Chapter 1 | Zero

The gym’s doors were made of iron, and pushing them open let out a sharp scraping sound.

In the quiet of the early morning, that noise sounded especially out of place, as if someone were deliberately announcing—someone is already here. Zero paused for a moment before stepping inside. He swung his backpack to the other shoulder, and his shoes made a half-awake echo against the floor.

The gym was large—and old.

The wooden floor had been polished so many times its original light color had darkened to yellow. Near the three-point line, a few patched areas looked like scars. The hoop’s white net wasn’t uniform—one side was new, the other worn, stretched long and sagging like tired breath.

Zero stood at center court and glanced at the scoreboard. The red numbers were all black—powerless. He knew it was still early, but he had come anyway.

Today was the first day of the school team tryouts.

The official tryouts wouldn’t start until nine. It was only seven forty now. The gym was empty of coaches and referees, filled only with the few who had arrived early and the faint smell of rubber in the air.

He was the third to arrive.

The first was shooting near the baseline. His movements were textbook—nothing extraordinary in his jump, but his release was steady, and the ball barely made a sound as it brushed the net. The second was stretching, seated at the edge of the court with an old towel across his knees, head down, expression hidden.

Zero didn’t greet them.

He set his bag against the wall, took off his jacket, revealing a slightly faded training shirt underneath. His number was Zero, the print fraying at the edges. He hadn’t chosen it deliberately—it was leftover from the previous team, discarded and unclaimed.

Zero. It suited him.

He moved to one side and began the most basic warm-up. Ankles, knees, lower back—each movement slow and precise. His form wasn’t flashy, maybe even a little conservative, but there was nothing unnecessary.

The sound of his feet brushing the floor was soft.

Zero picked up a basketball and dribbled with one hand. The ball stayed below his knees. His hands weren’t large; his fingers couldn’t spread far, but every touch was clean, the ball snapping back to his palm almost instantly, as if pulled by invisible strings.

No fancy tricks.

Just dribbling.

Switch hands, pull back, forward and backward—the rhythm was so even it didn’t feel like warm-up, more like a calibration.

He was feeling out the day.

At seven fifty-five, the gym doors opened again, louder this time. More people were coming in.

Footsteps, chatter, zipper pulls, basketballs hitting the floor—the pace suddenly quickened. Someone called out a teammate’s name; someone else scanned the room, looking for familiar faces.

Zero heard laughter.

“Looks like a lot of people this year.”

“Of course, senior year. If you don’t fight, you’re done.”

“I heard there are two sports-track students.”

“Really? Then they’re here to steal spots.”

The chatter spread across the gym like a thin fog. Zero kept dribbling, head down. His world narrowed to the ball and the floor’s rebound.

“Hey, who’s that?”

Someone suddenly pointed at him.

“Which one?”

“The guy wearing number Zero.”

Zero paused his dribble.

He looked up and saw a few boys standing beyond the three-point line staring at him. The one who spoke wasn’t tall but broad-shouldered—a familiar face from the school team.

“Never seen him before.”

“New guy, maybe?”

“Zero?” The boy smiled. “Nobody usually takes that number.”

“Probably just picked it up.”

The laugh was soft but clear.

Zero lowered his head and resumed dribbling. The sound of the ball hitting the floor came back, steadier than before. He knew the words weren’t hostile—at least, not entirely. Every year, the gym was like this: newcomers had to be looked at first, judged if they were worth remembering.

At nine sharp, the coach arrived.

He pushed the door open, his presence heavier than anyone else’s. The dribbling stopped almost instantly. Zero tucked the ball under his arm and straightened.

The coach, surnamed Zhou, was in his forties, wearing a dark tracksuit, hair cropped short. His eyes swept across the court without a word, then nodded.

“Gather.”

The voice was calm but firm.

Everyone quickly ran to center court and formed a circle. Zero stood at the back—not pushing forward, not deliberately retreating. His position was perfect: unobstructive, yet unblocked.

The coach began roll call.

Names were read one by one, some crisply, some hesitantly. When “Zero” was called, the coach paused.

“Zero?”

Zero stepped forward.

“Here.”

His voice was quiet, but unwavering.

The coach glanced at him, eyes briefly resting on his hands before moving on.

In that instant, Zero understood.

The coach had seen him.

Seen his small hands, his lack of physical advantage. And precisely because of that, he was standing here.

The tryouts started immediately—no speeches, no idle chatter. Grouping, scrimmages, movement drills, basic tests.

Zero was in the second group.

The first round was a full-court push. Time limit, maintain possession past half-court, no turnovers.

The whistle blew. Zero received the ball.

An opponent immediately closed in—half a head taller, long arms. Pressure hit him instantly. Zero didn’t speed up or fake; he simply lowered his stance and kept the ball low.

One step.

Two steps.

The defender reached for the ball.

Zero stepped back slightly, switched hands cleanly, with no extra flicks. In that moment, the defender lost his balance.

Zero passed by his side.

Not fast, but precise.

He glanced at the front court and passed the ball. His teammate caught it and scored.

No whistle, no comment from the coach.

Zero returned to the back of the line, breathing steady.

No one applauded.

But the boy who had laughed earlier no longer looked at him.

Zero knew this was just the beginning.

On this floor, he was still nothing.

But at least, he wasn’t ignored.