The Opening Clash

Takao didn't say a word — he knew that on the basketball court, the best response was action. He took the inbound pass and steadily brought the ball past half-court.

Without hesitation, Takao lobbed the ball inside to Otsubo once again. He understood that while Fukui's center was tough, he simply couldn't match Otsubo's sheer power in the paint.

If you find your opponent's weakness, you exploit it — no questions asked.

Catching the pass, Otsubo's eyes burned with a beast-like intensity. He didn't bother with fancy footwork or finesse; he simply lowered his shoulder and bulldozed into Fukui's center.

Against Otsubo's superior size and strength, technique was secondary. He was an immovable force, a mountain in the paint, suffocating his defender with overwhelming physicality.

After clearing out Fukui's center, Nijimura rushed over for help defense. His speed was lightning-fast — but that played right into Otsubo's hands.

Because Nijimura stepping up meant one thing: Kimura was wide open.

Otsubo, with the vision of a seasoned veteran, spotted Kimura instantly. Without hesitation, he fired a sharp, precise pass.

The ball cut through the air in a straight line, landing perfectly in Kimura's hands.

Kimura wasted no movement. No dribbles, no hesitation. A quick floater—soft touch, high arc.

Swish!

The ball kissed the net. Nothing but clean.

The scoreboard flipped to 5:4.

Both teams were evenly matched so far, each possession a battle of strategy and execution.

And yet, neither team's true ace had fully entered the fray. Aside from Shiro's opening dunk, the top players on both sides had barely even touched the ball.

Everyone knew it, though—this was just the calm before the storm. The real fight was only beginning.

This time, Kawamura took the ball up again.

With a lightning-quick crossover, he blew past Takao, barely losing any speed.

Takao tried to recover, reaching out to stop Kawamura's drive—but it was useless. Kawamura was like a freight train, plowing through contact.

Despite his best efforts, Takao quickly realized he wasn't stopping Kawamura's momentum.

His penetration was razor-sharp, slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter.

Even though Kawamura was 4 cm shorter than Takao, his 3 kg weight advantage made all the difference. His superior core strength gave him the edge in physical matchups.

As Kawamura surged into the paint, Kimura recognized the danger and abandoned his man to help.

But Kawamura, possessing the vision of a top-tier point guard, immediately saw the opening and lobbed the ball to Nijimura.

He avoided the riskier bounce pass—because against someone like Takao and his Hawk's Eye vision, there was no room for error.

If the defender was farther away, a bounce pass might have worked. But at this range? That would be handing over possession.

So, Kawamura went over the top.

The ball soared through the air in a beautiful arc, heading straight for Nijimura.

Catching it in rhythm, Nijimura barely hesitated. Takao leaped to contest, but the shot was already in motion.

A perfect release. A perfect trajectory.

Swish!

The net snapped crisply.

Score: 7-4.

Takao's eyes flashed with determination.

Once again, he fed the ball to Otsubo.

This strategy was working.

There was no reason to stop now.

The ball arced through the air, landing perfectly in Otsubo's hands.

Otsubo didn't waste the opportunity. He powered through Fukui's center once again, using his strength to create space. Then, he rose high above the rim—his only goal: a dunk.

Seeing this, Nijimura immediately abandoned his coverage of Kimura to rotate over. He knew that if they couldn't stop Otsubo's dunk, their team's morale would take a massive hit.

But Otsubo wasn't just a physical force — he had great vision as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Kimura wide open once again.

In midair, he made his decision.

Instead of forcing the dunk, he kicked the ball out to Kimura.

Kimura caught the pass and prepared to shoot — but just as he was about to release it, a blur shot past him from the side.

Smack!

Shiro picked his pocket!

His reflexes were like lightning. With a single swipe, he ripped the ball straight from Kimura's hands.

"WTF?!" Miyaji blurted out, stunned. It happened so fast that he didn't even have time to react. He had just seen Shiro in front of him — how did he get over there so fast?

It was almost as if Shiro's speed rivaled Aomine's.

Even the Shutoku players were frozen in shock. No one expected Shiro's speed to be on par with Aomine.

Instantly, the tension in the air shifted.

Every member of the Generation of Miracles had a unique specialty that made them unstoppable. Could Shiro's defining trait be his speed?

Before anyone could fully process what happened, Shiro fired a pass like a bolt of lightning, slicing through Shutoku's entire defense without giving them a chance to react.

The ball soared in a perfect arc, landing precisely in the hands of the fastest player on the court — Moyun.

Moyun secured the ball, but just as he was about to attack, Midorima appeared in front of him.

Midorima's expression remained calm. He knew Shiro's capabilities, and he wasn't surprised by the steal. That's why he had hustled back on defense faster than anyone.

But Moyun didn't hesitate.

He immediately went for a fadeaway jumper, rising up right in front of Midorima.

Midorima reacted instantly, jumping to contest the shot.

But just as his hand extended toward the ball, he realized — it was a fake.

Moyun put the ball on the floor and drove right past him.

Midorima's heart skipped a beat. He had been baited.

Still, his movements were crisp — no wasted time. He immediately pivoted and gave chase.

Compared to Aomine or the other Miracles, Midorima wasn't known for his speed. But against anyone outside the Generation of Miracles? He was still one of the fastest.

Moyun executed a between-the-legs dribble, then quickly spun his back toward Midorima, setting himself up for a post-up.

"A post-up?" Midorima raised an eyebrow.

This was something he had only seen Shiro execute to perfection.

Was Moyun really skilled enough to pull it off?

Moyun used his shoulder to bump Midorima twice, creating just enough space. Then, he made his move.

A textbook step-back fadeaway.

His feet spread out, resetting his position. A shoulder fake.

"Left or right?"

For the first time, Midorima hesitated.

This was only the second player he had ever seen execute a post move with such fluidity and deception.

And in that brief moment of indecision — Moyun was already in the air.

A flawless fadeaway jumper.

But Midorima wasn't giving up.

He exploded upward, fully extending his arm.

With his height and wingspan, his fingertips were closing in on the ball.