Chapter 3 | The One They’re Targeting

Overtime wasn’t played.

Coach Zhou Qiming raised his hand to signal the end of the game and blew a short whistle. The sounds in the gym dispersed immediately—some exhaled in relief, while others were still frozen in thought over the last play.

Zero returned the ball to the sideline and walked toward the bench. His palms were sweaty, his fingertips tingling, but his breathing had begun to even out. When he sat down, no one spoke to him, and no one deliberately avoided him. Everything felt… normal.

Normal, he knew, often meant a new beginning.

Coach Zhou jotted a few notes on the sidelines, flipped a page, and glanced at Zero, who stood a short distance away. He didn’t call his name—just noted the number.

Number Zero.

The third test began quickly: one-on-one defensive rotations.

This was the exercise most players hated. No plays, no screens, everything was magnified. Whoever feared contact, had slow feet, or lacked confidence—their weaknesses were immediately exposed.

Zero was assigned to the first round.

His opponent was the Red Team’s guard: fast, explosive, a veteran of the school team. They faced each other at the top of the arc, the surrounding space cleared.

“Start.”

The whistle blew. The opponent exploded forward, almost colliding with Zero as he drove inward.

Zero stepped back.

Not pushed—he had yielded deliberately. His steps were small but continuous, keeping half a step alongside the opponent. When the defender attempted a direction change, Zero shifted slightly, cutting off the lane.

Second change of direction.

Third.

The attacker’s rhythm began to falter.

He tried to force a drive; when his body pressed close, Zero didn’t reach for the ball—he simply held his position. The ball rose awkwardly, his tempo broken.

Shot.

Off target.

Someone on the sideline let out a surprised “huh.”

Now it was Zero’s turn on offense.

The ball came to him, and the defender immediately pressed, even more aggressively than before. Zero dribbled, no probing, just stepped right.

The defender followed.

Zero stopped suddenly, switched the ball from right to left hand, dribbling close to the floor. He didn’t accelerate—he used the defender’s forward momentum to slip past the other side.

One step.

Two steps.

Under the basket.

Layup.

The ball went in.

The whole sequence was brief, without any superfluous motion.

Coach Zhou glanced up at him.

Next round, a new opponent.

This time, the tall center from the sports class. His height advantage was obvious; standing in front of Zero, his shadow nearly engulfed him.

Someone on the sideline shook their head.

“Short guy vs. tall guy… no chance.”

Whistle.

The tall player didn’t rush; he used his body to control the pace, dribbling with his back to Zero, inching inward. He wanted to solve it with strength.

Zero stepped aside.

Not retreating—sidestepping. He stayed on the center’s power side, never letting him drive directly forward.

After three collisions, the center lost patience and spun for a shot.

Zero didn’t jump.

He simply raised a hand to obscure the view.

The shot fell short.

Zero’s turn.

The tall player spread his arms wide, trying to cut off all lanes.

Zero dribbled, slowly, almost casually.

One.

Two.

Then he stepped forward, forcing the opponent to retreat instinctively.

In that instant, Zero collected the ball, stopped, and rose for a shot.

Mid-range.

The tall player jumped—but a beat too late.

Swish.

This time, no one on the sideline made a sound.

The tests continued.

One, two, three rounds.

Zero wasn’t the one scoring the most points, but he made the fewest mistakes. He didn’t have to score every shot, but he was rarely broken, rarely overpowered.

By the final round, Coach Zhou closed his notebook.

“Ten-minute break.”

The gym finally grew lively. People discussed the previous matchups, some went to get water, some glanced quietly at Zero.

The boy who had laughed at him the first day approached.

“You’re Zero, right?”

Zero nodded.

“That mid-range shot earlier—pretty solid.”

Zero didn’t respond.

The boy smiled, said nothing more, and turned away.

Ten minutes passed quickly.

Coach Zhou called everyone back to center court.

“The roster won’t be announced today,” he said, “but a few players—I’ve already remembered.”

His gaze lingered on several individuals.

On Zero, it lingered the longest.

“Tomorrow, the intensity goes up,” Zhou added. “If it’s not for you, you’ll know.”

Zero stood still among the crowd.

He knew clearly: being remembered was not necessarily a good thing.

It meant—

Starting tomorrow, he would be deliberately marked.