A Massive Lead

The score quickly shifted to 47-42. In less than 20 seconds, Shiro had widened the gap by five points.

The atmosphere in the gym grew tense, with the crowd erupting in waves of cheers, surging like an unstoppable tide.

"Beep! Timeout, Shutoku!"

The referee's whistle pierced through the air, momentarily cutting through the tension.

Midorima cast a deep glance at Shiro, his eyes flickering with complex emotions before turning back toward the bench.

Fukui Bench

A collective sigh of relief spread across the team—Shiro was simply too reliable.

"Shiro, are you good on stamina?" Miyamoto asked with concern. He knew that unleashing the animal instinct burned through a player's energy, and running out of gas in the second half could be dangerous.

"I'm fine, Coach" Shiro's voice was steady and unwavering, his eyes filled with confidence. Even though he hadn't been subbed out, his endurance had been trained to its limits. This was nothing.

"Good. From now on, feed Shiro the ball. Let's break this game open in the second quarter—got it?" Miyamoto's tone was absolute. This was the safest, most effective strategy. And he trusted Shiro to make it happen.

The entire team nodded in agreement. They knew the key to victory—stick with Shiro. As long as he was on the floor, their chances were limitless.

Shiro let out a helpless chuckle. But this was his role, after all.

Shutoku Bench

Midorima was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face and hitting the hardwood with soft plinks.

The suffocating pressure from Shiro was overwhelming. Every possession felt like carrying a mountain on his shoulders, crushing the air out of his lungs.

The rest of Shutoku's players took full advantage of the timeout, trying to recover. Even though they hadn't been the ones attacking, the constant back-and-forth sprints had worn them down.

Coach Nakatani stood in front of them, rubbing his chin in thought. His brows furrowed, determination shining in his gaze.

...

"Beep! Timeout over. Game on!"

The referee's voice echoed across the gym, snapping everyone's focus back to the court.

Shutoku had possession.

Immediately, their entire team spread out to the perimeter—completely abandoning the paint.

What kind of play is this?! The audience buzzed with confusion. No one had ever seen this kind of strategy before.

Suddenly, Takao fired a pass to Midorima. In an instant, all four Shutoku players collapsed around him, forming a human shield to block out any defenders.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

A four-man screen just to get Midorima an open three?!

It was clear they were terrified of Shiro's shot-blocking.

Still, the moment they realized the play was for Midorima, the crowd eased up.

After all, Midorima was Shutoku's ace. His three-point accuracy was unreal—if anyone could make this work, it was him.

"So they really have no other choice, huh?" Kise chuckled wryly. It was a desperate strategy, but Shutoku had no better options.

"But will that really be enough to stop Shiro?" Aomine muttered, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Shiro's figure.

On the court, Midorima leaped into his shooting motion, unwavering determination in his eyes. He was going to sink this shot.

Extending his arm to its full range, he flicked his wrist—

"Too naive."

A chilling voice cut through the air.

A black blur flashed across Midorima's vision.

His mind screamed danger. His heartbeat stalled. Time itself seemed to freeze.

Smack!

The unmistakable sound of leather being stuffed echoed through the gym.

Shiro had swatted the shot.

Midorima's form, usually smooth and graceful, suddenly looked sluggish and stiff. His eyes widened in pure disbelief.

Even with four players screening, even with a perfectly executed setup—

Shiro still erased his shot like it was nothing.

The entire Shutoku team was stunned.

They had poured everything into creating space for Midorima's shot… only for it to be blocked like it was child's play.

A sense of powerlessness crept into their hearts. No matter how much effort they put in, Shiro was simply on another level.

But he wasn't done.

Without hesitation, Shiro snatched the ball midair and took off.

By the time he reached half-court, he had already elevated—pulling up for a deep-range jumper.

The motion was effortless, each movement exuding confidence and power.

The ball carved a perfect arc through the air—

Swish!

The net barely moved as the shot fell through.

Silence.

Then, an eruption.

The entire gym was shaken by what they had just witnessed.

Shiro had blocked a four-man-screened three and immediately drained one from half-court.

Shutoku's players had no chance of catching up. All they could do was watch as the scoreboard stretched further away.

Midorima clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palm.

Helplessness flooded his chest.

This wasn't like his last battle against Aomine — this time, he hadn't even lasted a full half before being completely overpowered.

The rest of Shutoku's players were equally shaken.

Shiro was too strong.

For the first time, doubt began to creep in—could they really win this?

The scoreboard now read 50-42. Shutoku was trailing by eight points. And time continued to tick away.

Midorima gritted his teeth.

He thought back to his bold words before the match—those words still burned in his heart.

Then, he shouted.

"Even if we lose, we're gonna make you work for it! We won't go down easy!"

His voice echoed through the gym, firm and defiant.

"We haven't lost yet!"

His teammates snapped out of their daze.

They suddenly recalled Shiro's words before the game—those taunts had cut deep, like daggers twisting in their chests.

Their expressions hardened.

Anger surged through them. Their fighting spirit reignited.

"Shutoku, we're not letting them walk away with this win!" Otsubo roared, his voice like a battle cry.

"Yeah!!" The entire team responded in unison, their voices merging into one.

The gym trembled with their newfound determination.

On the other side, Nijimura nudged Shiro's shoulder.

"What the hell did you say to piss them off this much?"

Fukui's players turned to Shiro, curiosity in their eyes.

Shiro let out an exasperated chuckle.

"I swear, I didn't say anything crazy!" He held up his hands in mock innocence.

Then, shaking his head, he muttered—

"Whatever. Let's just finish this game. We can't let them get any momentum."

"Yeah, yeah!" His teammates nodded, their faces serious.

By the time the second quarter ended, the scoreboard read 70-45.