Basketball System: Hate Makes Me Unstoppable-Chapter 374: Hate Makes Me Unstoppable.

(Side Story-2)

I've spent my whole life on the sidelines. Watching. Coaching. Guiding others to do what I could never do myself.

It started when I was a kid, completely consumed by basketball. My family had enough money to send me to the U.S. for high school, and for a while, I thought I was on my way.

Coaches loved my basketball IQ—I could see plays unfold before they happened, read defenses like an open book. Teammates trusted me because I made them better. I wasn't the fastest or the strongest, but I always knew where to be, how to move, how to make the right decision.

But by my senior year, reality hit.

I stopped growing.

At 5'7" (1.7m), no amount of court vision or basketball smarts could make up for what I lacked in height. The whispers started. "He's good, but... too small. Too slow. Not athletic enough." And just like that, my NBA dream slipped through my fingers. No one said it outright, but I could feel it—every scout, every coach, every teammate. They all saw my ceiling before I did.

By the time I graduated college, I'd accepted it. The league wasn't for me. Coaching, though? That was something I could do. Something I was good at. I found joy in helping young players get better, in crafting strategies, in watching my plays come to life on the court—even if I wasn't the one executing them.

My first job was as a volunteer assistant at a local high school. The pay was nonexistent, but I didn't care. I was around the game, and that was enough. Eventually, I worked my way up to a full-time assistant coaching position at a small Division III college. The hours were brutal, the pay barely enough to cover rent, but I made it work. My family's modest financial support kept me from sinking, and basketball kept me going.

When I wasn't on the court, I was in front of my computer, breaking down film and creating training videos for social media. My series on zone defenses and pick-and-roll strategies gained a small following. I'd get DMs from coaches and players thanking me for the content, asking for advice. It felt good, like I was making an impact, even if it was small. Even if it was from the sidelines.

But the grind wore me down. Late nights editing videos turned into early mornings at practice. I started skipping meals, ignoring the dull ache in my chest, the headaches that wouldn't go away. My friends told me to slow down, to take care of myself, but I couldn't. Basketball wasn't just my job. It was my identity. My purpose. Without it, I didn't know who I was.

That night was like any other. I was sitting at my desk, reviewing film from our last game. My laptop's fan whirred loudly, struggling against the heat of too many tabs and too much footage. A half-eaten sandwich sat next to a cold cup of coffee. My back ached from hours of hunching over, but I ignored it. There was always one more play to analyze, one more clip to edit, one more way to make my team better.

I paused the footage, leaned back in my chair, and rubbed my eyes. My head throbbed, my vision blurred for a moment. Probably just tired, I told myself. I'd felt this way before. I'd push through it, like I always did.

Then everything went dark.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my apartment anymore. The air smelled of salt, and the sound of crashing waves filled my ears. I blinked, disoriented, as sunlight streamed down from a cloudless sky. Sand clung to my hands as I pushed myself upright.

"What the..." The words came out raspy, my voice alien to my own ears. I looked down, expecting to see my familiar, calloused fingers, but what I saw stopped me cold. These hands were larger, veined, powerful—the kind of hands that looked like they belonged to an athlete in his prime.

I tried to stand, but my legs felt unsteady. Longer. Stronger. My balance was off. Every move I made felt alien, as if I was trying to operate someone else's body. My heart pounded as I stumbled forward, my feet sinking into the sand.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the water—and froze.

It wasn't me.

The face staring back was unfamiliar. The jawline was sharper, the shoulders broader. My chest heaved as I raised a hand to my face, my touch confirming what I couldn't deny. This wasn't my body. It was someone else's—taller, leaner, more athletic.

I felt panic clawing at my throat, threatening to suffocate me. Was this a dream? Some kind of hallucination? My breaths came faster, shallow and erratic. The more I looked at myself, the less I understood. My mind raced, grasping for answers, for logic, but there was none.

And then I heard it.

Welcome to the Hater System.

The voice was cold, mechanical, and yet it felt as though it was speaking directly into my mind.

Hate fuels greatness. Let the world doubt you. Let the world mock you. And let that fuel turn you into the impossible.

I staggered back, clutching my head as the words reverberated inside me like a bell tolling in the emptiness. "What... what the hell is this?" I muttered, my voice trembling.

Memories surged forward like a tidal wave. The long nights at my desk, the exhaustion, the relentless pressure I'd placed on myself to do more, to be more. The moment I'd collapsed, the sharp pain in my chest, and the sudden blackness that followed.

I died. The realization hit me like a freight train. I'd worked myself to death, my obsession consuming me until there was nothing left.

And now... this?

I looked down at my hands again, flexing them experimentally. They felt powerful, capable of things I'd never been able to do before. I could feel the anger bubbling up—not at this new body, or the voice in my head, but at everything I'd been denied in my first life. The chances I never got. The ceiling I was forced to accept.

But beneath the anger was something else. Determination. If this was a second chance—if this was my second life—I wasn't going to waste it.

I clenched my fists, feeling the strength in them. The strength I'd always dreamed of having. The strength to prove every doubter, every critic, every whisper that said "he's not good enough" dead wrong.

"Fine," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "Let them hate me. Let them doubt me."

Because for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to belong.

This time, I felt unstoppable.

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Translator's note:

So, the original novel wrapped up at 415 Chapters, but honestly? The ending left me feeling unsatisfied. It felt rushed, with so many plot points left hanging. It's like the story was sprinting to the finish line without tying up loose ends. That didn't sit right with me, so I've decided to write some side stories as a way to fill in the gaps and give the story the closure it deserves.

I've also got to admit—I hated the original title of the novel. It just didn't click for me. So, I gave it my own twist without really overthinking it. But then it hit me: why not give the title some real meaning, something tied directly to the story? And that's how this Chapter came to be.

This side story was my way of making the title more than just words. Now, it reflects Han's journey—his struggles, his transformation, and his mindset.

So.. what do you think?