Chapter 2 | The First Line

Full-court scrimmage was just a warm-up.

Coach Zhou Qiming knew this clearly, which is why he hadn’t made any marks on that first play, nor had he given Zero more than a glance. The real tryouts began with the second exercise—half-court scrimmage.

The gym was divided again into two courts, the white lines sharp underfoot. Zero stood outside the sideline, hearing the coach deliberately announce during team assignments:

“Second group, take on the Red Team.”

The Red Team had three returning school team members and a tall center from the sports class. When the roster was read, someone at the edge of the court let out a soft “tsk.”

Those who understood, understood.

It was both a test and a filter.

Zero stepped onto the court, standing at the baseline for the inbounds pass. He didn’t fight for the point guard spot, didn’t even reach for the ball—he simply positioned himself on the wing, slightly behind, a point habitually overlooked.

The whistle blew.

The ball was inbounded, and the Red Team immediately increased the intensity.

Zero didn’t touch the ball on the first possession.

The ball moved back and forth among his teammates, the Red Team pressing fiercely—tight defense, rapid switches, fast rotations. The tall center stood in the paint like a wall. Time ticked down, and the offense started to rush.

Five seconds left on the clock.

Finally, the ball was passed to Zero.

It wasn’t a planned play—it was desperation. No one else had an opening.

As he received it, the defender closed in. Long arms nearly blocked his vision. Zero didn’t retreat, didn’t force a drive. He simply pressed the ball downward.

One.

The defender instinctively mirrored him.

Zero lifted the ball with a subtle shoulder fake.

Not a shot—a feint.

The defender jumped, and Zero slipped under his arm. His steps were small but precise. He didn’t rush toward the hoop, instead stopping near the free-throw line, passing the ball outward.

Beyond the three-point line, a teammate shot.

Miss.

The Red Team center grabbed the rebound.

Someone at the sideline shook their head.

“What was that pass for?”

“That move could’ve gone up!”

Zero showed no expression.

He returned to defense, taking his position. The Red Team’s attack was fast, clearly trying to overpower his group physically. In the first possession, they scored through a strong inside play.

One to zero.

Second possession, Zero still didn’t go for the ball.

This time, it was stolen in the frontcourt.

Red Team countered—fast break, layup.

Three to zero.

The sideline atmosphere shifted. Some were already mentally marking the second group as underdogs. Coach Zhou Qiming stood with arms crossed, watching the court silently.

Third possession.

The ball came to Zero again, this time near midcourt.

The defender was the same as before, clearly pressing harder, almost on top of him. Zero could feel the opponent’s breath, even smell the sweat.

He didn’t retreat.

Dribble. Switch hands. Keep the ball low.

The defender’s steps began to falter.

Zero stepped left, then immediately pulled back, the ball brushing close to his shoe as it bounced. He slipped past the defender without contact, the space razor-thin.

In that instant, he saw the inside lane.

The tall center had rotated over.

Zero didn’t hesitate. He pulled the ball back, stopping.

The center couldn’t halt in time.

Zero angled sideways, threading the ball to the open corner.

Still a pass.

The player in the corner hesitated, then shot.

It went in.

Three to two.

No cheers.

But now the Red Team started talking.

“Lock onto Zero.”

“Don’t let him get moving.”

Zero returned to defense, breathing slightly heavier. He knew that basket wasn’t his score, but it was enough. At least now, they noticed him.

In the next few possessions, the Red Team clearly increased pressure on him. Two players took turns double-teaming, forcing him to give up the ball. Zero complied.

He didn’t force confrontation.

He knew when to disappear.

The score crept up and fell back. The second group, overall weaker than the Red Team, began to make mistakes. Some grew anxious, some started playing individually.

Zero observed, silent.

He appeared only when necessary.

With two minutes left, the score was 7–9.

Second group trailing by two.

During one defensive sequence, the Red Team’s guard tried a forceful drive, but Zero anticipated, cutting off the lane. No contact—just positioning. The ball stalled, passing lanes sealed.

Five-second violation.

Finally, some on the sideline lifted their heads.

Last possession.

The ball was inbounded, time ticking down. Zero stood at the top of the arc. This time, he raised his hand for the pass.

His teammate hesitated, then passed.

The defender pounced immediately.

Zero dribbled, slow and deliberate.

One.

Two.

Three seconds left.

Zero exploded.

Not acceleration—but a shift in direction.

The defender was left half a body behind. Zero didn’t charge to the rim; instead, he stopped a step inside the free-throw line and raised his hand.

Mid-range shot.

The instant it left his fingers, they were fully extended. Small hands, but clean form.

Bank shot—swish.

Nine to nine.

The whistle blew.

Overtime, or immediate stop—the coach didn’t announce yet. Zhou Qiming glanced at the scoreboard, then at Zero.

That look was brief.

But Zero saw it.

He knew he had crossed the first line.

Not because of that basket.

Because, from start to finish, he hadn’t made a single mistake.