"Hayama got his dribble stolen? How's that even possible?!"
The players of Yamagata Middle School looked absolutely stunned.
What they'd just witnessed was scarier than watching a horror movie alone at 2 a.m.
In their memory, Hayama Kotarō's dribbling was the fastest in the game—unparalleled. No one had ever managed to strip the ball from him head-on.
And yet, it just happened. Right before their eyes.
Teikō launched a fast break immediately.
Nijimura Shūzō scooped up the ball and launched it toward the frontcourt.
Tendou, who'd made the steal, sprinted ahead, Hayama chasing close behind.
"Smack!"
Tendou caught the ball first and surged into the paint, side by side with Hayama.
While Hayama was still figuring out how to stop him, Tendou whipped the ball behind him.
Green-haired Midorima was right on time, galloping up to catch the pass—and let it fly.
"This one's good!" the commentator cried confidently.
Swish!
Midorima Shintarō was never the flashiest of Teikō's first-years.
He didn't have Aomine's electrifying style, Murasakibara's visible physical gifts, Tendou's bold personality, or Akashi's money.
But every coach who had seen Teikō play knew to never forget the bespectacled shooter.
Because Midorima had a terrifying weapon—his three-point shot.
His current open three-point shooting percentage? A monstrous 76%—the best in the entire national tournament.
In most years, 45% would already crown you a god-tier shooter.
But Midorima? Thirty-one percentage points higher, averaging 5.1 made threes per game.
What does that mean?
It means Midorima shoots better than Westbrook from three. Let that sink in.
With a sniper like that, even with someone like Tendou stealing the spotlight, Midorima's glow couldn't be hidden. Quiet but lethal, consistently putting up 15 points per game.
And if Teikō let him go wild from deep? The top scorer might not even be Tendou.
6–0. Teikō opened with a sucker punch straight to the jaw.
"Stick to him! Don't give him space to shoot!" Yamagata's coach bellowed from the sideline.
They had planned extensively to stop Tendou, yet he was still doing whatever he wanted. How could they tolerate that?
Hayama raised his hand apologetically. Deep down, he knew he'd defended well.
If only his teammates had rotated back in time—that green-haired dude wouldn't have gotten such an open look.
...
Riko Aida was shocked by Tendou's pass. His poise—it was like he was a point guard.
Very few small forwards could so casually deliver the ball to the best-positioned teammate.
Most small forwards in the national tournament were blunt force attackers.
Just like Hayama—Yamagata's spearhead, always tasked with breaking down defenses and punching holes in enemy lines.
But Tendou?
He was just too well-rounded.
Riko struggled to think of any player who reminded her of him.
At best, she could draw comparisons to Larry Bird of the Celtics.
As for LeBron James, his shooting wasn't as sharp.
Of course, what she didn't know was—Tendou was actually modeling his game after LeBron.
Today, LeBron might be known for his drives. But within a few years, after his first loss in the Finals with the Heat, he'd go on to develop a mid-range game—even hitting the series-clinching jumper in a later Finals.
Then came the evolution of his three-point shooting. By the time he returned to the Cavs, it had become a staple.
And now, in his Lakers era, it's solid and dependable, allowing him to remain a threat even as he ages.
The guy just keeps evolving. A true grinder.
Tendou deeply admired LeBron for this.
Most players—whether in basketball or soccer—tend to plateau once they hit 30 or 35. Their style becomes set, their prime long past.
Changing their game requires immense time, effort, and grueling training.
Think about it—most players at that age already have their money. Why keep pushing themselves?
But LeBron and Cristiano Ronaldo? They're the few who transformed even late in their careers.
No wonder they've stayed dominant for so long.
...
Back on the court, Hayama wasn't discouraged by his earlier failure.
He didn't believe Tendou had truly neutralized his Lightning Dribble.
This time, he went all out—fingers spread, gripping the ball tight, he pounded it into the floor.
BOOM.
Screens across the country shook. Spectators' phones and computers trembled.
『Bro, tell me that's not a superpower.』
『My god—is this really dribbling? Feels like an earthquake.』
『This guy's not human—he's a freakin' deity!』
『Shut it down. Cancel the tournament. Send this man to the Clippers. Give Tendou to the Lakers.』
『Shut your mouth—my Clippers would wreck your Lakers. You guys even making the playoffs?』
『...』
The live chat exploded.
With the show's added effects, Hayama truly looked like a Thunder Beast, his body glowing with golden lightning.
"I'll crush you!"
He roared, his speed now double what it was before.
"So fast!"
"He can still go faster?!"
"This must be the real Lightning Dribble!"
The Teikō bench, including Coach Shirogane, knew all too well how terrifying Hayama was.
Even last year, his dribble was the fastest in the nation—and still is.
Yamagata's "Gunma Bullet Train" nickname? Largely thanks to Hayama.
Tendou saw Hayama charging with full intensity and instantly realized what kind of mindset he was in:
Zero intention to pass. Full steam ahead.
And just like Momoi's scouting report had said—when Hayama entered this mode, the "pass" button vanished from his mental control panel.
From the stands, Riko's eyes could barely keep up.
If it were Hyūga out there? He'd probably have been vaporized on the spot.
(Hyūga: Don't @ me. I don't know these people.)
"So this is the guy who was considered the best small forward last year...?"
This game completely rewrote her definition of a "prodigy."
And Tendou?
The moment Hayama spread his five fingers, he knew the Thunder Beast was going all in—and prepared accordingly.
Still, even Tendou was briefly shocked by Hayama's sheer speed.
Maybe it was because of the anime logic, but he could literally see the thunder crackling around Hayama.
But then...
"He never crossed the threshold into the realm of the Generation of Miracles."
"What threshold?" Hayama started to ask.
But his body screamed in alarm—every nerve lit up with danger.
His instincts howled.
He turned his head—and saw it.
A giant hand descending toward him.
It was like Sun Wukong facing Buddha's Five-Finger Mountain—the pressure was unbearable.
There was nowhere to run.