Note: Italics means Japanese
~~~~~
Tokyo was already awake when the Onitsuka boys rolled out of the hotel lobby.
Traffic hummed, neon reflected off the morning drizzle, and the city pulsed with that restless rhythm that felt nothing like Okinawa. For the first time since arriving in Japan, the boys were quiet – each watching the skyline blur past the shuttle bus window. Only Aisha was sitting calmly, eyes closed, headphones covering her ears.
"Man…" Ector muttered, forehead pressed to the glass. "This city got too many lights. Even during the day."
Novak smirked. "Welcome to the capital, baby."
Jesus leaned back, earbuds in. "Tokyo, huh? Finally feels like we ain't on a vacation no more."
The bus turned off the main road, pulling through the gates of Shutoku High.
The campus looked more like a university than a school – broad stone paved paths, clean lawns, banners fluttering in orange, black, and white. The air itself seemed sophisticated.
Deng looked out the window and whistled. "This place rich-rich."
Grigori's voice rumbled from the back, reading the school's pamphlet. "One of the three kings of Tokyo. The rulers of the East."
As the bus stopped, a crowd of Shutoku students had already gathered – curious, excited, whispering. The doors opened, and the Onitsuka players began to step out one by one.
At first, there was silence.
Then came a collective gasp.
"...Tall."
"Wait – they're high schoolers?"
"Is that guy two meters? He's huge!"
"Man, he is taller than two meters!"
"Oh my God, look at the one with silver hair – is he even Japanese?"
"Dumbass, of course he isn't!"
"Who's the one built like a tank–? Wait, there are two of them– no, three!"
"Are they all foreigners?!"
Ector, catching a few murmurs, and despite fully understanding the language, flashed a grin and flexed jokingly. "What? Never seen athletes before?"
One girl covered her mouth. "He speaks English!"
Another whispered, "They look like a college team… or an NBA team…"
Deng's appearance was a shock to everyone, but when Biha stepped out last – seven foot three, built like a steel tower – the crowd parted like a wave.
Someone muttered, half in awe, half in fear: "...That's not students. That's kaijus."
Their guides – a pair of polite student representatives – scrambled to regain composure and bowed nervously. "P-please, this way! The gymnasium is waiting!"
They led the towering group through polished halls lined with old trophies and photos of generations past. Every step of the Onitsuka players echoed in these passages.
When they reached the gym doors, a golden plaque above read: Shutoku Basketball Club – The Pride of the East.
Inside, the floor gleamed, banners hung high – national trophies, All-Japan plaques, snapshots of victories stacked on victories. It smelled with legacy.
Daniel let out a low whistle. "They weren't lying."
Michiko, walking beside him, crossed her arms. "Don't get impressed. They're still high school kids."
Near the scorer's table stood a man in a dark green tracksuit, clipboard in hand, posture sharp – Coach Masaaki Nakatani.
Daniel approached with his usual quiet confidence. "Coach Nakatani," he said, extending a hand. "Daniel Weiss. It's an honor."
Nakatani smiled and shook it firmly. "Likewise. I've heard much about your new program. A former D1 player, yes?"
Daniel nodded modestly. "Back in the day."
The height difference between them was almost comical – Nakatani stood at five-eleven, taller than most Japanese men, yet he still looked up a full ten inches. He chuckled good-naturedly. "You make me feel like a guard again."
Daniel grinned. "Guess that makes me the power forward."
"Ah, what a shame Coach Kuhlmann couldn't come," Nakatani said with genuine regret. "I've read about him. His offensive systems – genius work, an inspiration in some sense."
"Bad back," Daniel replied. "Age catching up to him. He decided to stay in Okinawa. But he'll definitely watch the tapes."
"It would be great," Nakatani said sincerely. "He's one of the very few coaches with truly unique vision."
Daniel's expression softened. "Yeah. He'll be watching. Trust me."
~~~~~
The boys were already getting dressed. New uniforms hung crisp and perfect – black with deep crimson accents, bold lettering across the chest: Onitsuka Tigers, beneath it a stylized tiger crawling forward in the brush-stroke art of Edo Japan.
Even Novak – usually the calm one – stared at his reflection for a second longer than usual. "Damn," he muttered. "We look dangerous. Like villains."
Jesus turned around, spinning to check the back. "Bro, this fit goes hard!"
Ector smirked, smoothing his jersey. "Finally, something worthy of me."
Biha's voice was low. "A tiger's roar is not in its colors."
Ector pointed out. "You just mad I look better in red."
Deng pulled his headband tight. "We're ready."
Daniel walked in, clapping once. "Alright, boys. Showtime. Remember – control, discipline, and tempo. Execute right, force them to make mistakes, and the W is in your pocket."
As a team captain, Mason made them all gather in a circle and connect their arms, "Let's go and woop some ass boys, on three we say tigers. One, two, three–"
"Tigers!"
They filed out toward the court.
~~~~~
The two teams stood on opposite ends of the court, stretching, warming, pretending not to stare.
Shutoku High – the Kings of the East. Their orange, white, and black uniforms gleamed under the lights like polished armor. A school of history, discipline, and pride. Their starting five stepped forward, crisp and calm, every motion drilled into muscle memory:
Shutoku High Starting Five
PG – #10, Kazunari Takao, 5'9", 143 lbs
SG – #6, Shintarō Midorima, 6'5", 175 lbs
SF – #8, Kiyoshi Miyaji, 6'3", 170 lbs
PF – #5, Shinsuke Kimura, 6'2", 176 lbs
C – #4, Taisuke Ōtsubo, 6'6", 216 lbs
On the bench, the ten reserves sat shoulder-to-shoulder, all in the same posture – hands clasped, eyes locked. They'd seen tall players before – a few foreign exchange students, the occasional freak athlete – but this was different.
Across the court, the Onitsuka Tigers looked like a lineup carved out of a different species. Even sitting, the smallest of them dwarfed half of Shutoku's rotation.
One of the bench players whispered, barely audible, "They look like… grown men."
Another swallowed hard. "That center – he's gotta be two-ten at least…"
"Two-fifteen," corrected someone who'd read the team report. "Seven-one. And they've got another one taller on the bench."
"Another one?"
"Yeah. Seven-three."
Then, just as the teams were taking their warmup shots, the gym doors opened again. A figure stepped through – tall, elegant, unmistakably foreign.
Her hair tied neatly, clipboard under one arm, dressed in the black-and-red tracksuit of the opponent. The light caught her earrings, her calm expression, and the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.
Every Shutoku boy on the bench collectively froze. A long moment of silence followed.
Then came the whispers.
"Wait – they brought a manager?"
"Yeah. And she's… holy–"
"Foreign. Of course she's foreign. Look at her."
"She's taller than half our team!"
"No kidding, she's like five-nine, right? Why does even their manager look like a model?"
One of them groaned, dropping his head onto the railing. "We've got that Saitō dude from 2-B passing towels, and they've got her. Life is cruel."
"Unbelievable," another added. "Even their support staff got genetics."
Aisha noticed the whispers, gave a polite smile, and bowed slightly before joining Daniel near the bench. That brief smile, unfortunately, caused one of the Shutoku subs to literally clutch his chest and whisper, "I think I'm in love."
Takao, watching from the court, chuckled to himself. "Well, guess morale's officially dead on our side."
Midorima adjusted his glasses sharply. "Focus, Takao. This is not relevant to the match."
Takao grinned. "You say that, but you looked too."
"I was assessing her height for scouting reasons."
"Sure you were, shooter-kun."
~~~~~
Across from them, the Onitsuka Tigers finished their huddle. Their new black uniforms shimmered with deep red accents under the fluorescent lights. They lined up with quiet confidence. No fanfare. No wasted motion.
Onitsuka Tigers Starting Five
PG – #0, Ector Troy, 6'2", 160 lbs
SG – #1, Jesus Iglesia, 6'3", 165 lbs
SF – #23, Tyrone Mason, 6'6", 210 lbs
PF – #22, Adrian Carter, 6'6", 215 lbs
C – #16, Aliir Deng, 7'1", 220 lbs
Their bench was short, but not small:
#24 Novak Lazarevich, 6'4" big guard, the tactician.
#35 Grigori Nevsky, 6'10" forward, still as a statue, eyes like steel.
#17 Jean-Batiste Biha, 7'3", 260 pounds – the gym lights seemed to shrink around him.
The Shutoku students in the stands murmured restlessly. They'd seen height before, but not like this – not a full lineup of it. It was like watching pros walk into a school gym. Ōtsubo, Shutoku's center, rolled his shoulders, jaw tight. A challenge, he told himself. Nothing more.
The referee stepped forward, spinning the ball in his hand. Both teams gathered at midcourt.
Ōtsubo and Deng moved into the circle. The visual alone made the crowd hush – 6'6 versus 7'1. Deng didn't even look down; he looked through him, expression calm, collected.
Midorima adjusted his glasses. Takao bent his knees. Tyrone cracked his neck once. Ector stretched his legs, smirking. Jesus flexed his fingers, whispering something in Spanish under his breath.
The whistle shrieked.
The ball went up.
For half a second, both men rose – and then Deng's arm extended like a blade through air. Clean, effortless, higher by miles. The tap was so sharp the ball almost whistled as it fell straight into Tyrone's waiting hands.
"Let's go!" Tyrone barked.
He caught, pivoted, and immediately scanned the court – Ector was already sprinting, Jesus flaring out to the wing, Adrian cutting inside, Deng rumbling down the middle like a tank.
The Tigers were on the move.
Tyrone steadied the ball at the top of the arc, eyes sweeping the floor. He decided to follow the game plan Daniel had drilled into them before the match: establish Ector early.
To make the offense work, his gravity had to be real – a threat the defense would feel. They weren't a known name in Japan yet. That was both an advantage and a curse. No one knew what to expect. Yet no one respected them either.
Tyrone took one controlled dribble to the left, baiting Midorima's switch, then zipped a no-look pass – a straight-line missile – toward the lane.
Ector was already there. He caught it in stride, his movements fluid and explosive in one breath. A quick crossover – lightning-fast – shook Takao off balance. In two steps, Ector was inside the paint.
Kimura slid across for the contest. Same height, better weight. He thought that would be enough.
It wasn't.
Ector's body coiled like a spring – then launched.
The jump wasn't just vertical; it was violent, defiant. Kimura's eyes widened as the world seemed to slow, his mind flashing back to Seirin's match – to that other guy who could jump like that.
Kagami Taiga.
No way… another one?
Too late.
The sound came like thunder – a metallic BANG that rattled the rim and echoed off every wall of the gym.
Ector hung there for a split second, suspended in raw power, before dropping down with a grin and a shake of his head.
The scoreboard flickered.
Away 2 – Home 0.
The silence that followed was almost louder than the dunk itself.
Onitsuka had drawn first blood.
…