Kuroko no Basket: Honored One

The basketball, launched toward an empty area, was suddenly caught—and that eerie sensation instantly unsettled Kuroko.

He had always believed he was the only one of his kind in the world. He never imagined that Akashi would actually find a second one.

What shook him even more was that after catching the pass, Mayuzumi Chihiro didn't look to pass. Instead, he gathered the ball, jumped, and sank an uncontested two-pointer.

A skill even Kuroko, the original Sixth Man, had never possessed.

That was the very thing he had always been chasing.

"This is my new Sixth Man," Akashi said, the corners of his lips lifting with satisfaction.

He was thoroughly pleased with his creation—that rare feeling of supreme fulfillment after constructing a winning piece.

"You're always saying Kuroko's style of basketball can't win, yet you built a second player who can't win either?" Tendou asked flatly, unmoved.

In their lineup, aside from himself, no one could effectively guard Mayuzumi Chihiro.

Kuroko's weak presence—when removing Tendou and Akashi from the equation—could only be matched by the likes of Takao or Narumi.

"With just one of them, he definitely couldn't win. But they have me," Akashi declared confidently.

That was his trump card—what allowed him to disregard even Momoi's intelligence network.

"As long as you're happy," Tendou replied casually, calling for the inbound.

Meanwhile, in the real world, the moment Mayuzumi stepped onto the court, viewers in front of their screens erupted.

『A second Kuroko? That's it—Kuroko's no longer unique.』

『Not even giving him a little dignity? Come on, he's supposed to be the protagonist!』

『And this guy can shoot? He can attack on his own? That's a straight upgrade from Kuroko!』

『What's up with Akashi and his obsession with winning? Is he that desperate to beat Tendou?』

『Duh. The second-personality Akashi literally exists for the sake of victory.』

The audience couldn't help but roast Kuroko, saying he carried the protagonist label without any of the protagonist treatment.

It felt like one of those TV dramas where the lead actor is so mediocre that the supporting characters completely steal the spotlight.

Like that old adaptation of The Proud Twins, which somehow turned into The Empress's Legend.

That's how viewers felt now—Kuroko was becoming more and more ordinary. Even his once-unique skill was no longer unique.

He just seemed so weak—utterly insignificant compared to the likes of Tendou.

He was turning into a character who talked pretty but lacked the strength to change anything.

Whereas Tendou—his basketball ideology was gaining more and more acceptance among the viewers.

Empty words felt annoying.

That was the exact reaction Tendou wanted. After all, the audience for any show was finite.

With the camera always on the main character, as a "supporting role," he had no choice but to steal the spotlight.

...

Back on the court.

Tendou casually dribbled past half-court.

Against Mayuzumi Chihiro, Kirisaki Daiichi had no better counter for the moment.

But leaving him on the court for over 20 minutes and waiting for his misdirection effect to naturally wear off—that wasn't Tendou's style.

He would take him out early.

But first, Kirisaki Daiichi needed to tighten up their defense.

Akashi lowered his center of gravity, anticipating Tendou's sudden acceleration.

Right now, the momentum was on Rakuzan's side. If they could lower Tendou's shooting efficiency, they'd likely establish a solid lead by the end of the first quarter—and greatly wear down his stamina in the process.

As for Tendou's passing?

Akashi wasn't worried at all. He was confident he could sever all of Tendou's connections with the rest of Kirisaki Daiichi.

But would things really go as planned?

Tendou suddenly increased the intensity of his dribble, a shift in tempo sharp enough to instantly blur the line between his pass and drive.

Akashi's left eye flared open. He lunged with his left arm to steal the ball—

But Tendou abruptly pulled the ball behind his back and shot forward along Akashi's left side.

"Exploiting gaps isn't your exclusive talent."

Once again, Akashi was left behind.

Rakuzan's players instinctively collapsed into the paint, rotating over to help.

But Tendou saw it all—every action they were about to take was already laid bare to him.

Reo Mibuchi arrived just in time, planting his feet in Tendou's path.

It looked like he was trying to replicate Hanamiya's earlier tactic: draw an offensive foul.

But then—Tendou stopped.

"He did it!" Reo was thrilled. Even though he hadn't drawn the foul, at least he forced Tendou to halt.

But when he looked down—

The ball was gone.

"Where's the ball?"

"In the basket."

Swish!

The ball dropped cleanly through the net.

Though Reo's help defense was in place, it turned out that one of Rakuzan's defenders had been left wide open.

Tendou had somehow delivered the pass during his abrupt stop—his pose so picture-perfect, it was reminiscent of Nash in the movie version.

Even viewers in the real world couldn't help but exclaim,

"Damn, that's one fine butt!"

Thankfully, Tendou didn't watch anime during important games. If he saw the live comments, he'd probably explode.

No way he'd want to be the subject of a bunch of dudes discussing his backside.

4–2.

Kirisaki Daiichi took the lead once more.

"What a remarkable player," murmured Shirogane Eiji from the sidelines, as calm as ever.

If even Akashi—with the Emperor Eye—couldn't stop Tendou's passes, then those passes were virtually unstoppable.

"But Rakuzan… has players that even his eyes can't read."

"Hm?"

Just as Shirogane had that thought, he noticed Kirisaki Daiichi shift their defensive strategy.

They had switched to strict man-to-man coverage, eliminating all passing options.

To avoid being outmaneuvered, even Kirisaki Daiichi's "bad boys" were sneakily tugging on their matchups' jerseys.

They were clearly planning to let Mayuzumi shoot.

"Letting Mayuzumi shoot freely? But he's not like Kuroko—he can actually score!"

"That guy... Tendou must be planning to shut him down as quickly as possible," Aomine said, seeing through the strategy.

Kuroko's misdirection lasted about 20 minutes per game.

They believed Mayuzumi had the same limitation.

And Tendou didn't want to let such a nuisance linger for 20 minutes—so he would end it early.

But what about Akashi?

What would he choose?

To pass—or not to pass?

He passed.

Akashi didn't hesitate, decisively passing the ball to Mayuzumi and encouraging him to take the shot with confidence.

Mayuzumi didn't know his own limitations. He'd only been converted into a "shadow" this year.

Catching the ball, he shot immediately and nailed the bucket.

"A shadow without offensive ability is a proper shadow."

"Not all that's new is better than the old."

Tendou was teaching Akashi a lesson.

Mayuzumi didn't score through Kuroko's elegant phantom shot or his disappearing dribble.

But a bucket was a bucket—and Mayuzumi was scoring consistently.

Players and audiences alike tend to follow the ball with their eyes.

As long as Mayuzumi kept scoring, he would gradually be exposed.

"You don't need to remind me," Akashi said calmly. "I understand that kind of cause and effect better than you."

He was fully aware that using Mayuzumi this way would burn through his misdirection time quickly.

But for Rakuzan, this was a golden opportunity to widen the score gap.

The key was whether Rakuzan could hold off Kirisaki Daiichi's offense.

If they could, then by the time Mayuzumi's misdirection ran out, Rakuzan would already have a solid lead.

In that case—

The sacrifice would be worth it.

...

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