Kuroko’s Basketball: Before Generation Miracles, I Already Crowned

Chapter 389 389: Kotaro Hayama “Anklebreak”, Reo Mibuchi’s “Perfect Pass”

The court exploded the moment the ball changed hands.

Fast—

No.

Violent.

Rakuzan's counterattack didn't come like a wave. It came like a blade.

The instant Kotaro Hayama received the outlet pass near midcourt, the air pressure on the floor visibly shifted. His body leaned forward, shoulders loose, knees spring-loaded like coiled steel. The smile on his face wasn't arrogance—it was instinct waking up.

"Here he comes…!"

Teiko's defensive formation snapped shut almost reflexively. Two defenders angled in, cutting off the center lane, forcing Hayama toward the right wing.

That was a mistake.

"Too slow."

Hayama's right foot slammed down.

Not a crossover.

Not yet.

His left shoulder dipped, selling a drive so sharp it carved a phantom straight through the defender's chest. The Teiko guard bit—just half a step—but against Kotaro Hayama, half a step was already fatal.

BOOM.

The crossover detonated.

The ball didn't even look like it changed direction—it simply disappeared from the defender's vision, reappearing low and tight against Hayama's left hip. His center of gravity dropped to the floor, sneakers shrieking as friction lost the fight.

The defender's feet tangled.

His knees buckled.

And then—

"DOWN!"

The entire arena erupted as the Teiko guard crashed backward, palms scraping helplessly against the hardwood.

Anklebreak. Clean. Absolute.

Kotaro Hayama was already past him.

"HAHA! That's it, that's it!" Hayama laughed, sprinting forward, lightning crackling through his strides. "This is the good stuff!"

But before the crowd could even finish screaming his name—

Shigure Akihito moved.

From the weak side, a shadow tore across the lane.

Too fast.

Too direct.

No wasted motion.

Shigure didn't jump immediately. He measured. One step. Two. His eyes locked onto Hayama's dribble rhythm—not the ball, not the shoulders, but the microscopic delay between bounce and gather.

There.

Shigure launched.

Hayama's pupils shrank.

"Tch!"

For the first time, Kotaro Hayama didn't see an opening—he saw a wall.

A massive silhouette swallowed the rim.

"Blocked?!" someone screamed.

But the block never came.

Because the ball was already gone.

At the apex of Shigure's leap, Hayama twisted midair, wrist snapping sideways with absurd strength.

The pass wasn't flashy.

It was perfect.

No arc.

No hesitation.

No adjustment needed.

The ball threaded through the narrowest possible gap between Shigure's outstretched fingers and the rotating help defender, skimming the air like it had been pre-approved by gravity itself.

"REO!"

At the left elbow, Reo Mibuchi—calm, upright, eyes sharp behind thin frames—caught the ball exactly where his shooting pocket already existed.

No reset.

No dribble.

Just alignment.

The defense lunged.

Too late.

Reo's form unfolded with mechanical beauty. Elbow locked. Wrist relaxed. Release clean enough to make the net flinch in anticipation.

"Perfect… form…"

SWISH.

No rim.

No mercy.

Rakuzan took the lead.

The sound that followed wasn't cheering.

It was silence—the kind that pressed down on the chest.

On Rakuzan's bench, Mayuzumi exhaled softly.

Akashi's gaze sharpened, a faint curve touching the edge of his lips.

"Textbook," Akashi said calmly. "That pass could not have been improved."

On the court, Shigure landed heavily, shoes screeching as he slid back a half-step. His eyes followed the ball through the net, expression unreadable.

"…So that's Rakuzan's answer," he murmured.

Kotaro Hayama jogged back on defense, stretching his shoulders, grin wide and feral.

"Man, that block attempt was scary," he said cheerfully. "But hey—didn't matter, right?"

Reo adjusted his glasses, voice cool.

"You drew exactly two defenders and one help rotation. The angle you chose was optimal."

Hayama snorted. "You say that like you calculated it."

"I did."

They bumped fists lightly.

Rakuzan's offense reset, but the psychological damage had already been done.

Teiko's bench stirred.

"That wasn't just an anklebreak…" Nijimura muttered, fists clenched. "That was a declaration."

Shigure wiped sweat from his brow, breathing steady.

So this is it.

Rakuzan at full clarity.

Not just individual monsters—but coordination sharpened to a blade's edge.

Kotaro Hayama wasn't just breaking ankles anymore.

He was forcing reactions.

And Reo Mibuchi wasn't just shooting.

He was finishing inevitabilities.

The referee's whistle cut through the tension.

Teiko ball.

Shigure stepped forward to receive the inbound.

As the ball settled into his hands, his gaze lifted—meeting Hayama's, then sliding past him… straight to Akashi.

For a brief instant, the world narrowed.

Akashi's crimson eye gleamed.

Shigure smiled.

"…Good," he whispered. "That's exactly how I like it."

The next possession began.

And the storm was only getting louder.

END OF CHAPTER

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