"Nice pass," Ming You said quietly, already jogging back to defense.
"Let's keep going in the same... Ugh!!!" Mei Yu only now realized who had thanked him for the pass, and his body broke out in goosebumps because of it. "What the hell... what kind of confidence is that?" raced through his mind.
"Come on, keep up the tempo," Xiao Li added; their eyes met for a second, and there was complete mutual understanding.
For the first time in the entire match, So Ho's team was acting not like a group of scared people, but like a coordinated mechanism, even if only a small part of it. Ming You, having positioned himself on his half of the court, theatrically continued to feign exhaustion.
So Ho couldn't hold back a smile. Fresh strength and, more importantly, a fresh, unclouded-by-fear approach had changed the team's energy. The remaining two players, inspired by the example, also perked up.
Ming You seemed on the edge. Picking up the ball, his shoulders, once taut, now had a slight slump. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple—a rare sight. He moved across the court not with the gliding gait of a predator but more heavily, as if every step took effort. His dribbling, once so sharp and resonant, was now lower, as if he was conserving energy.
"See? He's running out of steam," So Ho said, no longer in a whisper but louder, with growing confidence, not taking his eyes off the opponent. "He can't keep up this pace for long. Put pressure on him, especially when he has the ball."
"I think something's off here."
"What is it, Mei Yu?" So Ho asked, surprised, as he ran back on defense. Mei Yu, running beside him, frowned slightly:
"Not sure exactly, but I have a bad feeling."
So Ho slapped him on the shoulder, running off to the left side of the court:
"Don't worry, we're a real team, unlike Ming You!"
At that moment, Mei Yu received a sharp pass from Xiao Li. The thought of what Ming You might be hiding clouded his focus for an instant, and the ball, not meeting a confident reception, slipped from his hands.
"Mei Yu, get it together!" Jen Ryu shouted.
Ming You, intercepting the ball, didn't instantly rush into a counterattack. Instead, he slowly, almost deliberately, dribbled it toward the center of the court, as if buying precious time to catch his breath. But now So Ho and his team weren't standing around bewildered—they quickly and cohesively formed a tight defensive line. Jen Ryu immediately latched onto Ming You, actively using his hands, not giving him a second's respite.
"Come on, Ming You, show us what else you've got!" Jen Ryu taunted.
Ming You, as if taking the bait, made a sharp feinting move, but his foot seemed to stumble. He caught his balance and, almost from the free-throw line, leaped for a shot. The motion was no longer elegant, more like mustering his last strength. The ball, describing a high arc, hit the back rim with a dull bonk and bounced away.
"Miss!" several voices cried out at once.
For a split second, something resembling frustration flickered across Ming You's face. He pursed his lips; his strained smile became more like a grimace. He quickly lowered his head, as if ashamed of his mistake, and hurried for the rebound, but Xiao Li, anticipating, darted forward and snatched the loose ball.
"See! He's giving up! He's not the same anymore!" Jen Ryu declared, no longer doubting, as he ran up for the attack. His voice trembled with excitement.
So Ho felt a surge of strange, dizzying energy.
"He's falling! Feel it? He's falling!" his voice sounded hoarse and passionate. "Don't stop! Keep pressing! Every miss is our luck! Every mistake of his is our chance! Keep it up! The game is ours!"
The game had turned around. So Ho's team, buoyed by the opponent's weakness and the energy of the newcomers, began to act more boldly. Mei Yu and Xiao Li repeatedly executed quick passes, confusing Ming You, who now "couldn't keep up with reading all the options."
He, meanwhile, seemed increasingly worn out. His smile, appearing after each of their successes, grew more and more strained, like a mask about to crack. Ming You more often wiped his face with his hand, brushing away sweat. His gaze, once so piercing, was now more often cast downward or darted to the side with a barely perceptible shadow of "doubt."
So Ho, watching him and seeing the slightly hunched figure of Ming You before him, felt not fear but a burning thirst for victory.
"We can. We really can!" the thought intoxicated So Ho like a drug.
He forgot about the strange rules, about Ming You's cold eyes at the start of the game. He saw only a tired man and his team, which had finally found spirit and tactical clarity thanks to the substitution.
So Ho didn't see how at that moment, when he passed by him once again, Ming You, lowering his head, allowed that same, genuine, icy smirk to touch his lips for a fraction of a second.
Whistle!
The whistle from referee Sung Wo sounded sharply, cutting through the tense air of the court. The first half of their strange match had come to an end. Ming You slowly, with the air of a man carrying an unbearable burden, headed towards the bench at the edge of the court.
He threw a towel on the bench and sat down, leaning back. His gaze slid over the crowd until it found the squat figure in the black leather jacket. Ming You called him over with a barely noticeable nod. Taek Jung approached unhurriedly, hands in his pockets.
"Wonder who you bet on, Taek Jung," Ming You said quietly, so only he could hear. "On the five of them, I hope? Could've lost some good money."
"I don't place bets, kid. I just take them and... win," he replied in an even voice, but a slight tension was palpable in it. "And you... You really started strong. Spectacularly... but something broke. Could you really burn out that fast? One against five—overestimated yourself?"
Ming You slowly turned his head towards him. And on his lips blossomed that same, familiar to Taek Jung, sarcastic smirk.
"Of course I did," he uttered with icy, razor-sharp mockery. "I'm completely spent. Totally. Hanging on by a thread."
"..."
This phrase, delivered with such venomous irony, left Taek Jung utterly bewildered. He expected excuses, anger, maybe even a request for "adjustments" to the bets. But not this frank, almost taunting sarcasm.
...
On the other side of the court, a different atmosphere reigned. So Ho's team gathered in a tight, sweaty circle. Their faces shone not with victory, but with its first, dizzying anticipation.
"We did it! We stopped him!" exclaimed Jen Ryu, still pumped up after his basket. "We keep pressing, and we'll tear that bastard to shreds!"
"Calm down," Mei Yu stopped him softly but firmly. He was wiping his face with a towel, his gaze analytical. "He's tired, that's true. But he let us score. His defense at the end was... reactive, not proactive. He was waiting for our moves."
"What are you talking about?" Jen Ryu frowned. "We wore him out, that's all!"
"Maybe," Xiao Li nodded, standing nearby. "But the captain is right, too." He nodded towards So Ho. "Too sharp a drop. From absolute dominance to... this. It's suspicious, but considering there are five of us and he was chasing almost every one of us, he really could be tired."
So Ho listened to them, feeling his own blood boiling with adrenaline. But somewhere deep down, beneath that layer of euphoria, a cold, rational worm of doubt was stirring. He had seen Ming You's last smirk before the whistle. That same strained mask.
"Quiet," he said, and his voice made everyone fall silent. His face wasn't joyful but concentrated, almost stern. "Mei Yu is right. We haven't done anything yet. We only... leveled the game. And it's strange. Too strange to be true."
He looked around at his comrades, including the three newcomers on the bench and the three fresh players before him, dampening their fervor.
"Think. All of this—his rules. His 'advantage' for us. His display of strength at the start and his... decline now." So Ho emphasized the last word with particular weight. "What if this is the plan? To give us false confidence. To make us believe we can. And then, when we already think victory is in our pocket... take it all away. To make the despair ten times more bitter. Did you see how he looks?"
A heavy pause fell over the circle. The enthusiasm quickly cooled, replaced by anxiety.
"But... but he really is tired," the guy with the shaved temple mumbled uncertainly from the bench now.
"Maybe so," So Ho didn't argue. "But we have to play as if it's a lie. As if that Ming You from the very first round is waiting around the corner. We have to be ready for anything. Because against a bastard like that..." he clenched his teeth, "...letting your guard down means signing your own death warrant."
"So, what do we do?" asked Mei Yu, his calm voice a breath of sanity.
"We keep pressing, but smartly," So Ho said, looking at him and Xiao Li. "You three gave us fresh legs and clear heads. Keep it up. Short, quick passes. Don't let him read the game. Jen," he turned to the hot-headed guy, "your aggression is our trump card, but channel it through them. Don't go one-on-one if you're not a hundred percent sure. And most importantly—we don't believe in his tiredness until we see him dragging his feet off this court himself. He can't keep the mask up for long if it is a mask. Sooner or later, it'll slip."
Jen Ryu shook his head, slightly displeased but obedient:
"Alright, alright. I'll pass to these brains."