"Shūtoku takes possession to start the game. Their point guard dribbles across half court—looks like they're setting up a pick-and-roll. Whoa! Kota's reaction speed is insane! He slipped the screen and got right back in position—relentless pressure! Shūtoku can't even move the ball… 24-second violation!"
Bobo's voice carried through the live broadcast as he narrated the play-by-play for viewers.
"Shūtoku's in trouble. Getting called for a shot clock violation on your very first possession is a huge mental blow. Let's see how they adjust after this. Of course, their first priority now is stopping Kaijo's offense."
On the court, Kaijo took over possession.
Kota dribbled past half court with one hand while raising his right to signal—a six.
Takao, guarding him tightly, hadn't even reacted yet when a sudden cheer erupted from the crowd.
He blinked, puzzled for a moment, before realizing what that gesture meant. That hand sign—that's Kaijo's signature play from last year!
Horns Offense!
Without a single word spoken, Kaijo's entire lineup burst into motion. Even though the team had become much livelier since Kota took charge, their discipline in executing plays remained top-tier.
At Kaijo High, the first lesson every rookie learned wasn't conditioning or ball-handling—it was memorizing every single play in the team's system until they could run them in their sleep.
Takumi immediately popped out to set a screen for Kota. Meanwhile, Yuki slipped quietly toward the baseline, and Kise strode through the paint with total confidence, using Hayakawa's frame as a human wall to screen his defender.
In just two seconds, Shūtoku's defensive formation showed cracks — two, maybe three. Kise was wide open on the perimeter, Yuki had snuck to the corner, and Kota had an open midrange jumper.
The scoring opportunity was right there for the taking — but Kota didn't rush it.
Instead, he slowed down, analyzing Shūtoku's defensive reactions.
To him, being a point guard meant not just attacking, but creating the highest-percentage play every single time.
As Kota held the ball and milked the clock, Shūtoku recovered. Takao jumped back in front of him, while two defenders closed in on Kise at the arc. Takumi and Hayakawa were now both being marked tightly by Taisuke and Miyaji.
It looked like Shūtoku had successfully patched the holes.
But then—Takao's face changed.
At that exact moment, Kota snapped his wrist, firing a sharp one-handed bounce pass to the left corner.
Standing there, completely unguarded since the start of the play, was none other than Yuki—the quiet freshman who'd slipped away to the baseline!
"Crap, we lost one! We can't get there in time!"
Takao clenched his jaw, glaring at Yūki as the rookie raised the ball to shoot. Inside, he tried to calm himself:
"It's fine. He's just a first-year kid—probably shaking with nerves right now. Early in the game too, no way he's got his rhythm yet…"
And truth be told, Takao's read wasn't wrong. Yuki was nervous as hell.
"This is the chance my teammates worked so hard to create! And Kota-senpai trusted me enough to pass the ball… I can't mess this up! I'm so nervous—why are they all staring at me?!"
Halfway through his shooting form, Yuki felt hundreds of eyes locked onto him. His stomach twisted, his hands trembled, and even his face turned pale.
Unfortunately for Takao, he didn't know — this kid had been nervous every single second since he first picked up a basketball.
Being a bundle of nerves was just… normal for Yūki.
Swish!
Nothing but net.
Yuki drained the corner three, giving Kaijo the first points of the game!
"Nice shot, Yuki."
Kota, who'd earned the assist, jogged over to bump fists. He couldn't help but smile when he felt how stiff Yuki's arm was.
"Man… this kid's ability to play normally while being this anxious might actually be a gift in itself."
Back in the studio, both Sasa and Nini gasped in admiration.
"This first-year from Kaijo is impressive! And so cute, too" Nini said, slyly licking her lips as she eyed Yūki on the screen.
Bobo cleared his throat, flipping through his notes before explaining for the audience:
"Yuki Hashimoto — one of the very few freshmen to make the starting lineup this year. He's a quiet player, but extremely efficient. A classic 3-and-D shooting guard, great at three-pointers and perimeter defense."
"That reminds me of Kaijo's former captain and point guard, Kasamatsu. Truly, Kaijo's legacy as an elite program runs deep. From what I've seen so far, Yuki might not just match Kasamatsu's level—he might even surpass it!"
If Kota had heard that, he would've been over the moon. Even Bobo, who studied Kaijo's every game in detail, still thought Yūki was just a 3-and-D player.
(P.S.: "3-and-D" refers to players who specialize in three-pointers and defense.)
It was actually Kota's idea to tell Yuki to hide his isolation skills.
The goal? Simple—to keep an ace in the hole. Every year, Kaijo left a "special surprise" waiting for the finals. After Kota's departure, this even became an official team tradition.
Back on the court, the game continued.
Though Kaijo had seized the initiative, Shūtoku wasn't a pushover.
After reevaluating Kota's defense, Takao adjusted his approach, he wasn't going to be dominated that easily.
He fed Midorima for a few isolation shots, and Shūtoku's offense gradually found its rhythm again. By the end of the first quarter, both sides were playing sharp, controlled basketball.
Score: 34–28, Kaijo leads.
In terms of total field goals, Kaijo had the edge, but Shūtoku stayed close thanks to Midorima's flawless three-point shooting.
Six attempts, six makes—Midorima was literally carrying half of Shūtoku's offense by himself.
That's why, even with Kaijo controlling the pace, the gap wasn't bigger.
During the quarter break, Kaijo's bench.
Kota took a sip of water, then slapped Kise on the thigh.
"Alright, genius. Time to put on a show."
Kise grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Roger that, Captain."
On the other bench, Shūtoku's coach, Nakatani, was deep in thought. The first quarter hadn't gone badly, but they were still trailing. Any competent coach would be looking for adjustments.
"Takao, you'll handle the offense. Find ways to score however you can. The more energy we save for Midorima before the final stretch, the better our odds of winning!"
His tone was earnest. Though making the Final Four had already met the school's expectations, no coach in the world likes losing.
Takao rubbed his forehead, slightly exasperated by the desperate tone.
"Got it, Coach. I'll do my best."
…
Beeeep—
Although Kaijo scored the opening basket, Seirin—no, Shutoku—had won the jump ball, meaning the possession for the second and third quarters still belonged to Kaijo.
That wasn't good news for Shutoku.
Takao's expression turned serious as he pressed up on Kota the moment he crossed half court.
Sensing the tighter defense, Kota frowned slightly and pulled the ball back, dodging Takao's steal attempt.
"What's with you? Did you take something before the game or what?"
Kota joked as he probed for a weakness in Takao's stance. But this time, Takao's focus was razor-sharp—no gaps, no hesitation.
"My coach's a bit of a maniac," Takao replied, eyes glinting. "He just dumped all the responsibility on me. How can I not take this seriously?"
"Yeah, I get that." Kota nodded, chuckling. "My coach's the same type—loves giving us all the responsibility. Honestly, it's been ages since he's called a single play. I'm the one doing the job, and he's the one still getting paid for it."
He grinned. "But having all the control… isn't exactly a bad thing for a point guard."
Before Takao could respond, Kota suddenly spun and broke through. After forcing contact, instead of taking the shot himself, he whipped the ball to Kise on the weak side.
"When the entire team moves by your command—man, that's a great feeling."
Kota's lazy laugh drifted across the court. Ever since he'd basically taken over Kaijo's offense, he'd started to understand why Akashi enjoyed being a dictator so much.
Sure, Akashi's personality and upbringing played a part… but honestly? Being in total control just feels amazing!
"Finally! My turn to shine!"
Kise caught Kota's pass, eyes lighting up. He'd been playing conservatively the entire first quarter, waiting for Kota's signal. Now that he had it, the self-proclaimed "model genius" was more than ready to explode.
Midorima's face tensed—he knew exactly what kind of monster Kise was. Even with only two years of experience, his talent was terrifying.
"Hey, Midorimacchi" Kise smirked, dribbling once, "you've never seen this move before, have ya?"
His body shimmered with a faint glow—golden light flickering in his eyes.
One slow dribble… then a sudden burst of speed straight at Midorima! Just as their bodies were about to collide—Kise vanished.
Midorima's eyes widened. In front of him—nothing but air.
Perfect Copy: Vanishing Drive!
Even the referee flinched, whistle halfway to his lips. Kise's move had looked like a direct charge—no one expected him to pull off Kuroko's signature drive!
"Man, you really copied that too?" Kota whistled, hands in pockets. "What are you, Kakashi-sensei?"
The crowd gasped as the rim exploded—BAM!
From half court to the dunk, Kise had needed just three seconds. The blend of Kuroko's misdirection and Aomine's speed was absolute madness.
"Incredible! It's like Kise just disappeared!"
In the livestream booth, Bobo's excited voice cracked. As the replay rolled, he analyzed breathlessly,
"Kise received the pass from Kota at the top of the arc, faked his defender, and accelerated so fast the camera couldn't even follow him! And that dunk—textbook perfection!"
He clucked his tongue.
"Forget the slam—his crossover was the real masterpiece. Kise's highlight reel just added another legend! Is there anyone on Earth who can still stop this guy?"
Sure, Bobo might've been exaggerating, but the play was jaw-dropping. Even Sasa and Nini, who'd seen countless games, couldn't take their eyes off Kise—completely captivated.
And the livestream chat? It was flooded with "KISE!!!" messages.
In the arena, the crowd roared like Kaijo's home court. Shutoku's bench wore grim expressions—the momentum had swung hard.
Takao could feel the pressure creeping in but couldn't find a way to break it. Luckily, Midorima spoke up.
"Takao. Give me the ball."
"Huh? But Shin-chan, it's only the start of the second—"
Takao froze mid-sentence when he saw Midorima's face.
The calm, stoic shooter was burning with intensity.
He hesitated, remembering the coach's warning before the quarter started:
'The less energy Shin-chan spends now, the higher our chances later…'
But staring at Midorima now, there was no way he could refuse.
Takao clenched his teeth. "Got it. I'm counting on you, Shin-chan."
"Relax" Midorima said, his tone calm but his eyes sharp. "Gemini will shine brightest today."
He tightened his wristband—his father's gift—and for a brief moment, it felt like fate itself aligned with him.
Gemini's lucky item of the day: sports wristbands.
Shutoku possession.
Kise shadowed Midorima relentlessly, not giving him an inch. In his "Perfect Copy" state, he was a complete all-rounder—offense, defense, everything. A true "Jordan" among high school players.
But Midorima's conviction wasn't just talk.
With one deceptive feint, he broke free for half a step. Kise reacted instantly, sticking close. But Takao's Hawk Eye spotted the split-second window—
"Shin-chan!"
Midorima received the pass, pivoted, and shielded the ball, eyes locked on Kise.
"Let's see… if I can do what Kagami couldn't."
Kise narrowed his eyes. His breathing steadied, golden light flashing—then mixed with a streak of red.
Perfect Copy: Kagami!
Muscles tensed, spring coiled tight, his vertical leap skyrocketed. As Midorima went into his shooting motion, Kise soared up to meet him—
Just as his fingertips brushed the ball, Midorima flicked his wrist with clinical precision.
Even with Kise's block in his face, his expression didn't waver.
For a shooter of his caliber, there was no such thing as "shot interference". A block was a block. A make was a make. Nothing in between.
Swish!
The high-arching rainbow shot dropped cleanly through.
"Damn it… guess I copied the wrong guy."
Kise scratched his head helplessly. He knew Kagami's athleticism was the best counter to Midorima—but even that wasn't enough now.
After a year of refinement, Midorima had fully evolved—an unstoppable scorer.
While Kise was still thinking who to copy next, a shadow suddenly appeared behind him—
Thud!
A clean karate chop landed square on his back.
"Gah! Kota! What the hell, that hurt!"
Kise glared, clutching his side, but Kota didn't look the least bit sorry.
Digging at his ear, he muttered, "I smelled someone trying to go one-on-one again. Didn't I tell you? Midorima can't keep that kind of tempo for four quarters. He needs his team to support him to maintain his rhythm."
"So instead of fighting him head-on…" he smirked, eyes darkening under the lights, "we go after the rest of Shutoku. And we bully them hard."
The shadow over Kota's face made him look downright villainous in Kise's eyes.
"Kota…"
"Hmm?"
"You're terrifying."
Kota: "???"