The Third Quarter Ends
91–88. Shutoku leads.
Midorima sat silently on the bench, his expression calm as always, yet the heavy rhythm of his breathing revealed the truth—he was running on fumes.
"Midorima's stamina is completely drained!"
Nakatani rubbed his head in frustration, torn between urgency and helplessness.
Throughout the third quarter, for some reason, Kaijo's defensive pressure on Midorima had eased a bit, yet the strain of keeping his muscles constantly tensed for offense had consumed nearly all his energy.
"There's one more quarter left. The good news is—we're in the lead. Takao, Takao?"
"Ah—!"
Hearing his coach call, Takao snapped out of his daze.
Nakatani frowned. "Takao, you okay? Did that guy say something to you?" He threw a quick glance toward the other side of the court—at Kota. He'd noticed the two chatting in the corner just after the third quarter began.
Takao's lips twitched. After a moment, he only shook his head.
Seeing that, Nakatani turned back to discuss their fourth-quarter tactics, assuming Takao was just worn out from the game.
But as soon as the coach looked away, Takao clenched his fist, his expression lost and uncertain.
"What should I do…?"
Even though Kota had secretly tipped him off about Kaijo's strategy, by this point in the game, Kaijo's psychological warfare had already worked.
Of Shutoku's 91 points, 62 had come from Midorima alone. Most of the remaining 20 were from Takao. The other three Shutoku players? By the second half of the third quarter, they'd completely lost faith in their own scoring.
As long as we pass to Midorima, there's no need for anyone else to fight tooth and nail for points. He'll win the game for us.
That was the illusion Kota had deliberately planted in their minds.
And the terrifying part? It worked.
"Should I tell the coach…? But what good would that do now? The others haven't touched the ball in ages. Forcing them to attack now would just ruin everything…"
Thoughts flashed rapidly through Takao's mind. He realized, bitterly, that Shutoku was backed into a corner—and worse, the others still believed they could win by relying on Midorima alone.
Just as despair started to close in, Midorima suddenly reached out, grabbed Takao's chin, and forced him to look up.
"Eh—?"
Takao froze, caught completely off guard. His eyes refocused on Midorima, confused. "What's up, Shin-chan?"
Midorima's breathing was ragged, but his eyes were sharp.
"You're acting strange, Takao."
Takao blinked. Before he could respond, Midorima added, "Forget everything that doesn't help us win. Right now, we don't have time to think about anything else."
His gaze shifted toward the scoreboard. Shutoku was still ahead by two points, but he knew full well—with his stamina fading fast, they wouldn't win like this.
He needed help.
Takao covered his face with one hand, brushing his bangs back as he let out a faint laugh.
"So, Shin-chan… should I take that as your way of saying you need me?"
Midorima turned away stiffly, face slightly flushed. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm merely reminding you—we're still in a game."
"Heh. Classic tsundere Shin-chan."
Takao grinned, the spark returning to his eyes.
"Alright then. Thanks, Shin-chan. I know what to do."
BEEP!
The referee's whistle echoed.
The fourth and final quarter of Shutoku vs. Kaijo had begun.
"Showtime's over. We've let them dream long enough" Kota said with a smirk, waving his teammates onto the court. Behind him, not a single Kaijo player looked nervous—only hungry.
They carried the calm confidence of champions—utter belief that victory belonged to them, even when behind on the scoreboard.
"Hmm? Takao, your eyes look different now" Kota remarked, walking up beside him, sharp enough to notice the change in his demeanor.
Takao didn't respond, just met Kota's gaze with quiet determination.
If Kaijo wanted to crush Shutoku's hope completely, they'd have to start the fourth quarter at full throttle.
And for a drained Midorima, that meant only one thing—
Full-court man-to-man defense.
Kota saw Takao had figured it out, and shrugged with a grin. "No point hiding it anymore, huh?"
He crouched slightly, spreading his arms. "Come on, then."
BEEP!
As soon as the inbound whistle blew, Takao sprinted to the side, slipping out of Kota's reach and avoiding a turnover right off the bat.
But that's when Kaijo's real trap began.
Kota immediately closed the distance, pressing his shoulder into Takao's side. His strength made it impossible for Takao to break free. Still, the nimble Takao spun away, finally crossing half court with the ball.
The first five seconds of the quarter were already a blur of back-and-forth duels between the two point guards. Though Takao hadn't lost the ball, his breathing grew uneven from the bursts of speed.
Kota, meanwhile, stayed composed. He'd been pacing himself since the first quarter, saving energy for exactly this kind of relentless full-court press.
He smiled playfully as he harassed Takao's dribble rhythm, darting forward as if to steal, forcing Takao to adjust constantly.
"Takao!"
Seeing his teammate in trouble, Midorima moved to get open for a pass. His steps were shaky, but his eyes were burning with resolve.
"If I don't step up now—then who will?!"
Catching Takao's pass, Midorima drove forward, hesitated for an instant, then crossed the ball behind his back—launching into a high-arching, impossible three-pointer.
Swish!
Shutoku's three-pointer counted!
"Nice one! Let's go, Shutoku!!"
"Damn, how can his aim still be that perfect!?"
The arena erupted.
Midorima had scored 66 points, tying Aomine's record from the previous year for most points in a single game. His twentieth three-pointer of the match dropped cleanly through the net.
Some Kaijo fans even found themselves clapping for him.
"Sorry, sorry" Kise said with a wry smile. "There's no defending that kind of shot, seriously."
No one blamed him. Even in his "Perfect Copy" form, Kise couldn't stop a Midorima like this.
"Doesn't matter," Kota muttered, watching Midorima stagger back toward defense. "The guy looks like he could collapse any second."
Despite his exhaustion, every eye in the arena was fixed on him—with admiration.
"Do your best, Shutoku!"
Someone shouted, and soon the whole crowd joined in—Kaijo fans included.
"Good luck! Shutoku!"
"Keep goin! Shutoku!"
Even the most loyal Kaijo supporters clapped in respect.
Under the lights, Midorima raised one trembling arm skyward, his wristband glowing faintly.
"Defense!" Takao shouted, his voice breaking through the cheers.
The three first-years of Shutoku straightened immediately. Taisuke and Miyaji squared up in the paint, determination written on their faces.
They hadn't scored in ages, but defense didn't need rhythm—only willpower.
Kota paused for a split second, caught off guard. For the first time, he felt like the crowd wasn't on Kaijo's side.
"Man… they're making us look like the villains here." He exhaled, half-laughing, half-bothered.
Crowd momentum could change everything. A single clap or shout could trigger a breakthrough on the court.
Kaijo's next possession—Kota passed directly to Kise.
With Midorima exhausted, defending Kise was suicide.
A smooth crossover, a quick pull-up—easy points.
94–90. Shutoku still leads.
"No big deal. There's no way Midorima can guard me now," Kise said calmly, a faint golden light flickering in his eyes.
Kaijo's players still had plenty of stamina left; even Kise could maintain "Perfect Copy" till the end if needed.
But moments later—Kise froze.
Midorima had just crossed half court… and launched a midcourt three before anyone could react.
Swish!
Another perfect shot.
"Are you kidding me!?" Kise's jaw dropped. "He can still shoot from there?!"
"This guy doesn't even acknowledge shooting range as a concept anymore," Kota cursed, this time driving the ball himself. He bulldozed past Takao and nailed a three of his own in response.
Two minutes into the quarter, the score gap stayed tight.
Still, Kaijo knew—they had to end it now.
"Enough playing around, boys. Time to crank it up" Kota said, licking his lips. A spark of electricity flashed at his feet as the team's aura shifted.
Kaijo's big men increased their contact in the paint. The refs had loosened up, letting the game flow.
Only Yuki kept playing his usual role as the quiet "spot-up tool" just as Kota had told him.
"Raaagh!!"
Hayakawa, usually the carefree joker, suddenly showed surprising finesse—posting up, faking his defender, and drawing a foul.
Unfortunately, his free throws were… well, on brand.
Clang. Clang.
Zero for two.
Takeuchi's face darkened instantly. He vowed right then—extra free throw drills for Hayakawa after this game, no excuses.
Adding to the frustration, Midorima's insane threes just kept falling—still at 100% accuracy even with zero stamina.
Kota stared blankly as Midorima wobbled down the court like he might collapse—only to sink another bomb from way downtown.
"I swear to—! This guy's even less human than Aomine!"
Unlike Aomine, whose speed and strength dropped with fatigue, Midorima's mechanics never wavered. Even if he moved like a snail, his upper body stayed rock-solid when shooting.
Soon, even Kaijo's bench couldn't keep straight faces.
Kaijo scored nearly every possession, but twos couldn't keep up with Midorima's endless threes.
Swish!
Another impossible shot.
Midorima's total reached 82 points. Shutoku led 118–111 with five minutes left.
Kota frowned, his "Fourth Quarter King" mode activating. Kise's aura flared, ready to copy Midorima's precision. Coach Takeuchi hesitated, debating whether to call a timeout.
Tension filled Kaijo's bench.
They'd controlled the game all along—only to face collapse at the end.
Just as Kota and Kise steeled themselves for an all-out push—
Disaster struck.
After one last possession, Midorima suddenly wobbled—and fell.
Time seemed to stop.
Takao reacted first, abandoning the ball and sprinting toward him.
"Shin-chan! Shin-chan, hey! You okay!?"
"Ugh… Takao… don't yell…"
Midorima gasped, lying on his back, eyes staring up at the lights in frustration.
The entire Shutoku team, coach included, rushed over. Kota stopped dribbling, watching silently from a distance.
The ref blew for a timeout, summoning the medics.
"It's nothing serious" the doctor said after a quick check. "He's just exhausted. He needs rest—but he can't continue playing."
Relief swept through the arena. Even Kaijo's fans applauded as Midorima was helped off the court.
His final tally—91 points.
That record would later be remembered as one of the most unbreakable feats in history.