Ming You, observing this scene from a distance, merely smirked to himself.
"Their 'pulling together' is so touching, so predictable. Heh-heh."
"So then," he announced loudly and theatrically, making everyone start and turn around. "Who's our next brave soul? Or are you planning to stand in a little circle all evening, sharing warm feelings while I entertain the crowd?"
This mockery, thrown against the backdrop of their attempt to mobilize, worked like a match thrown into gasoline. It wasn't So Ho, but that very light-haired guy who had just been calling for calm, who broke.
"Don't you dare!" he shouted, almost snarling, as he received the ball. His eyes burned not with calculation, but with blind fury. He charged forward, not looking at his teammates, straight at Ming You, determined to plow through him with brute force and speed.
It was a pure emotional outburst. And therefore—utterly predictable for Ming You.
He didn't dodge or engage in a struggle of strength. He simply took a half-step retreat to the side, sticking his foot into the path of the head-down, charging opponent, and simultaneously neatly plucked the ball from his loosely controlled hand. The blond rookie, losing his balance, stumbled and barely stayed on his feet, while Ming You was already calmly dribbling away from him.
"Oh," Ming You said with fake sympathy, looking at the humiliated guy. "That... was even too easy." Then he raised his gaze to So Ho and his team. "Maybe I was wrong? Maybe you don't need the points doubled, but... tripled? Or should we just let you win out of pity?"
That last phrase hit a target So Ho hadn't even dreamed of. He hadn't just angered them. He had humiliated them to their very core. The rage in their eyes shifted into something dark, cold, and cohesive. They stopped being a group of confused players. In that moment, they became a gang who had been robbed of their last shred—respect.
Ming You, meanwhile, found himself under the hoop again. The defenders rushed at him not individually, but bunched together, trying to physically close off the space. But it was already too late. The ball again traced an arc and silently vanished into the net.
The swish of the net sounded like a funeral knell to So Ho's team. But this time, they didn't hang their heads. They stood huddled together, breathing like cornered animals, and looked at Ming You not with fear, but with hatred. Pure, undiluted hatred.
"The game is already won," Ming You thought to himself, returning to his position, feeling their burning gazes on his back. "All that's left is to wait for them to finally break. Or... for this hatred to make them do something truly stupid, which is even more interesting."
He caught the gaze of referee Sung Wo, who was watching him with a stony face, but in the depths of his eyes lay a heavy understanding. Ming You gave an almost imperceptible nod.
So Ho, unable to bear the sight of his comrades' slumped shoulders and that chilling smile on Ming You's face any longer, closed his eyes for a moment. Behind his eyelids flashed not darkness, but images of their humiliation: stolen balls, helpless collisions, the dull sound of the ball hitting their net. He took a deep, trembling breath filled with the smell of dust, sweat, and bitterness.
Opening his eyes, he saw not five players, but five cornered people.
"Listen," he said, his voice quiet but with a metallic core inside. He stepped closer, lining them up before him with his gaze. "Forget the score. Forget his smirks. He's not shooting at the basket. He's attacking us. Our belief that we are a team. And if we shatter into individuals now—he's won everything. Not when the game ends. Now."
He looked at the rookie, at the blond guy, at the guy with the shaved temple, at each one:
"We have to be a single entity. Not five bodies, but one wall. One wave. He's alone. He has speed, calculation, cunning. But we have each other. If he steals from one—the second is there to cover immediately. If he goes after someone—the others tighten the ring. Don't let him break us! Don't give him the pleasure of watching us bury ourselves!"
His words, born of desperation, found a response. This was no longer a battle cry, but an oath of the doomed.
"Yeah... Yeah, you're right," the blond guy said hoarsely, clenching his fists.
"He won't get by on luck alone. We have to crush him," the guy with the shaved temple gritted out.
"We can do this!" came the chorus, and in that shout, there was less hope, more—grim determination to see it through.
Ming You, watching this scene from a few meters away, slowly rocked on the balls of his feet.
"Oh, another touching scene. 'One team.' 'One wall.' Almost brings a tear to the eye," ran through his head, a cold, sharp thought. "Well, time to give them the building blocks for that wall. False hope. The strongest cement for the subsequent collapse."
When play resumed, something had changed. Ming You moved across the court not with his former grace, but a bit heavier. His breathing, previously inaudible, now became slightly deeper. He was still where he needed to be, but his reactions seemed delayed by fractions of a second. He didn't dart into lightning-fast interceptions, but only managed to put a hand in the way, a little too late.
The rookies noticed it immediately.
"See?" one whispered, passing the ball around the perimeter, now holding possession longer. "He's wearing out! He's not a robot!"
"One against five... it's physically impossible to keep this up for so long," another added, a sudden, greedily flaring hope in his voice.
They began to move more boldly. Passes became slightly more confident, sharper. They were still afraid, but now that fear mixed with excitement.
Ming You let a few passes slip by that he would have intercepted earlier. He allowed them to execute a quick play—a pass to the arc, a dish under the hoop. So Ho, receiving the ball two steps from the basket, saw Ming You lunge towards him, but not as swiftly as before.
"This is a chance! The only one, but a chance!" So Ho mentally steeled himself, pushed the ball upward, feeling the warmth of the floodlights on his back and the breath of his approaching comrades. The ball, bouncing off the backboard, softly rebounded and—dropped through the net.
A shout echoed across the court:
"SCORE!" roared the guy with the shaved temple, raising his fist.
So Ho, standing under the hoop, looked at his hands. His heart hammered, trying to burst from his chest. He turned to the team, and in his eyes, something like the old fire flashed for a moment. It was precisely at that moment that he noticed three of his players exchanging glances and nodding to each other. They gestured for him to come over.
"Captain," one of them said when So Ho approached, wiping his face. "We're holding on, but... we're out of breath. He's worn us out. We need fresh blood. Let the guys from the bench try."
So Ho instantly assessed the situation. His gaze darted to the bench, where Jen Ryu, Mei Yu, and Xiao Li were sitting. The first was fidgeting in place, clenching and unclenching his fists; the second was watching the game attentively; the third was quietly discussing something with Mei Yu. They looked focused, ready.
"Are you sure?" So Ho quickly asked the exhausted trio. "Right now is the moment..."
"That's exactly why now," the guy with the shaved temple interrupted, breathing heavily. "While we can still think. Let them go in. Give them a chance. We've played our part."
So Ho didn't argue. He turned to the referee and raised his hand.
"Substitution!" he shouted. "Numbers 7, 13, and 15, in!"
Jen Ryu was the first to jump up, wordlessly pulling off his warm-up shirt. His eyes burned.
"Finally, fuck! Sitting here doing nothing while that asshole... Okay, let's show him!"
Mei Yu and Xiao Li stood up more calmly, in sync.
"Remember the play," Mei Yu said quietly to Xiao Li, who gave a short nod. "Short passes, keep him moving. Don't let him read us."
The three tired players, patting the newcomers on the shoulders, went to the bench. Jen Ryu, Mei Yu, and Xiao Li took the court.
Ming You, standing at the center line, watched the substitution, his face expressionless. Only the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Finally, their main players. About time to break them, too. Heh."
The game resumed. Fresh legs made themselves known immediately. Jen Ryu received the ball on the wing and, without thinking, rushed forward, trying to blow past Ming You with speed. He was fast and aggressive, but predictable. Ming You retreated, let him get closer, and at the last moment neatly poked the ball away from the side.
"Shit!" Jen Ryu cursed but immediately rushed to recover the ball.
The ball bounced to Mei Yu. Instead of panicking or charging headlong, he received it steadily, protecting it with his body.
"Easy!" he shouted towards Jen Ryu. "Not alone! Xiao!"
Xiao Li was already making a cut to the basket. Mei Yu delivered a low, sharp one-touch pass right into his hands. Ming You, tracking the ball, was forced to shift towards Xiao Li, but he, without holding on, immediately returned the ball to Mei Yu at the free-throw line. A quick two-pass combination gave Mei Yu a clean look. He jumped for the shot. Ming You, having managed to turn, was already flying in for the block, but Mei Yu, seeing him, changed the trajectory at the last moment, dishing it off under the hoop to Jen Ryu who had cut back in. He, taking flight, forcefully slammed the ball through the hoop.
"Aaah! That's how it's done, motherfucker!" Jen Ryu howled, punching the air.
"Nice pass," Ming You said quietly, already jogging back to defense.