After a brief slump, Shūtoku finally found their rhythm again. Before the end of the first half, they managed to cut the lead down to under five points.
Halftime score: 68–64. Kaijō led by only four.
In the livestream studio, Nini smacked her lips in amazement.
"Both teams' scoring efficiency is insane! Two quarters and the total score's already at 132. This might turn into a ridiculous shootout!"
Sasa nodded in agreement. Kaijō's offense was always fierce, but she hadn't expected Shūtoku to go toe-to-toe with them like this. After falling behind in the first quarter, they had clawed their way right back into it in the second.
Next to them, Bobo stayed silent, eyes fixed on the stat sheet provided by the organizers.
Kaijō's scoring looked well-balanced—out of their 68 points, Kise had 20, but the other four starters were all in double digits. For a four-quarter game, that kind of even distribution was ideal. Every player on the court was a live scoring threat.
Shūtoku, on the other hand, wasn't far behind in points… but the problem was obvious. Out of their 64 total, 35 came from Midorima alone — eleven three-pointers and two free throws. The numbers looked impressive, but they revealed a dangerous imbalance: Shūtoku's entire offense depended almost entirely on Midorima.
Anyone looking at the stats would spot the issue instantly. But to the average viewer watching the match, it just looked like Midorima was on fire — making everything he threw up. Nobody would pay attention to the deeper problem.
Bobo thought about it for a moment, then smiled wryly. He decided to stick to his "stay neutral" strategy.
"Kaijō's offense remains as stable as ever, but Shūtoku's performance today is really something! Midorima has already scored 35 points in the first half—he might even break the national tournament's single-game scoring record!"
A flood of flattering words rolled off his tongue. Even if he saw Shūtoku's flaw, what did that have to do with him, just a humble basketball commentator?His job was to keep fans from both sides happy—the coaches could worry about fixing things.
Incidentally, the national tournament's current single-game record belonged to Aomine. Back in the Interhigh during that do-or-die match against Rakuzan, he dropped 66 points in "Obsessive Kobe Mode," breaking the record—yet still lost in the end.
And historically, in games where one player scored an abnormally high number of points, most of those teams ended up losing.
Basketball, after all, is a team sport.
Back on the bench, Nakatani was painfully aware of the same problem.
He frowned at his clipboard, wanting to redraw his tactics—but in the end, all he could do was sigh and glance toward Midorima and Takao, his eyes full of silent pleading.
Takao blinked. "Coach… we don't need to change the plan. Let's just keep the same rhythm from the first half."
Midorima sat calmly on the bench, lightly rubbing the wristband on his arm. His face was flushed from the relentless barrage of threes in the second quarter, but his eyes still burned with resolve.
Nakatani exhaled heavily and nodded.
"Alright. But Midorima — you need to pace yourself. By the fourth quarter… Shūtoku can't do this without you."
"I understand" Midorima replied simply.
Meanwhile, on Kaijō's bench—
Kota had just finished explaining their second-half adjustments when he noticed his teammates giving him weird looks.
He blinked. Seeing Kise's disgusted expression, he smacked him on the head without hesitation. "What's with those faces? If you think my plan's off, just say it. I'm not some tyrant who can't take advice!"
"No, no, Kota, it's not that" Takumi said quickly. "Your plan sounds solid. It's just… a bit evil, don't you think?"
The ever-blunt Hayakawa scratched his head. "Yeah, seriously, that strategy's kinda messed up…"
—A few minutes earlier—
Kota had said,
"Next, tighten the defense on Shūtoku's other players and ease up a little on Midorima. Ryōta, give him more open looks—don't smother him too hard."
Kise blinked. "Wait, what? Why?"
"When a beast is cornered," Kota explained, "it'll fight with everything it's got. But if you give it just a sliver of hope, it'll hesitate—unsure whether to risk it all or not."
"For Shūtoku right now, Midorima is that last hope. As long as he's standing, they'll keep clinging to that illusion—'we can win as long as Midorima scores.' And the more they rely on him, the heavier that pressure becomes."
The confidence in his voice was chilling. Even if Midorima kept draining threes, Kaijō could shift tactics at any time. Shūtoku, on the other hand, would just dance to their tune until they slowly self-destructed.
Everyone on Kaijō's bench sucked in a cold breath. Even the usually stoic Takeuchi muttered inwardly, "Thank god this guy's on our side."
Meanwhile, Yuki had already whipped out a notebook and scribbled everything Kota said under the title: "1,001 Ways to Beat Kota-senpai."
Kise clicked his tongue, glancing sympathetically at Shūtoku's bench.
"Man… I hope Midorima doesn't end up traumatized after this game."
Beep!
Start of the third quarter.
Kaijō had first possession. Despite the narrow score, their offense remained perfectly composed—every cut, every screen, every shot selection looked crisp and deliberate.
After a few smooth pick-and-rolls, Kota found himself wide open. He caught Yuki's pass and nailed a clean three-pointer.
As the ball swished through the net, Kota backpedaled, blew imaginary smoke off his fingers, and mimed holstering pistols at his sides.
Celebration Boost
"Kota really loves those celebration moves" Bobo chuckled as the replay rolled on the big screen. "Ever since last year's Interhigh, he's been pulling out new ones every game. Fans even named that move 'Holster.' Pretty fitting, huh?"
"And that's not all" Nini added with a grin. "He's got the three-finger headshot, the shrug, the throat-swipe—honestly, they could make a whole highlight reel just from his celebrations."
The crowd roared with laughter and cheers. Kota's flashy celebrations and fun-loving attitude had earned him a huge fanbase, even if his playstyle wasn't the most extravagant.
"Man, his popularity's through the roof" Takao muttered as he dribbled upcourt, secretly impressed by the attention Kota drew.
But the moment he crossed half-court, his expression tightened. Something felt… off.
Kaijō's defense looked completely different from the first half. Normally, Midorima would have at least one extra defender lurking nearby to help Kise double-team him. But this time, Kise was the only one near Midorima—and he wasn't even pressuring him that much.
"Shin-chan" Takao called softly.
Midorima caught the ball at the top of the arc. Kise stepped forward lazily, giving him far more space than usual.
No hesitation—Midorima rose and fired.Swish.
The pattern repeated: Kaijō's offense stayed consistent, but on defense, Kise's marking on Midorima was basically "eye contact defense."
Halfway through the third quarter, another Midorima three dropped.
76–76. Shūtoku had finally tied the game.
Something didn't sit right with Takao. His instincts screamed at him.
On the next possession, Kaijō's defense still didn't shift. Midorima was open again. Takao hesitated, ball in hand.
Kota noticed, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong? Not passing to your ace? He's dying to shoot, you know. I can feel it from here."
Midorima crouched slightly, ready for the pass. But Takao hesitated again, narrowing his eyes at Kota.
"I don't know what you're plotting" he said, "but you guys want Shin-chan to keep shooting, don't you?"
Kota just smiled.
"Then what I don't get" Takao continued, "is—if your goal is to wear him out, why leave him open?"
Kota didn't answer. He simply pointed to the shot clock.
Half the time had already drained away.
Takao clenched his teeth.
"Do I pass or not…?"
He exhaled sharply, then made his decision. "Whatever you're scheming… I'm not playing along!"
He suddenly crossed over and drove to the rim. Kota reacted quickly, sliding in front—but Takao's speed caught him off guard. With a quick floater, Takao scored two points, giving Shūtoku their first lead of the match.
The crowd erupted.
"Nice shot!"
"Shūtoku's in the lead!"
"That point guard hasn't missed a single shot—he's killing it!"
Fans were already starting to switch sides.
Kota clapped slowly, unfazed. "Not bad. You actually saw through it, huh? You didn't get the whole picture—but holding back the pass? You deserve some credit, Takao."
His calm, almost amused demeanor made Takao even more uneasy.
"Relax, Takao" Kota said, stretching as Kaijō moved the ball. "Want to hear a story?"
Takao frowned but humored him. "A story? Sure, why not. You're not attacking anyway."
"Don't sound so bored," Kota said with a grin. "Consider it a little reward."
He leaned forward, hands on knees, eyes following the play.
"Listen carefully. Once upon a time, there was a sparrow. It was fed every day—food, shelter, comfort. But soon, it forgot how to hunt. It could only rely on its master to survive."
Takao blinked. "Weird story. And… what's your point?"
Kota's grin widened. "That sparrow is your team, Takao."
"What—?" Takao's eyes widened as he turned, only to see Kota's sly smirk.
"Think about it. You've all relied on Midorima for so long that your other teammates have forgotten how to score. You've lost your instinct to attack. Even when you have open looks, they pass it off—because they believe as long as Midorima's out there, you'll be fine."
Takao froze. He wanted to deny it—but the images from the last few minutes flashed through his mind. And he couldn't. Kota was right.
Shūtoku's offense had collapsed into total dependence.
"I see now…" Takao muttered bitterly. "So that's why you left Shin-chan open. You wanted to make the rest of us useless. Damn, Kota—you're a real schemer."
He smirked, forcing a laugh.
"Then let me tell you a story too: the villain dies because he talks too much. Guess you skipped that chapter, huh?"
Kota chuckled. "Maybe I did. But villain? That's harsh."
He stretched lazily and looked toward the paint, where Kise and Yukki pulled off a smooth alley-oop for two points.
"Anyway," Kota said casually, turning back to Takao with that same confident smile, "if we end up losing because of me, I'll apologize to my teammates later. But…"
His grin sharpened.
"…I don't think that's gonna happen, Takao."
After all—villains might die from talking too much. But the main character never does.