Chapter 8 | The Outside World

The notice for the off-campus game went up on Monday.

A plain sheet of paper, black letters, pinned to the bulletin board outside the gym. Time, location, opponent—simple, unadorned.

A city-level warm-up match.

The opponent was a school with a strong basketball tradition.

Zero stood in front of the board, staring for a long time. Not out of nervousness, but because he recognized the school’s name from news reports.

Real basketball wasn’t inside the school team.

It was out there.

The departure was on Saturday.

The bus waited at the school gate, a little worn, the engine humming low. Players boarded one by one—some with headphones, some whispering to each other, some resting against the windows.

Zero sat toward the back, in the middle, backpack at his feet.

As the bus started moving, the campus slowly receded. Familiar buildings, the track, the walls—vanishing little by little. Inside, a feeling he couldn’t describe settled in.

Like being gently pushed forward.

The game venue was newer than the school gym.

Lights bright, floor clean, the stands sparsely filled. The opponents were already warming up—uniformed, synchronized, fast-paced.

Zero immediately spotted their point guard.

Not tall, but broad-shouldered, body leaning forward while dribbling. The sound of the ball hitting the floor was heavy, purposeful.

Not school-level pace.

Game pace.

During warm-ups, the opposing team barely noticed them. Shooting, cutting, passing—everything on their own rhythm.

Zero felt the gap.

Not in skill—but in fluency.

Before the game started, Coach Zhou gave simple instructions:

“First five minutes, don’t think about winning,” he said. “Just survive.”

The starting lineup was read.

Point guard—Zero.

He stood up, heartbeat rising. Walking onto the court, standing at midcourt, he finally saw the opponent’s eyes lift toward him.

Expressionless.

The whistle blew.

The opposing point guard accelerated on the first step.

Zero was left behind.

Not slow judgment—too fast a defender. By the time he caught up, the ball had already been passed, rolled down, and finished in a layup.

Two seconds.

Zero returned to position, breathing uneven.

Second possession.

The opponent still targeted him.

High pick-and-roll. Zero was hung up half a beat. Mid-range shot—good.

Whispers from the sideline.

“Sub him out.”

Third possession.

The pressure increased.

As Zero crossed half-court, the defender rushed, physicality cranked up. Zero was forced to pass—but passing lanes were already read.

Steal.

Fast break.

The score quickly widened.

Coach Zhou didn’t call timeout.

Zero stood on the court, feeling powerless for the first time.

The rhythm he had built on the school team didn’t work here at all.

Fourth possession.

Zero adjusted his position, dribbled over half-court deliberately slowing down.

The opponent didn’t rush.

At that instant, Zero initiated—not a break, but a shift in pace.

He stopped abruptly, pulled the ball back, reorganized.

No turnover. A teammate completed a shaky attack.

Missed.

But at least—they survived.

For the next few possessions, Zero stopped trying to match speed.

He began to stall, create space, dismantle pressure with passes. Fewer mistakes, but scoring remained difficult.

First quarter ended.

They were down by double digits.

Zero returned to the bench, hands shaking.

Coach Zhou crouched in front of him.

“Felt it?” the coach asked.

Zero nodded.

“No one knows you here,” Zhou said. “Your mid-range shots yesterday? Worthless out here.”

He paused.

“But those few minutes just now… were right.”

Zero looked up.

“Remember this feeling,” Zhou said, “What you just experienced? This is the world you’ll be playing in from now on.”

Zero took a deep breath.

Finally, he understood.

The school team’s position was just the doorway.

Outside—was real basketball.