The referee of the game, Sung Wo, approached the center of the court, carefully examining the players' positions. He tossed the ball up, executing a clean jump ball, and immediately stepped aside, observing the unfolding action.
Ming You didn't even move, knowing that height advantage wasn't on his side. He chose to conserve his energy for the rest of the game rather than engage in a losing jump-ball duel.
Jung Ho, on the other hand, reacted instantly. He pushed off the asphalt with force, leaping higher than anyone else, and confidently caught the ball with one hand.
He began dribbling toward the basket with assurance. Ming You, however, seemed in no hurry, watching the captain's movements closely.
"You can't catch up to me," Jung Ho declared, advancing toward the hoop.
"Oh?" Ming You smirked inwardly. "Let's see how you handle what I've prepared."
Jung Ho abruptly stopped behind the arc and released the ball from the three-point line. The ball traced a high arc and, barely grazing the rim, sank cleanly through the net.
Ming You simply watched him coldly. When the net swished, he didn't protest or applaud—just gave a short nod, accepting his opponent's precise shot as inevitable. His face remained impassive, as if this moment had already been calculated.
Jung Ho, picking up the ball, asked him seriously:
"Do you really think you can beat me? Aren't you overestimating yourself?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Jung Ho."
"You've still got the nerve to joke?"
Ming You put on a mask of friendliness:
"Again, words just slipped out."
Jung Ho smirked arrogantly. He took the ball again and, dribbling confidently, launched another attack. Jung Ho used his physicality to throw Ming You off, but he remained calm and focused.
"Are you seriously trying to intimidate me?" Jung Ho asked, faking a move to get past Ming You.
"Intimidate? No," Ming You replied. "I'm just waiting for the right moment."
At that instant, Jung Ho crossed over to the left. Ming You deliberately let him pass. Jung Ho positioned himself between the free-throw and three-point lines, cradled the ball in both hands, and took a no-jump shot. But Ming You, as if emerging from the shadows, suddenly leaped and blocked it.
"What?!" Jung Ho exclaimed, disbelief in his eyes. "How did you do that?"
"I was just waiting for you to make a mistake," Ming You said, lifting the ball with one hand. His voice was steady. "And you did."
"A mistake? What mistake?"
"Why don't you guess, heh." He bent down and started a sharp dribble.
When Jung Ho leaned forward, trying to predict the ball's movement, Ming You reacted instantly. He swiftly brought the ball behind his back, feigning a crossover, but at the same time, deliberately stepped on his opponent's foot.
To the spectators, it looked like a quick change of direction, but in reality, it was a hidden foul. Jung Ho, losing his balance, crashed heavily onto the asphalt. Ming You didn't even glance back, continuing toward the hoop as if nothing had happened.
"You can't play like this, Ming You!" Jung Ho shouted, struggling to his feet. "That's not fair!"
"Fairness?" Ming You chuckled as he sprinted to the basket.
He drove past the line and scored an easy layup.
"In sports, just like in the world, there's no room for fairness. The winner is the one willing to take risks."
Ming You picked up the ball from the ground, his fingers gripping the leather surface tightly. He slowly stepped back beyond the line, assessing Jung Ho's position.
Jung Ho was already in front of him, arms spread wide, ready to defend. His gaze was intense, his voice carrying a warning:
"Ming You, don't be stupid—play fair!"
Ming You didn't answer. He lightly bounced the ball in front of him, as if testing its weight. Not a word—only cold calculation in his eyes:
"One last step to break him. After my move, he'll face the pressure from the crowd. Any man bound by moral principles has a weakness—reputation."
Ming You deliberately slowed his pace, loosening his control over the ball, as if giving Jung Ho a chance to steal it. The moment the defender reached for it, Ming You abruptly accelerated, forcing him to instinctively chase after it.
Jung Ho, falling for the bait, immediately cut off the path, fully focused on the ball. His body tensed, his eyes tracking every movement—but in that moment, he had already lost the most crucial thing: control over the situation.
"Time to act. The Four-Headed Spider… an interesting name for a move I've been perfecting for two years."
Ming You sharply increased his tempo, making the ball dance between his hands. He threaded it between his legs, then instantly brought it behind his back, disrupting Jung Ho's defensive rhythm. Every motion was sharp, angular, devoid of usual fluidity—impossible to predict where he'd go next.
Jung Ho lunged left, but Ming You had already shifted direction, leaving him grasping at air. The asphalt screeched under abrupt stops and bursts—his ball control remained flawless despite the insane speed.
"What the…" Jung Ho muttered in shock as he saw Ming You's next move.
Ming You dribbled furiously, alternating pace and direction, forcing Jung Ho to react a split second too late. His movements were so fast and precise that it seemed like multiple hands were working at once. A crossover, an instant behind-the-back transfer, then a sharp scoop under his left arm—the ball vanished and reappeared in an instant.
Jung Ho, trying to anticipate the next step, lost his balance. Ming You intensified the pressure, adding fake shoulder and head movements—his upper body seemed to move independently from his legs, creating a chaotic yet controlled dribbling pattern. When Jung Ho lunged right, the ball was already between Ming You's legs to the left, his body spinning the opposite way.
The crowd froze—for a split second, it looked like Jung Ho wasn't facing one player, but several, each about to break through to the hoop. But it was just an expertly executed fake: Ming You, using the defender's momentum against him, took one clean step into the opening.
"Look at him!" a spectator shouted. "He's like an actual monster!"
"Changing my bet!"
"Yeah!"
"This kid's gonna wreck him!"
"W-what's happening…" The moment Jung Ho glanced at the crowd for half a second, Ming You's head was already past him.
Jung Ho burst forward, desperately trying to intercept. His muscles tensed, his legs driving powerfully against the court—but Ming You had already gained speed.
Ming You, racing toward the hoop, suddenly changed trajectory, throwing Jung Ho off. At the last moment, he took an underhand shot—soft, precise, almost weightless.
Jung Ho jumped in a last-ditch effort to block it. His fingertips barely brushed the air, creating the illusion of contact, but the ball was already out of reach. The clean swish of the net confirmed the score.
Landing on his feet, Jung Ho wiped sweat from his face with his palm. The ball lay at his feet. The crowd buzzed like a disturbed hive—some whistling, some clapping, others shouting new bets over each other:
"Ten grand on the kid! He's gonna crush him!"
"Revoking my last bet! All on the winner!"
"Look at him—he's barely breathing!"
These words drilled into his temples like nails. Jung Ho clenched his fists, his confidence already wavering in his mind:
"Are they right? Am I really weak?"
"Your move, Captain," Ming You stood half a meter away, knees slightly bent, arms spread—a living barrier. His smirk irritated Jung Ho more than the crowd's jeers.
Jung Ho picked up the ball, feeling the rough texture of its leather surface. He began dribbling.
A feint to the left, a sharp crossover to the right—but Ming You didn't even flinch. Instead, he lunged forward in a flash, his hand slicing through the air. His fingers grazed the ball, tearing it from Jung Ho's grip with unnatural ease.
"You're out of chances." Ming You stepped back beyond the three-point line.
Jung Ho burst forward, charging at Ming You. He was inches away—one more step, one more lunge—but in that same instant, Ming You abruptly halted, paused for a split second, and released the ball from beyond the arc.
Jung Ho leapt into the air, his arm stretching upward, fingers straining to block the shot. But it was too late—the ball traced a high arc, mercilessly descending toward the hoop.
A soft swish cut through the air, followed by a crisp snap—the ball passed cleanly through the net without even grazing the rim.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Jung Ho kicked at nothing. His voice cracked, and someone in the crowd laughed.
Mentally, Ming You laughed, but his face remained indifferent:
"Hahaha! Breaking down mid-game? Looks like I've overdelivered on my plan."
Ming You bent down sharply, scooping up the ball. His fingers gripped the leather surface tightly. He bounced it once, then twice, keeping a steady rhythm.
His eyes narrowed, a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips.
"They see the truth." He nodded toward the spectators. "You're trapped."
"What trap?!" Jung Ho tensed.
"The one you set for yourself. Heh, thought I was just a loudmouth? You've played yourself, Captain."
"Screw this loser! He's weak! Changing my bet!" someone in the crowd shouted.
Jung Ho steadied himself, muscles taut, fingers trembling in anticipation. His eyes locked onto the ball, legs coiled, ready to spring.
A dull thud—the ball slammed into the asphalt with a sharp pop. The bounce was low, fast, landing right in front of Jung Ho. He lunged forward, but Ming You was quicker.
A slick shoulder fake, a deceptive shift—then a hard body check. Jung Ho felt the ground vanish beneath him. For a moment, he hung in the air before crashing onto the asphalt, the wind knocked out of him. Ming You was already sprinting away, leaving him in the dust.
"Oops, clumsy me," Ming You shot from under the hoop.
"Get up!" the crowd roared. "You've already lost!"
Jung Ho punched the asphalt.
"Why…" He pushed himself up, his voice hoarse. "Why does everyone bet on you?"
Ming You picked up the ball and tossed it to his other hand.
"Because unlike you, I deliver results—not just hopes for the future. And you… heh, you're just scared."
Jung Ho lowered his head and gritted his teeth.
"Changing bets!" a scrawny guy in the crowd yelled, waving cash. "Two-to-one against Jung Ho!"
"He's already given up!"
Jung Ho felt the ground slipping away beneath him:
"Are they right? Am I…"
"No, ENOUGH!" He exploded forward, breaking all rules of anticipation. His body slammed into Ming You like a battering ram.
A sharp shoulder strike—Ming You staggered back a step, but his fingers tightened around the ball. He barely kept his balance, leaning forward, but didn't let go.
"Wow, and who was it that lectured me about fair play?" Ming You feigned surprise.
"No rules—you said it yourself!" Jung Ho hissed.
Ming You laughed theatrically.
"Haha! Finally, some fire. Too bad it's too late."
Ming You abruptly shifted his rhythm, the ball bouncing sharply against the asphalt in sync with his rapid drive. He slipped past Jung Ho, darting toward the three-point line.
Stopping beyond the arc, he leapt into a shot in one fluid motion. Jung Ho desperately lunged, arms raised to block the view.
But it was already over—the ball, released with perfect backspin, was already soaring.
"Game over." Ming You spread his arms. "Admit it—you're not good enough."
Jung Ho stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists. The crowd's noise, the taunts, Ming You's smirk—it all fused into a fireball in his chest.
"No." He lifted his head. "It's not over yet, Ming You!"
Ming You raised an eyebrow.
"Heh, prove it then."
The ball rolled to Jung Ho's feet. He bent down, picking it up with seeming carelessness, but exhaustion flickered in his movements.
Jung Ho squeezed the ball, feeling its rough texture. The weight in his hands wasn't just physical—his confidence, once unshakable, was crumbling with every heartbeat.
He looked up. The stands buzzed, spectators jumping to their feet, shouting, waving fists and money.
"This is just humiliating!" he shouted, mustering every ounce of strength for one last attack. "I won't let this happen, Ming You!"
Steeling himself, Jung Ho took the risk. He started dribbling and charged. His heart pounded, adrenaline flooding his veins. He sidestepped Ming You, but the other seemed to predict his move.
"You can't fool me," Ming You said, positioning himself confidently.
Jung Ho abruptly pulled up for a shot, muscles straining in a final effort. But Ming You, as if reading his mind, stepped forward in a flash.
A swift hand flick—and the ball was no longer in Jung Ho's grip. A crisp smack of leather, quick as a snap. A steal.
Jung Ho froze. Emptiness filled his eyes.
"This is the end, Jung Ho," Ming You said, sinking the shot and widening the gap. "You should've known—this game is for those ready for a real challenge."
Jung Ho lowered his head, realizing his opponent wasn't just physically superior but psychologically untouchable. He'd lost faith in himself, and now everyone saw it.
"This game…" he whispered. "I won't accept defeat so easily."
"Defeat is part of the game," Ming You said, his voice soft but firm. "Part of the game for weaklings like you. But I'll give you a chance."
"I can still turn this around? Thank you…" Jung Ho said, his voice gaining a sliver of hope.
"Nope." Ming You grinned. "A loss is a loss. Now you're mine—right, guys?" Three figures approached, led by Taek Jung.
"No hard feelings, kid. Even I find this guy annoying sometimes, but a deal's a deal. Hope that explanation's enough." Taek Jung spoke with a serious expression.
"Fine. I get it."
"Don't disappoint me, Jung Ho," Ming You said with a sinister smile.