Tendou Kageyoshi and Harasawa Katsunori soon went their separate ways.
He didn't directly agree, only saying he'd consider it.
Harasawa looked at the now-empty seat across from him, thought for a moment, and realized what Tendou Kageyoshi meant with that one sentence.
"So it's about the competitiveness between geniuses..." He let out a sigh.
He understood that mindset.
Back when he made the national team, he too had thoughts like that.
Wanting to outshine the other star players on the team and become the undisputed leader.
The world of basketball is, in truth, one of rigid hierarchy.
A team can only have one franchise player, a second option, and a third.
Jordan and Pippen were like that. So were Shaq and Kobe.
Jordan and Pippen could coexist only because Jordan was overwhelmingly dominant and could completely suppress Pippen.
Plus, Pippen wasn't particularly ambitious—he had a few screws loose.
During the Bulls' championship run, Jordan was already making a league-high $30 million salary.
And Pippen? Despite being a clear-cut second option and arguably the league's best small forward, he only made about $3 million a year.
Was this because Pippen lacked ability? Or was it the Bulls' management's fault?
Neither.
It was Pip's own short-sightedness.
His rookie contract was 6 years, $5 million, and by the 1990–91 season, the Bulls had just won their first title.
Pippen was also due for a contract extension.
And that moment coincided with Jordan's domination, the explosion of NBA popularity, and the league's looming salary boom.
The Bulls' GM was actually pretty decent and even warned him—he advised Pippen to take a short-term deal so he could re-sign for more later.
But Pip, without grand ambition and plagued by back issues, was terrified of an injury ruining him before he secured long-term financial stability.
Even Jordan tried to talk him out of it. But in the end, Pippen signed a 7-year, $20 million deal.
And sure enough, just two and a half years later, NBA salaries skyrocketed. Rookie players were demanding $100 million contracts, refusing to sign otherwise.
Watching that unfold had Pippen grinding his teeth in envy.
He was already one of the league's best players and a proven champion—yet his salary didn't even measure up to the tail end of some rookies' contracts.
Absolutely tragic!
Anyway, back to the story.
After sorting through his thoughts, Harasawa understood what Tendou meant.
NBA history has seen many star duos, but most don't end like Jordan and Pippen—succeeding and staying on good terms.
Just look at Shaq and Kobe.
Two proud, immensely talented players ended up butting heads over status until they had no choice but to part ways.
Tendou Kageyoshi's words carried that implication.
He, along with Midorima, Aomine, Akashi, and Murasakibara—they're all geniuses.
And between them, competition has already begun. Once they hit high school, there's no way they'll play on the same team again.
They're bound to clash and find out who's the real number one.
Nijimura Shūzō too.
Tendou clearly doesn't plan on teaming up with Nijimura in high school again. With an "old captain" still around, how could he become the leader of his future team?
Harasawa could only shake his head in resignation.
Because if he had to choose right now, he'd still choose Nijimura Shūzō.
After all, as of now, Nijimura is still one of the top junior high players in the country and is a year older than Tendou and the others.
Harasawa was already itching to knock Rakuzan off their throne.
He had no interest in walking around with the label of "nouveau riche."
...
That night, at home.
After celebrating their first victory with the team, Tendou came home and told Amanai Riko about Harasawa's offer.
Riko thought it was a shame.
Because of Tendou, she had started paying attention to basketball.
And she knew that Tōō Academy carried a lot of weight in the Tokyo area.
They'd taken down Tokyo's "Big Three" for two years running, and now they had their sights set on Rakuzan.
"He's thinking too far ahead. He wants to scoop all of us up at once."
"Isn't that normal?"
"Thinking that way is fine. Actually doing it? That's the problem."
"I don't get it."
"If you did, you wouldn't be Amanai Riko."
Riko: (〃＞皿＜)!
Tendou ruffled her hair, smiling without answering further.
Right now, within Teikō, there was already fierce competition among the first-years.
Shirogane Kōzō had only made Tendou and Murasakibara starters.
Other than Aomine—who constantly vowed to outplay Tendou—both Midorima and Akashi were holding back their own frustration.
They were all geniuses—why should I be any worse than you?
You had to admit, Shirogane's motivational tactics were genius. Without saying a word, he had stoked a competitive fire in all the first-years.
On the court, and off it.
To earn a starting spot, Aomine and the others would work harder in practice.
And to keep their spots, Tendou and Murasakibara had to stay sharp and never slack off.
In the end, all that competitiveness would translate directly into victories for Teikō.
...
"Still, I really didn't expect Tendou and the others to play so well in their first official match."
In a traditional Japanese izakaya, Shirogane Kōzō and his assistant were seated across from one another, discussing the team's young prodigies.
"That's what makes geniuses so impossible to reason with." Shirogane swirled his glass and downed it in one gulp.
"I think we should give the first-years more opportunities," the assistant said, looking over the data Momoi had compiled from today's match.
He was surprised to find that, outside of Nijimura Shūzō, none of Teikō's upperclassmen had performed as well as the first-years.
If they made the starting lineup: Akashi, Midorima, Tendou, Nijimura, and Murasakibara...
Then Teikō's starting five would reach an entirely new level.
That would also free Aomine to go wild during rotation minutes and maximize his scoring potential.
Right now, the most explosive scorer was Tendou Kageyoshi.
When his three-pointer got going, he became unstoppable.
But in terms of consistency and floor, Aomine was the most reliable scorer.
Even playing casually, 2 points at a time, he could still put up 20+ every game.
Shirogane just chuckled. "It's still too early. Let them keep growing."
"I have a feeling... our dream of a national tournament three-peat is about to come true."
Three-peat?!
The assistant's eyes widened.
Winning even one national title was tough enough—three was practically legendary.
But...
It might really happen. If these first-years kept progressing like this, Teikō just might pull off an unprecedented feat.
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