperate determination. He stood in the center of the circle, looking each in the eye. "He's outplaying us tactically. That means we need to turn not him, but the flow of the game around! Forget his mind games! Forget that he's alone! We are five! We have hands, feet, and this damn ball! We'll play simply. Hard. All for one. We'll block his path to our basket with a wall. Don't think about dribbling past him, think about defense! Work together! Remember our advantage—we just need at least one accurate shot! One!"