If Cory Grant had been handed a simple "cheat" system, all of this would have been effortless.
But his gift was different. His **panel guaranteed rewards for effort.** It wasn't about shortcuts; it was about grinding. To grow stronger quickly, he had to invest blood, sweat, and hours.
When Cory explained his plan at dinner, his mother **Marianne Grant** frowned.
"What about your studies?" she asked carefully.
"I've already reviewed this semester's coursework," Cory said calmly. "I can promise my grades won't fall."
He wasn't lying. Cory was a top student—the kind teachers held up as an example. School was never his weakness.
Marianne still hesitated, instinctively glancing at her husband, **Samuel Grant**. She was a quiet, traditional woman, leaning on her husband in matters of importance.
But Samuel said nothing. He kept reading his newspaper, the silence falling heavy over the room.
The ticking of the wall clock filled the awkward air.
Finally, Samuel broke the stillness. His voice was low—measured—but carried the weight of the head of the family.
"Let's eat first."
Soon, the three of them knelt around the low dining table.
At last, Samuel looked up, eyes fixed on his son.
"Cory. Have you truly made up your mind?"
"I have," Cory answered firmly, gaze unwavering.
Samuel was quiet for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, a smile tugged at his lips.
"Your idea is… bold. Maybe unrealistic. But I'm proud you had the courage to speak it out loud. You are a smart boy—you know what roads to take and what to avoid. If you truly believe this is right, then pursue it."
Beside him, Marianne sighed with relief, clasping her hands together. "But promise us this: take care of your health. Don't break yourself in the process."
Warmth surged through Cory's chest. He hadn't expected his parents to be so open-minded—to trust him like this. His voice trembled with gratitude.
"Mom, Dad… your understanding and support are my greatest motivation."
Samuel placed his chopsticks down, gaze steady. "Then remember: this path belongs to you. No matter how steep, no matter what failures you face, you must walk it without regret. Even if you fall short—at least never say you didn't try."
The heavy mood slowly lightened. Bowls clinked, conversation shifted, and the tension melted away.
---
Later that night, Cory retreated to his room. He had less than one month before the County Tournament. If he was serious about carrying Shohoku until Mitch returned, then he needed an efficient plan.
First—he had to decide on **his role**.
If Mitch were healthy, Cory would have naturally focused on three-pointers, off-ball movement, and hustle defense—essentially becoming a 3-and-D role player.
But now, with Mitch sidelined, the team lacked scorers who could create their own shots. To fill that void, Cory had to evolve beyond a catch-and-shooter. He needed **independent offense**—a guard who could break down defenders and still organize plays when pressured.
That, he knew, had been Shohoku's missing piece in the original story.
Defense? Between Charles Ackerman locking the paint and Ricky Miller running point up top, the defense had anchors. Offense, however, was desperate.
Cory steeled himself. *Then I'll become that player.*
Physical fitness would be the foundation. Basketball at its core was a sport ruled by athleticism. Even the most skilled players in history built their legacies on bodies honed like steel. Without athleticism, technique could only go so far.
---
Cory cleared space in his room, shoving aside clutter. The tatami floor became his training ground. Equipment? None. But there was one exercise that needed nothing—push-ups.
He lowered himself, fingers spread, body taut like a drawn bowstring. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands aligned on the mat. Standard form.
He chose mid-range push-ups, targeting chest, shoulders, and triceps. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself—*inhale*—then exhaled as he pushed back up.
Ten… fifteen… twenty.
His arms began to tremble. His breath came harder, yet he clenched his jaw and fought through.
"…Twenty-nine… thirty!"
He collapsed, panting against the mat. Sweat smeared his forehead, his muscles screaming.
Even with three years of middle school basketball behind him, his body hadn't endured real strength training. But Cory wasn't here for comfort. He immediately summoned his system panel.
Sure enough—his **Strength** and **Stamina** progress bars had inched forward. Strength especially had jumped noticeably.
"Because I started so low," Cory realized, "the bar climbs faster."
Grinning, he rose and moved straight to **squats**.
Fifteen minutes later, sweat poured off his chin, dripping onto the tatami like rainfall. His thighs burned as if loaded with lead. But he ground through: three sets, fifteen reps per set, timed with one-minute rests.
When he finished, his legs threatened to give out—but he refused to sit. Instead, he paced in slow circles, letting his heart rate descend naturally.
He knew proper recovery mattered: abruptly halting after intense exercise leaves lactic acid pooling, tightening muscles and spiking soreness. Cooldown was key.
After five minutes of walking and stretching, he finally sat back down, reaching for water.
His panel appeared again. Strength's bar had nearly filled. His pulse sped up.
*I wonder what happens when the attribute actually ticks up?*
Fueled by curiosity, Cory dropped down for another set. Arms shaking, chest pounding, he forced himself through the final push-up—
**Ding.**
[Strength: 50 → 51]
A ripple of energy shot through his body. His sore muscles loosened. Fatigue dulled away.
Surprised, Cory blinked. His lips curled into a grin.
"An increase in Strength even heals soreness…which means I can train longer before exhaustion."
Now a new thought formed, sparking with possibility.
*If Stamina increases… will it restore my energy too?*
If that were true—then the grind could go on even further.
And Cory Grant, Shohoku's forgotten benchwarmer, might just rewrite destiny.