The scoreboard flashed Easton 92 – Seiryō 92.

Two minutes and thirteen seconds left.

The crowd was on their feet—some screaming, some praying, all holding their breath.

The ball belonged to Easton.

Orson Kuga stood at the baseline, palms open, breathing slowly. His teammates—lined up across the court. They were the giants of Easton, each one taller, heavier, sharper. Yet, in that moment, all eyes seemed to center on the smallest among them.

Orson… the shortest player on the court.

The one the announcers barely mentioned.

The one everyone underestimated—until now.

"Ball in!" the referee called.

Sho slapped the ball into Orson's hands. He didn't hesitate.

Dribble. Step. Shift.

Orson moved like a whisper cutting through wind. His steps were small but sharp, every bounce of the ball syncing with the pulse of his heart. He feinted left—Marcus slid to cover—but the instant Marcus blinked, Orson switched rhythm, pulling back and fading into a jumper.

Swish.

94–92.

The crowd gasped. Even Kana and Ayaka stood up in disbelief from the Seiryō stands.

"Wait—wasn't he their smallest player?" Ayaka blinked. "How did he—?"

Kana folded her arms, a smirk breaking through her surprise. "He's not tall… but look at his timing. He knows exactly when to strike."

Marcus clenched his fists as he backpedaled. "Stay on him! Don't underestimate him!"

But Orson was already moving again. Easton's rhythm had changed—no longer dictated by Itsuki's control or Sho's tempo. It flowed through Orson now.

He darted through a screen, vanished under Daichi's arm, and reappeared at the arc. Sho lobbed the pass perfectly—Orson caught it, twisted mid-air, and shot before Marcus could even react.

Bang.

97–92.

The gym erupted.

"OR-SON! OR-SON! OR-SON!"

The chants thundered like rolling waves, echoing through the walls.

Up in the stands, students from both schools stared, mouths open. Some of the Seiryō first-years whispered to each other.

"That's Orson Kuga, right? He's, what, 5'3"?"

"Yeah, but he plays like he's 6'8"… how does he do that?"

"Look at his elevation—he times it perfectly with their screens."

Kana's eyes glinted. "He doesn't waste a single motion. Every step is a weapon."

Ayaka crossed her arms. "Still, Marcus and Yuuto won't just sit back. You'll see."

On the court, Yuuto watched from the corner, still panting.

Orson's movements—his rhythm—weren't random. There was a story in them. Every bounce of the ball carried something deeper than just training.

Then it hit Yuuto.

He's small… but he's free.

Yuuto's chest tightened. His mind flashed—his own memories playing like film reels under the gym lights.

[Flashback: Orson's Childhood]

A younger Orson stood in a dusty neighborhood court.

The hoop was crooked. The lines were faded.

He wore shoes too big for him—hand-me-downs from his brother.

"Orson, you can't play center. You're too short," his coach had said, voice blunt but not cruel. "Maybe… maybe just stick to passing."

Orson had looked up, eyes burning. "But I want to score, Coach. I can shoot. I can jump—"

"Jumping won't help when someone's six inches taller," the coach sighed. "Basketball's about height, kid. That's just reality."

That word stuck to him.

Reality.

He remembered walking home with the ball clutched in both hands, dirt clinging to his knees, shoes scraping the road.

At every street corner, he'd hear echoes from other kids, laughing.

"Hey, Short King! You sure you didn't get lost on your way to soccer practice?"

He didn't shout back. He didn't argue.

He just went home, went to the roof, and jumped.

Once.

Twice.

A hundred times.

He jumped until the night sky blurred. Until his legs burned. Until his tears dried from the wind.

"I'll show them," he whispered to the stars. "I'll make height mean nothing."

From then on, Orson practiced at night when everyone else slept.

He studied taller players' movements—how they timed their shots, how their weight shifted, how long their jumps lasted.

And he learned one thing.

Height gives you reach.

But timing gives you power.

[Back to the Present]

Orson's face was calm now, unreadable. But behind that calm, the same fire burned—the fire of the boy who refused to let "reality" define him.

He cut again, slipped past Marcus, caught Sho's pass, and drove inside. Daichi jumped to contest, towering above him like a wall.

Orson didn't stop. He floated.

His knees bent, his back arched, his hand extended—and for one perfect instant, he hung in the air longer than gravity allowed.

Swoosh.

99–92.

Third straight bucket.

Sho jogged over, slapping his back. "You're on fire, Orson."

Orson's lips twitched. "Nah. Just finally tall enough to reach the sky."

The Seiryō bench was silent.

Coach Aoyama crossed his arms. "He's tearing us apart with pure rhythm. Look at his spacing—he's timing our every defensive switch."

Marcus gritted his teeth. "He's small, but he's not afraid of the paint…"

Yuuto murmured under his breath. "It's not about being afraid. It's about believing you belong there."

Marcus turned. "What?"

Yuuto's eyes burned. "He's like me."

The game resumed. Seiryō pushed back. Marcus drove hard to the rim, drawing contact—missed. Daichi rebounded, tried to tip it in—blocked by Itsuki.

Orson caught the rebound mid-air. Despite being the shortest player, his body twisted perfectly, shielding the ball as he landed and pushed up-court.

Marcus sprinted to intercept. "Not this time!"

But Orson didn't flinch. He planted, crossed over with a low dribble that slipped past Marcus's knee, spun, and passed behind his back to Ajax—

—then sprinted to the corner.

Ajax didn't hesitate.

He kicked it right back.

Orson caught it.

No hesitation. No fear.

Pull-up three.

Bang.

102–92.

Four straight buckets.

The smallest player on the court now controlled the entire arena.

Up in the stands, Kana whispered, "He's rewriting what it means to dominate."

Ayaka nodded slowly. "Height doesn't measure hunger."

A boy behind them—a first-year from Seiryō—shouted, "He's unstoppable! Someone stop him!"

Kana turned her head, her expression serious. "You can't stop someone who already accepted his limits and built past them."

Timeout.

Seiryō's bench was quiet, except for the sound of sneakers squeaking and labored breathing.

Marcus sat forward, towel over his head. "He's short… and he's killing us."

Coach Aoyama crouched down. "Height didn't stop him from finding his timing. You're overthinking, Marcus. You're trying to fight his story instead of writing your own."

Marcus looked up, stunned.

Yuuto stood, rolling his shoulders. "Coach, put me back in."

The coach blinked. "You sure?"

Yuuto's grin was confident. "Short guy to short guy. Let me handle this."

Coach Aoyama smirked. "Alright. You're in."

Marcus nodded, determination returning. "Then let's show them what we're made of."

The whistle blew.

Yuuto stepped onto the court. The crowd's noise dimmed under the electric tension.

Orson saw him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat.

Two short kings.

Two underdogs.

Two players who refused to bow to reality.

Yuuto smiled. "You've got heart, Orson."

Orson's smirk widened. "You too. Let's see whose burns brighter."

The inbound came fast.

Yuuto dribbled.

Orson mirrored.

For a second, the whole gym faded—no crowd, no scoreboard, no noise—just two players connected by shared defiance.

Yuuto faked right. Orson followed.

Yuuto spun left. Orson anticipated.

Yuuto jumped—shot fake—Orson jumped too—Yuuto passed mid-air to Marcus—Marcus pulled from deep.

Swish!

102–95.

Marcus yelled, "Let's go!"

Orson landed, teeth clenched. "Nice play…"

Sho called out, "Orson—next possession's yours. End it strong."

Orson nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah… this one's mine.

Orson dribbled slowly, eyes fixed on Yuuto.

Yuuto crouched low, every muscle coiled.

Both small. Both quick. Both alive.

Sho set the screen. Orson slipped it. Yuuto followed.

Orson drove left—Yuuto's hand grazed the ball—Orson spun, leaped, twisted mid-air—

Yuuto jumped, hand extended—

—blocked!

The ball ricocheted.

Marcus caught it.

Fast break.

Yuuto sprinted down. Marcus lobbed it.

Yuuto caught mid-air, turned, and launched a three.

Bang!

102–98.

The crowd roared so loud the floor trembled.

Kana jumped to her feet. "Let's go, Yuuto!"

Ayaka clapped hard, eyes shining. "He's matching Orson's fire!"

On the other end, Orson grinned. "Heh. I guess the next short king's already here."

Yuuto smirked back. "And he's not backing down."

The clock ticked down—final possession.

The two shortest players on the court locked eyes again.

This time, there were no limits. No doubts. No "too small."

Just fire.

Just belief.

Just kings

The crowd exploded.

102–98.

But more than the score, the stadium felt something electric—something deeper.

The era of the Short Kings had begun.

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