Snow drifted lazily outside the frosted windows of Yōsen High's gym in Akita. The sound of basketballs echoed through the cavernous space. Himuro Tatsuya was finishing his shooting drills, calm and collected as always, when the gym doors slid open with a soft metallic clang.
"Atsushi," he said without looking back, "you're late again."
"Ehh…" Murasakibara drawled, trudging in with a snack bag in one hand and his gym bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. "It's too cold, Muro-chin. The snow slows me down."
"You mean you stopped at the store again."
"...maybe."
He flopped down on the bench, the entire thing creaking under his weight. Himuro smiled faintly and tossed him a water bottle.
"Here. You'll need this more than candy."
Murasakibara caught it lazily, cracking it open. "Mido-chin scored eighty-one, huh."
That made Himuro stop mid-shot. The ball bounced once, twice, and rolled away. He turned.
"You saw it?"
"Mhmm." Murasakibara leaned back, tilting his head. "They showed it on every channel this morning. Mido-chin just kept shooting. Foul, swish, foul, swish. Kinda boring after a while."
Himuro walked closer, towel around his neck. "Boring? You call breaking the Winter Cup record boring?"
Murasakibara shrugged, munching on a Pocky stick now. "He's just doing what Mido-chin does. Shoots. But now he gets free throws for it. Heh."
Himuro sighed, but he couldn't help smiling. "You're missing the point, Atsushi. He turned Seirin's defense into his playground."
"Hmm…" Murasakibara's eyes flickered with mild interest. "So, he's learned how to be annoying. Like Mine-chin."
That made Himuro laugh. "Aomine, huh? I suppose in a way. But they're opposites."
"Don't care," Murasakibara mumbled, standing up and stretching until his joints cracked. "If he comes inside my paint, I'll block him. Doesn't matter how good he shoots."
"You'd have to catch him first," Himuro said.
"Hmph." Murasakibara grinned lazily, a flash of competitiveness lighting up his expression. "Then I'll just make sure he can't even jump."
Himuro chuckled. "You mean you'll foul him before he does?"
"Maybe," Murasakibara said with an almost childish smile. "But Mido-chin's kinda fun now. I wanna see what he does against me."
Himuro's eyes softened as he picked up his ball again. "You'll get your chance. If both of you keep winning."
Murasakibara glanced at the scoreboard from their last scrimmage – the numbers still frozen in place – and then back to his friend. "Hey, Muro-chin," he said, tone suddenly more serious. "You think… all of us are changing too fast?"
Himuro looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"The Miracles, Seirin, Kaijō, everyone. Feels like every week someone's stronger."
Himuro dribbled once, gazing out the window at the falling snow. "That's basketball," he said quietly. "Everyone's chasing something. And nobody wants to stop."
Murasakibara grinned again – slow, wide, sleepy but dangerous. "Then I'll just crush whoever catches up."
Himuro smiled faintly. "Just don't break the hoop again."
"Can't promise that," Murasakibara said, stretching his arms toward the ceiling as the snowstorm outside thickened. "But if Mido-chin wants to score eighty-one again… he'll have to do it over me."
~~~~~
The gym at Tōō Academy was quiet – too quiet. The afternoon sun spilled in through the high windows, catching dust motes in the air. Balls lay scattered across the floor, but there was no sound of dribbling.
A single voice broke the silence. "Can you believe this?"
Momoi Satsuki stood near the scoreboard, her phone glowing in her hand. The replay of Midorima's 81-point game looped again and again, each frame more impossible than the last – the step-backs, the foul baits, the calm execution.
She lowered the phone slowly, exhaling in disbelief. "He actually did it."
No answer came from the other side of the gym. A dark shape lay sprawled on the court – Aomine Daiki, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting on a basketball that had long stopped bouncing.
"I told you to come with me," Momoi said, voice rising slightly. "But nooo, 'I'm tired,' you said. 'I'll catch the highlights later,' you said."
Aomine groaned. "Highlights are enough. Midorima is still just Midorima, right? Shoots a lot, misses some, hits some."
Momoi stomped over and dropped her phone right on his chest. "Watch."
Aomine winced, but opened one eye – then both. The video played again – Midorima leaning into contact, releasing smoothly as defenders collapsed. Another whistle, another swish, another and-one. Then another. And another.
By the time it ended, Aomine sat up, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly.
"…That's not the same guy."
Momoi crossed her arms. "No. He's not."
Aomine tilted his head slightly, still processing. "He's… patient now. Weird. Midorima was always so stiff, like a robot. Now he's—"
"Fluid," Momoi finished. "He's using rhythm. Tempo. He's reading defenders before they even move."
Aomine scratched the back of his neck, frowning. "Huh. Sounds familiar."
"You mean you," Momoi said with a small smirk. "Except he doesn't rely on instinct alone anymore. He's deliberate. He doesn't rush."
"Great," Aomine muttered. "Another me, but with better manners."
Momoi smiled faintly. "You could say that." She looked down at the phone again. "And he's still calm even after breaking the record. No celebration. You know what that means?"
Aomine leaned back again, eyes on the ceiling. "That he's not satisfied."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable – it was heavy, thoughtful. Outside, the sounds of students on the courtyard filtered in – laughter, footsteps, a ball bouncing somewhere.
Finally, Aomine sighed. "Guess the Winter Cup's gonna be fun this year."
Momoi tilted her head, curious. "So, are you finally planning to show up to practice?"
He shot her a look. "Don't push it."
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "Fine. But if you don't start taking this seriously, you'll be watching him play in the finals instead of you."
Aomine didn't answer right away. He reached for the ball beside him, spun it once on his finger, and caught it cleanly.
"I'll beat him," he said quietly.
Momoi blinked. "You sound pretty sure of that."
"You know it, Satsuki," he said, standing up and stretching. "The only one who can beat me is me."
Momoi chuckled softly, tucking a strand of pink hair behind her ear. "You're impossible."
As she turned to leave, Aomine called out, "Hey, Satsuki."
She looked back.
He grinned, sharp and lazy, but there was a flicker of excitement behind it. "Tell Midorima next time we meet – I'll make him regret learning how to dribble."
Momoi smiled to herself as she walked away, shaking her head. "You'll have to catch him first."
Behind her, Aomine bounced the ball once – the echo rolling through the empty gym.
~~~~~
The sound of sneakers squeaking and camera shutters snapping still echoed faintly in Kaijō's gym. Practice had ended hours ago, but Kise Ryōta hadn't left. He sat cross-legged on the bench, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, scrolling through clips on his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time.
Every highlight was the same – Midorimacchi, calm as a monk, burying step-backs through contact, getting and-ones like it was routine.
"Man…" Kise muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "He's not the same Midorimacchi anymore."
Kasamatsu walked in, towel around his neck. "You're still watching that?"
Kise looked up. "Captain, you don't get it! That wasn't Midorimacchi – that was something else! He dropped eighty-one! Eighty-one!!"
Kasamatsu raised an eyebrow. "So? You think screaming about it's gonna make him score less next time?"
Kise pouted. "You're not listening! He wasn't just shooting his usual weird rainbow threes – he was driving, baiting fouls, hitting step-backs. He even dunked once!"
Kasamatsu froze. "He what?"
Kise nodded seriously. "Yup! Midorimacchi dunked! Like – boom! Rim-shaking, crowd-screaming dunk! Since when does he do that?!"
Kasamatsu sighed, rubbing his temples. "And I guess this means you're panicking again."
"I'm not panicking!" Kise said quickly, then slumped. "...Okay, maybe a little."
He leaned back on the bench, tossing the ball lightly into the air. "If he's doing that now, how are we supposed to stop him? He's tall, accurate, and now he's drawing contact too! Even if I copy him…"
Kasamatsu smirked. "Then maybe try scoring instead of whining."
Kise groaned dramatically. "You're so cold, captain~! Can't you at least pretend to be worried?"
Kasamatsu shrugged. "Why? You're the one who's supposed to be the 'copy genius.' You'll figure it out."
Kise sat up again, serious now. "Nah, this time it's different. He is evolving. He learned something in Okinawa. You can see it in how he moves… it's like he's enjoying it now."
Kasamatsu looked at him curiously. "Enjoying it?"
"Yeah," Kise said, his tone softening. "Before, he used to shoot like a robot – same form, same distance, no emotion. But now… He's not afraid to miss. He's just playing."
Kasamatsu nodded slowly. "That's the dangerous kind."
"That's what I'm talking about!" Kise said, jumping to his feet. "That's what makes it scary. He's still all logic and numbers, but he's smiling while he's doing it. Like Aominecchi."
Kasamatsu chuckled. "Then maybe it's time you stopped trying to copy them and started figuring out how to beat them your own way."
Kise grinned. "You think so?"
"I know so. You've got the talent, idiot. Stop chasing their shadows."
For a moment, Kise was quiet – the gym was still around him. Then he smiled faintly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
"I'll beat him," he said at last.
Kasamatsu smirked. "Now that's more like it."
As Kise grabbed a ball and spun it on his finger, he glanced at the door, remembering the sight of Midorima walking off the court – silent, composed, untouchable.
A small smile crossed his face. "Still… eighty-one, huh? Even Aominecchi might not outscore that one."
Kasamatsu raised an eyebrow. "Then what about you?"
Kise laughed, tossing the ball up and catching it. "Me? I'll aim for eighty-two."
~~~~~
The sound of a piano drifted faintly through the open window of Rakuzan High's gym. It wasn't from the court – someone in the nearby music building was practicing, the slow, deliberate rhythm echoing softly in the distance.
Inside the gym, the atmosphere was far less peaceful. Reo Mibuchi tossed the fresh magazine down onto the bench, the bold headline staring back at him: "Midorima Shintarō Scores 81 – Winter Cup Record Broken!"
"Eighty-one points…" Mibuchi said quietly, shaking his head. "That's not just impressive. That's… insane."
Beside him, Hayama Kotarō whistled. "Man, I watched the highlights. Mido's pull-up looked filthy! He was baiting fouls like it was a hobby!"
"Baiting fouls?" muttered Nebuya Eikichi, cracking his knuckles. "So he's using tricks now instead of power. Hah. Still wouldn't work if I was guarding him."
"Sure, sure," Mibuchi teased. "Until you foul out in three minutes."
"What'd you say, pretty boy?" Nebuya growled, but Mibuchi just smiled sweetly in response.
Before it could escalate, a quiet voice cut through the gym.
"Enough."
All three turned.
Akashi Seijūrō had been standing near the baseline the entire time, eyes fixed on the practice hoop. He wasn't holding a ball, yet his presence filled the space more than any sound could. Calm. Cold. Absolute.
He walked toward them slowly, each step deliberate. "You've all seen the report?"
Hayama nodded quickly. "Yup! Dude dropped eighty-one, boss. Like, wow."
Akashi said nothing at first. He stopped beside the bench and looked down at the folded paper, his reflection faint in the glossy print.
"Eighty-one points," he repeated softly. "That's… admirable."
The way he said it – emotionless, almost bored – made the others uneasy.
Mibuchi cleared his throat. "You don't sound surprised, Akashi."
Akashi finally looked up. His mismatched eyes – gold and crimson – glinted faintly under the fluorescent light. "Why would I be? It was only a matter of time before one of them caught up."
Hayama blinked. "Caught up? To you?"
Akashi didn't answer. He simply turned toward the court, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Midorima was always disciplined. Predictable, perhaps, but meticulous. The right influence could unlock his potential. It seems that foreign coach gave him that."
He glanced back at his team – the Uncrowned Kings watching silently.
"Still," Akashi continued, voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass, "scoring eighty-one does not make him unbeatable. It makes him focused. And focus can be broken."
Nebuya grinned. "So what's the plan? Smash through 'em?"
Akashi's eyes slid toward him, faintly amused. "That's your only plan, isn't it?"
"Works fine so far."
Akashi ignored the comment, continuing smoothly. "He has refined his rhythm, but that means he relies on it now. Disrupt the rhythm, and the foundation crumbles."
Hayama tilted his head. "You mean… mess with his timing?"
Mibuchi leaned back against the bench, arms folded. "Still, that kind of composure is hard to shake. It's like he's not even human anymore."
Akashi gave a faint smile. "No one who plays to win completely is ever entirely human."
The gym fell silent for a moment.
Then Akashi turned, walking toward the half court line. His voice carried easily through the empty space.
"Listen carefully. Midorima is strong – but strength is irrelevant. Power, talent, even form – they all mean nothing without dominance. Rakuzan will not play with him. We will play over him."
Hayama grinned wide. "Man, I've missed this side of you, Akashi."
Nebuya cracked his neck, fire lighting in his eyes. "Guess it's time we show 'em what real power looks like."
Mibuchi smiled faintly. "Always so dramatic. But I can't deny it – I'm curious to see how our styles will clash."
Akashi stopped at midcourt, the faint sunlight catching his red hair. "Good," he said quietly. "Be curious. But remember – curiosity doesn't bring victories."
He looked up toward the rafters, where the championship banners hung motionless in the still air.
"Winning," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "is the only thing that matters."
~~~~~
Haizaki leaned against the wall, chewing gum. "Eighty-one, huh? Heh."
He smirked at the TV. "Tch… guess the four-eyes finally grew some fangs."
Then his grin turned sharp. "Good. Makes ruining him more fun."
~~~~~
The afternoon sun spilled across the practice court, painting long shadows. Coach Erik Kuhlmann was leaning back in his chair, tablet in hand, watching the replay of Midorima's historic night. Beside him, Michiko stood frozen, her hand over her mouth.
Midorima's last step-back – deep from the arc, hand brushing his elbow, whistle, swish – played again.
Kuhlmann whistled softly. "Huh," he murmured. "The kid is a fast learner."
Michiko exhaled sharply. "Fast? Erik, you and Daniel turned him into a monster in three weeks."
Kuhlmann chuckled. "We just gave him the tools. He used them. Don't praise me so much."
She crossed her arms, still staring at the screen. "And if we face him? Can we even counter that?"
Kuhlmann leaned forward, pausing the video on Midorima's calm expression after his last shot.
"Of course," he said with a faint smile. "That's the beauty of basketball."
Outside, the ocean wind brushed through the open window, carrying the faint sound of waves – and the quiet hum of something inevitable. Because in Japan, across every court and every locker room, one truth was sinking in: A new era had begun.
And Midorima Shintarō had just lit the fuse.