The third quarter began like the start of a storm. The tension was gone – replaced by movement, speed, and light.
Seirin hit the floor first. Kuroko was back. The shadow had returned.
And immediately, everything changed.
Izuki brought up the ball, Meisei settling into their defensive stance – calm, patient, reading. Then, with a flicker of pale blue, Kuroko appeared on the left wing. The pass was invisible – a bullet that never seemed to travel. One blink and it was in Kagami's hands mid-air.
BOOM!
The dunk rattled the backboard. The crowd roared.
Hyūga raised his fist, calling out the next play. Another drive, another bullet pass, another Kagami slam. Then, from the top of the arc – a kick-out from Kuroko. Hyūga rose, released – swish.
Three straight possessions. Eight straight points. And just like that, Seirin almost erased Meisei's lead.
Kuroko moved like static between frames – his passes slicing through gaps Suzuki couldn't even see. Every time Meisei tried to trap, he'd redirect. The rhythm was blistering.
Meisei's bench stayed calm, but their spacing started to crack under Seirin's pressure. Kagami was everywhere – exploding into fast breaks, hammering home dunks, shouting through adrenaline.
Even Kiyoshi's soft hands around the rim punished Meisei's smaller forwards.
Momoi scribbled furiously from the stands, her voice tight with excitement. "They're running their Zone Press pattern again! Kuroko's feeding Kagami nonstop, and it's working!"
"Heh. That's the fire I remember." Aomine grinned slightly.
By the five-minute mark, the scoreboard read: Seirin 66 – Meisei 56.
A ten-point swing. The gym was shaking. Meisei's coach finally raised his hand. "Timeout."
The huddle on Meisei's side was dead silent at first. Sato leaned forward, sweat rolling down his temples, eyes sharp. Suzuki was breathing hard, but focused. Tanaka had his arms crossed, staring straight ahead.
Their coach finally broke the silence. "We're switching again. Sato – on Kagami. Kenji, you're on Hyūga. Tight. Don't leave his shadow."
"Got it." Sato nodded once.
When play resumed, everything flipped.
Sato met Kagami head-on – the air between them suddenly electric.
The first possession, Kagami drove hard, but Sato's lateral defense was perfect – mirroring every move, forcing a bad angle. Kagami still dunked, but the contact was brutal. Sato smiled as they landed. "You hit hard. But you'll need more than that."
Next possession, Meisei's offense adjusted instantly. Sato cut to the perimeter, dragging Kagami out of the paint. The space opened for Ito and Tanaka to attack off screens. Then Sato himself struck – pulling up from mid-range with a soft, perfect arc. Nothing but net.
Seirin called timeout immediately.
Riko's tone was sharp, urgent. "We can't keep trading baskets. Hyūga is getting shut down – their perimeter defender is glued to him. We need a release." Her eyes shifted. "Mitobe, you're in. Kuroko, rest."
The substitution clicked the moment it started. Mitobe set heavy, deliberate screens, freeing Hyūga for just enough daylight to shoot. Izuki orchestrated – bounce passes, off-ball cuts, fake reverses. Hyūga, finally in rhythm again, started hitting from deep.
The ball whipped across the court – Izuki to Kiyoshi, Kiyoshi to Hyūga, catch-and-shoot. Splash.
But Meisei refused to fade.
Sato, matched with Kagami, began to adapt further. He'd catch, pump once, twice, then rise – Kagami flying past him, biting every feint. This time, Sato didn't chase threes; he sank into the midrange, surgical and calm.
Dribble right – fake – rise. Dribble left – hesitation – pull-up. Each motion efficient, clean. Each shot true.
As Kagami landed from yet another premature jump, Sato's quiet voice reached him, low and sharp through the echo of the crowd:
"Yeah, you jump like crazy," he said, eyes steady, "but I represent Japan for a reason."
The shot fell – swish.
For the last two minutes, it became chaos in harmony. Seirin running full-speed transitions; Meisei countering with structured half-court precision. Dunks met jumpers, blocks met floaters, screams met silence.
Neither side bent. Neither blinked.
When the buzzer for the third quarter finally sounded, the scoreboard glowed: Seirin 81 – Meisei 81.
The crowd erupted – half in disbelief, half in awe.
"Now that's basketball." Aomine leaned back in his seat, a crooked grin crossing his face.
Momoi exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "They both just played at their limit… and there's still one quarter left."
Down on the court, both teams walked to their benches – no shouts, no high-fives, no words. Just locked eyes and heavy breaths. They knew what the fourth quarter would be. No more experiments. No more adjustments. Just a final, unfiltered war.
~~~~~
The fourth quarter began with Meisei in full control. The scoreboard blinked mercilessly: Meisei 91 – Seirin 81.
Ryota Sato was everywhere. The same calm player who'd spent three quarters studying now moved like a man unleashed. His rhythm was pure and mechanical – fake, rise, release. Swish.
Fake again, draw two defenders, skip pass to Ito in the corner. Swish.
Every motion precise, no wasted effort, no hesitation. The ball obeyed him; the court bent to his control.
Seirin tried to double him – Hyūga up top, Izuki collapsing from the wing – but that only opened space elsewhere. Meisei's shooters punished every rotation. The lead ballooned. Ten. Fourteen. Twenty.
Riko clenched her clipboard so tight her knuckles went white. She saw it in her players' faces – that creeping loss of rhythm.
"Timeout."
The Seirin huddle was silent except for heavy breathing. Sweat dripped onto the floor in uneven drops. Riko exhaled, steady but firm. "We need a shift. Kuroko, you're back in."
Kuroko nodded, quiet as always.
Kiyoshi lifted his head. There was something different in his eyes – the glint of a plan that bordered on madness.
"Coach," he said, voice rough from exhaustion, "let Kagami rest for now. Two, maybe three minutes."
Riko frowned. "Without him we lose pressure–"
"Trust me," Kiyoshi interrupted, calm but absolute. "We're not winning this with raw power. Not yet."
When play resumed, the rhythm shifted again. No more isolation. No more brute drives.
Now, the court was geometry.
Kiyoshi handled at the top – the center turned point guard. To his right, Izuki. To his left, Kuroko – the invisible thread connecting them all. And on the perimeter, Mitobe's screens kept Hyūga free just long enough for flashes of daylight.
It looked chaotic. It wasn't.
Every pass arrived before the defense adjusted. Kuroko vanished between passing lanes – redirecting, flicking, misdirecting. The ball zipped like a ricochet from one handler to another.
Izuki stopped on a dime – midrange jumper. Bang.
Next possession, Kiyoshi posted, drew Tanaka, dished to Kuroko, invisible flick to Hyūga – corner three. Swish.
The lead shrank. Eighteen. Fourteen. Twelve. Ten.
The crowd came alive again, noise rising with every Seirin basket.
~~~~~
On the bench, Kagami sat hunched forward, towel over his shoulders, breath heavy. He wasn't watching the game – he was staring through it.
The frustration clawed at him. Sato's perfect calm. His own helplessness. He remembered Rui Hachimura tearing through Aomine. Remembered how powerless that felt to watch.
And now, it was his turn under the weight.
Then something broke.
His fingers clenched around the towel. His heartbeat spiked – not from panic, but focus. The noise fell away.
He could see it. The flow of movement, the timing, the rhythm of light and shadow on the court. The door that he'd touched before – just barely, during his last match with Aomine – stood open again.
And this time, he didn't hesitate. He stepped through.
His body burned – not with fire, but electricity. Every fiber awake, every instinct sharp. When he lifted his head, the world slowed.
He stood up, eyes locked on the floor.
"Coach," he said quietly, voice steady, "put me in."
Riko's eyes widened – she didn't need to ask. She felt it too. Two minutes left.
~~~~~
Aomine watched from the stands, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.
"Heh," he murmured. "Not a full Zone yet… but it'll do for now."
~~~~~
Kagami hit the court, and the atmosphere shifted again. Seirin's passes sharpened; their tempo quickened.
Kuroko caught the ball and fed it instantly to Kagami – a flicker of blue and red. Kagami surged past Sato, the rim calling to him. He rose – higher than anyone had all game – and hammered down a dunk that made the crowd erupt.
Next play, Sato responded. Pump fake, step in, midrange pull-up. Swish.
Then a steal. Then a lob to Tanaka. Every exchange burned seconds off the clock.
Meisei 100 – Seirin 98.
Ten seconds left on the clock.
Izuki inbounded. The ball found Kuroko. Kuroko to Kiyoshi. Kiyoshi to Kagami.
Time bleeding away.
Sato planted himself in front of Kagami – poised, balanced, unshaken. Kagami drove left, spun, rose – every instinct screaming for the dunk.
Meisei's defense shifted – all eyes on Kagami, all hands reaching up. "He is going for a dunk to force overtime," they all thought.
And then – Kagami stopped. Midair.
The pass snapped behind him like lightning. Kuroko redirected it instantly – invisible – to the weak side corner.
Hyūga caught it in rhythm. Release. Rotation. Silence.
Swish.
The buzzer split the air.
Seirin 101 – Meisei 100.
For a second, no one moved. Then the arena exploded.
Riko's clipboard clattered to the floor as the entire Seirin bench leapt to their feet. Hyūga was swarmed by teammates, Kuroko's faint smile buried in the chaos, Kagami standing apart for a heartbeat – eyes still glowing faintly from the Zone.
Up in the stands, Aomine let out a short laugh and leaned back yet again. "Heh. Not bad, Kagami. Not bad at all."
Momoi exhaled with a smile, shaking her head. "You see, Aomine-kun? There's always someone growing behind you."
On the court, Sato stood frozen near half court, staring at the rim where the ball had fallen through. Then he smiled – small, tired, genuine.
"That," he said softly, "was a real play."
He turned toward Kagami, nodded once, and walked toward the tunnel – defeated, but with respect.
For Seirin, it wasn't just a win. It was proof – that they could stand against champions and against their own limits.
And for Kagami – the door to the Zone had opened. But more importantly, he'd learned how not to walk through it alone.