The horn echoed through the arena, marking the start of the third quarter. The air was hot and electric – one side roaring for Seirin's miracle run, the other confident in Shūtoku's calm command.
From the tip, Seirin moved differently. No panic, no rushed plays – just focused execution.
Izuki crossed half-court and passed off to Kuroko. In a blink, Kuroko slipped past Takao and fed Hyūga off a double screen. The captain rose in rhythm – perfect form. Swish.
Riko clenched her fist from the sideline. That's one.
Shūtoku brought the ball back without hurry. Takao called a simple set, and the formation unfolded like clockwork – Midorima up top, Kimura and Miyaji wide, Ōtsubo drifting near the arc again.
But the ball didn't go to Midorima this time. Kimura drove baseline, slashing past Izuki and finishing softly off the glass. Just two points – exactly as Riko had planned.
On the next possession, Seirin ran the same play. Kuroko vanished for a heartbeat, reappeared at the corner, and passed to Hyūga – again wide open. Swish.
The crowd roared louder this time. Hyūga's eyes burned now, every shot landing with sharper precision.
"Keep it going!" Kagami shouted as they retreated on defense.
Shūtoku stayed patient. No isolation, no panic. Midorima dribbled at the top, eyes scanning – then swung it to Miyaji. A quick fake, a step inside the arc, jumper – clean. Two points, smooth as a metronome.
For several minutes, the rhythm stayed the same – Seirin's threes against Shūtoku's twos. Every time Seirin struck, the roar shook the court. Every time Shūtoku answered, they silenced it again.
By mid-quarter, the scoreboard read: Shūtoku 71 – Seirin 65.
Six points.
Riko shouted from the sideline, clipboard raised. "Perfect spacing! Keep moving the ball!"
Kuroko darted along the baseline, baiting Takao before flipping another pass behind his back. Izuki caught, pump-faked, and kicked out to Hyūga. Three defenders lunged – too late. Bang.
The deficit dropped to three. Seirin's bench jumped to their feet.
Even the Shūtoku fans murmured uneasily, but their team remained composed. Takao brought the ball up and gave a small grin to Midorima. "You can feel it, huh?"
Midorima nodded slightly. "They're playing their best basketball."
Next possession – Takao called a shift. Ōtsubo moved outside again, dragging Teppei with him. Midorima held the ball at the top, drawing Kagami's focus. Then, with a flick, he passed to Miyaji on the wing. Miyaji cut hard to the paint. No one was there – Kiyoshi was already pulled out by Ōtsubo. Easy layup. Two more points.
Shūtoku's rhythm never faltered. They didn't need to match Seirin's fire with more fire – they just needed to keep feeding the calm. Kimura's floaters fell. Ōtsubo slipped in for a quiet tip-in. Takao's midrange jumper off a screen swished cleanly.
Every time Seirin closed in, Shūtoku stayed just a step ahead. Each play was precise, patient – a chess match played in motion.
Late in the quarter, Kagami exploded down the lane. Ōtsubo stepped up too late – and Kagami's dunk shook the rim so hard the gym vibrated. Seirin's bench went wild.
The scoreboard blinked: Shūtoku 79 – Seirin 76.
Just three points.
But Midorima didn't even blink. He took the inbound, walked it up, and surveyed the floor. No theatrics. No hesitation. Kimura set a soft screen. Midorima faked, stepped through, and dished it to Miyaji cutting baseline again.
Layup. Two more.
Takao clapped his hands once as they jogged back. "Fourth quarter is ours."
Midorima nodded.
Riko noticed that small exchange and frowned. They're hiding something.
But the clock didn't stop – neither did the game.
Seirin kept firing. Hyūga hit another three at the buzzer, pulling the difference back to four. The whistle blew, signaling the end of the third.
The crowd erupted into applause – both sides standing, both teams drenched in sweat.
End of 3rd Quarter: Shūtoku 85 – Seirin 81.
~~~~~
Kuroko exhaled slowly, watching Midorima walk back to his bench. The green-haired shooter didn't look tired – if anything, he looked refreshed. Focused. Anticipating.
Hyūga patted Kuroko's shoulder. "We're close. Just one good run."
But from the other bench, Takao leaned toward Midorima and grinned. "You ready to go wild?"
Midorima adjusted his glasses and looked up at the scoreboard. His voice was calm, almost quiet.
"Yeah," he said. "It's time we show them our last card."
The whistle for the fourth quarter loomed. And both sides – Seirin with their blazing hearts, Shūtoku with their poised precision – knew the next ten minutes would decide everything.
~~~~~
The whistle for the fourth quarter cut through the air like a knife. But as the teams lined up, something in Shūtoku's huddle had shifted. Takao's grin had faded, replaced with quiet focus. Ōtsubo nodded once toward Midorima, whose expression was unreadable. They all knew what was coming.
Seirin didn't.
Riko crossed her arms tightly from the sideline. Kagami's sitting on four fouls. We have to be careful now.
But before she could even give the signal, it happened.
On the first possession, Midorima caught the ball on the wing. One dribble, a shoulder fake – Kagami lunged to contest. Midorima leaned in. Contact. Whistle. And-one.
The shot swished cleanly.
Kagami froze. "Wait, I barely–"
"Foul number five," the referee said calmly.
Riko's clipboard snapped. "Bench! Kagami, bench!"
The crowd buzzed in disbelief. Kagami slammed his towel down as he sat.
Kuroko placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll hold them off."
Kagami gritted his teeth. "You better."
Without Seirin's ace, the air changed. Midorima could smell it – the opening. All that patience through the first three quarters, the extra passes, the mid-range control – it had all been preparation. Now he moved like an entirely different player. The only fresh player on the court.
Takao fed him the ball again at the top of the arc. Midorima jabbed, stepped back, rose over Hyūga's reach. Bang.
Next play, he cut across the screen, drew contact mid-air, and finished again. Whistle. And-one.
Then another. And another. The scoreboard blinked faster than the crowd could count.
~~~~~
Up in the stands, Kise leaned forward, his jaw hanging slightly open. "Midorimacchi… he's not even blinking anymore."
Momoi's notebook was half-forgotten in her lap. "He's baiting everything. He's reading them perfectly."
"Even Aominecchi couldn't score like this," Kise whispered.
Momoi didn't answer at first. Her eyes were locked on Midorima, whose rhythm had become frighteningly precise. "No… not like this. Aomine overwhelms people. New Midorima dismantles them."
~~~~~
Seirin tried everything. They sent help defense – foul. They sent a first-year – foul. Another first-year – foul again.
Every drive turned into three points. Every three turned into four.
The announcer's voice was trembling with excitement and disbelief. "Another one for Midorima! That's forty points in this quarter alone!"
The crowd had lost its rhythm – they weren't cheering one side anymore. They were witnessing history.
By the final minute, Seirin's defense was exhausted. Hyūga was gasping for air, Teppei's knees were shaking. Midorima dribbled out the clock, Takao standing beside him, smiling faintly.
"You sure about this?" Takao asked quietly.
Midorima nodded once. "Might as well finish it."
He stepped back – deep beyond the arc. Hyūga jumped late, hand brushing his wrist. Contact. Swish. Whistle. Four more points.
The buzzer screamed. The scoreboard froze: Shūtoku 123 – Seirin 101.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the announcer's voice rang through the gym, half awe, half disbelief.
"Ladies and gentlemen – Shintarō Midorima finishes tonight's game with 81 points! The highest individual score in Winter Cup history!"
The arena erupted.
~~~~~
Kise leaned back, hands in his hair. "Eighty-one points… That's… insane. Even Aominecchi wouldn't outscore that."
Momoi closed her notebook softly. "No," she said, "he wouldn't. Not like this." Her expression was calm, but there was something uneasy in her eyes. "The only one who might stop this version of Midorima… is Akashi. And even then, I'm not sure…"
~~~~~
On the court, Seirin gathered at half-court – heads low, breaths heavy.
Kuroko looked toward the bench, where Kagami sat in silence. "Kagami," he said quietly, "we'll need you next game."
Kagami didn't lift his head. "I cost us the match."
Hyūga stepped in, voice steady. "You played your heart out. So did everyone. But today…" He looked toward the other side of the court, where Midorima shook hands with Seirin's players one by one. "…they were just better prepared."
Riko nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's the truth. They planned this from the start. Midorima saved his energy for the last ten minutes."
Teppei smiled faintly. "Guess he really did learn something in Okinawa."
Kuroko's voice was soft but sure. "Then we'll learn new things too."
Kagami finally lifted his head, eyes burning again. "Yeah. We're not done."
The scoreboard still shone brightly above them, the 81-point legend already echoing across the gym – but for Seirin, the next battle was about to begin.