**Crossover Step: LV2 → LV3**
- **Ball Handling:** 63 → 65
- **Speed:** 59 → 61
[Your explosive power has reached the requirement and will now be displayed on your panel.]
The first thing **Cory Grant** did was open his player panel.
**Name:** Cory Grant
**Age:** 15
**Height:** 5'8" (173 cm)
**Wingspan:** 5'10" (178 cm)
**Weight:** 126 lbs (57 kg)
**Physical Attributes**
- Strength: 51
- Speed: 61
- Stamina: 66
- Flexibility: 74
- Reflexes: MAX
- Injury Resistance: MAX
- Explosive Power: 50
**Offensive Skills**
- Ball Control: 65
- Passing: 58
- Layups: 75
- Inside Scoring: 62
- Mid-Range: 59
- Three-Point Shooting: 70
- Free Throws: 72
- Off-Ball Movement: 63
**Defensive Skills**
- Steals: 55
- One-on-One Defense: 57
- Defensive Rebounds: 50
**Skill:** Crossover Step LV3 (0/500)
**Status:** Fatigued
**Team Evaluation:** Weak Team – Starter
(*Note: Attributes below 50 not displayed!*)
---
The Crossover Step had advanced again. Cory's ball handling and speed ticked upward, and now—his **Explosive Power** had finally been unlocked.
"Wait… does upgrading the crossover improve Explosiveness too?" He frowned, then smiled. "Actually, that makes sense. Shake-and-bake shifts require bursts of raw explosiveness."
Even more surprising was the change in his team evaluation. He was no longer just a *bench warmer on a weak team.* **He had been promoted to starter.**
For the first time, his strength had undergone a *qualitative change.*
Cory tightened his fists. "Not enough. I need to work harder."
Because starting on a weak team didn't mean anything yet. Even players starting for powerhouse programs sometimes got bounced in the first round, depending on the draw.
Breathing deeply, Cory exhaled. His system status icon warned: **Fatigued.**
He forced himself to stop. *No, I can't push through.* Exhaustion training was dangerous—worse recovery, higher injury risk, even serious health risks to the heart and lungs. He remembered: athletes who ignore fatigue sometimes collapse unexpectedly.
Besides, upgrading the Crossover would now need **500 proficiency points**—five or six hours of grinding at least. It wasn't happening in one sitting.
"Food first."
He ate under the shade of a tree, pulling out his bento. The insulation kept it warm, and the flavors reminded him of his mother's care.
As he chewed, he thought hard. *If I want to grow stronger fast, the answer isn't only practice—it's skills. Skills give the fastest gains.*
But there was a problem: Coach Anderson was unreliable, rarely appearing at the gym this early in Shohoku's story. Cory couldn't count on him.
*Then I'll find another teacher.*
He pictured one candidate in his mind, the corners of his lips lifting. Someone older, with passion for the game, likely holding valuable skills.
"Why not just try?" he muttered. "It won't cost me a thing."
---
After dinner, Cory skipped more drills and headed off toward downtown.
Before long, he was standing at the familiar storefront—a sneaker shop with Nike, Adidas, Reebok, and Converse neatly displayed in the window. It was here his father had purchased him his **Air Jordan 7.**
As he stepped inside, a mix of fresh scent and leather polish filled his nose.
"Welcome!"
The middle-aged store owner, stocky with a neat mustache, greeted him with a warm smile.
The man's eyes immediately dropped to Cory's sneakers—the crisp Jordans.
"Ah, those shoes. If I'm not mistaken, you're the son of yesterday's customer. Do they not fit right? Want to exchange them for a different style?"
Cory shook his head politely. "No, they're perfect. I really like them."
The smile on the shopkeeper's face grew brighter. "That's good. They're one of our most popular pairs. Perfect for young athletes like you."
For the first time, Cory felt the sincerity in his tone—and turned his attention to the walls. Posters of NBA stars lined the space: Michael Jordan airborne, Magic Johnson directing traffic, Karl Malone the Mailman, Clyde the Glide, the Admiral, and more.
And then something else caught his eye: an old framed photograph.
It was a high school team picture. The teenager with the mustache stood proudly, wearing the #6 jersey, beside his coach. A certificate hung next to it:
**Kanagawa Prefecture High School Tournament – Runner-Up.**
The store owner noticed his gaze. His voice softened, full of nostalgia.
"Fifteen years ago, Minowa High lost to Harbor High by a single point in the county final. That was my last shot—and I missed."
For years, that single moment haunted him. One point away from history. One mistake away from the championship.
"And that was the beginning of Harbor High's dynasty. Fifteen straight county titles. That's why they're called the Kings of Harbor."
Cory listened, eyes widening. There was living basketball history right in front of him.
Minowa High had reached nationals, but luck had paired them against the infamous Hakata Commerce affiliate—eventual champions. They were eliminated at Top 16.
Even so, that experience was something Cory could never buy: a real player with real scars.
"Manager," Cory asked, "do you still play?"
The man chuckled, scratching his mustache. "Not really. After college, work kept me busy… don't get much time for the court." His expression dipped, loneliness peeking through.
But when his eyes fell on the ball clutched in Cory's arms, a spark flared back. "But if you're free sometime—we could play. For fun."
Cory's lips curved. He'd been waiting for this.
"What about right now?" he asked, eyes shining.
Because he wasn't here for shoes. He was here for *skills.*
And this mustached man—**Mr. Russo**, the forgotten high school ace—might just hold the key to the next step forward.