…
Midorima nodded grimly. "Feels like my ex-teammate… that monster."
Daniel's clipboard snapped shut. "Alright, new experiment," he said flatly. "I want to know how many full-court shots that boy can make before his brain melts."
Ector blinked. "You serious?"
Daniel didn't even smirk. "Dead serious. Tyrone – guard him only at half-court. Don't waste energy before that. Let him shoot. I want to see it."
Tyrone raised a brow. "So, just watch?"
"Watch," Daniel confirmed. Then, turning toward Jesus: "You're next. You've got him on offense. Don't overthink. Just paint. Every jab, every fake – do what we drilled. Make him feel human again."
Jesus grinned. "Entiendo, Coach. Time to cook."
The whistle blew.
From the first play, it was clear this wasn't the same Onitsuka.
Tyrone stood waiting past half court, long arms folded, daring Midorima to take it. The green-haired shooter saw him, spotted up from his own paint, and launched. Perfect form.
Swish.
The crowd roared.
Daniel only scribbled on his clipboard: "1/1 – still clean. Shoulders holding up. Legs steady."
Next possession. Same thing. Takao dribbled up for a bit on his own side of the court, then passed back to Midorima. Another shot.
Swish.
"2/2 – muscle memory intact. Breathing even," Daniel muttered.
But then Onitsuka attacked – and this time, Jesus stepped forward.
He caught the ball on the wing. And Midorima squared up to guard him – and immediately felt something off. Jesus didn't bounce or twitch like a normal player. He waited.
Then came the first jab. The whole body moved – ball, hips, eyes – everything screamed drive.
Midorima shifted.
Instantly, Jesus rose into a jumper – smooth, pure, unhurried.
Swish.
Daniel clapped once. "Good. Make him guess again."
Next possession – jab, pump fake, step-through.
Then another.
Then another.
Every single time, Jesus made Midorima flinch – just a little. It didn't matter that Midorima had the height advantage. His defensive rhythm was unraveling, piece by piece. By the fifth minute, Jesus had already scored nine straight.
Ector grinned from half court. "My man's painting a masterpiece."
Tyrone laughed. "He's killing him slow."
Meanwhile, Midorima's face remained stoic – but his shoulders told another story. The perfect posture began to sag, the motion of the shot just a fraction slower.
He hit his third full-court attempt – another clean make – but Daniel noticed the landing. He staggered slightly on his right foot.
"3/3 – form degrading," Daniel murmured. "Let's push it."
Onitsuka fed Jesus again.
Pump fake. Jab. Step-back. Midorima bit twice – then tried to recover, only to see the ball already flying.
Swish.
The crowd groaned. Even Takao looked shaken. "I've never seen him… like that."
Midorima's fourth full-court attempt rimmed in – barely holding.
But by the fifth, his breath was heavy. His release slower.
"4/5 – tremor in the elbow," Daniel noted quietly. "He's cracking."
The last possession of the quarter came with ten seconds on the clock. Shutoku down by double digits now – the gym buzzing with disbelief.
Takao tossed it to Midorima again near their own baseline. Full court. No hesitation. He launched.
The buzzer screamed.
Clang.
The ball ricocheted off the front rim.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Even Shutoku's bench didn't move.
Midorima stood frozen, glasses catching the gym lights. His chest heaved once, twice. His hands – those precise, surgeon's hands – trembled faintly.
Jesus walked past him, towel draped over his neck, voice low but sharp enough to cut. "Nice try, maestro," he said with a grin. "Better luck next time."
Ector slapped Jesus on the back as they crossed the court. "Yo, man, that was dirty. Dude's seeing ghosts now."
Chapo laughed, spinning the ball on his finger. "Sweet Melon moves, baby. I told you – I build this offense, brick by brick."
Daniel looked down at his clipboard. Five made threes from beyond half court. One miss. And a shooter who no longer trusted his own release. He exhaled, whispering to himself. "Research complete."
Away 71 – Home 54.
Daniel leaned back on the bench, ice pressed against his knee, eyes locked on the court. "Alright," he said finally, voice low but razor sharp. "We've proved our point. Now let's finish this."
He stood, clapping once. "Novak, Grigori, Tyrone, AD, JB – you're up."
The gym went quiet. Even Shutoku's bench straightened up when they saw what was coming. Five giants. No smiles. No theatrics. Only calm menace.
Daniel's tone didn't rise – it didn't need to. "Novak, you run the show. Use your size, use your eyes. Deng, Biha – screens, rolls, movement. Grigori…" He paused, smirking faintly. "You've been quiet too long. You know what to do."
Grigori's lips twitched in a small, cold smile.
Onitsuka Tigers' new line-up looked like this:
PG – #24, Novak Lazarevich, 6'4", 200 lbs
SG – #35 Grigori Nevsky, 6'10", 200 lbs
SF – #23, Tyrone Mason, 6'6", 210 lbs
PF – #16, Aliir Deng, 7'1", 220 lbs
C – #17, Jean-Batiste Biha, 7'3", 260 lbs
Shutoku stood up, already exhausted. Their orange and black uniforms clashed against the matte black of Onitsuka's – like embers against void.
Midorima adjusted his glasses, trying to ignore the fatigue in his arms. Across from him stood Grigori – 6'10", arms loose, expression dead calm.
The whistle blew.
Novak brought the ball up, dribbling with the control of a veteran guard – every motion efficient. He signaled once – Deng and Biha moved like twin towers, cutting off defenders, creating space like parting the sea. All the defenders focused on them.
The ball found its way to Grigori at the wing instead. He caught it in one smooth motion. No hesitation.
One dribble. One step. Rise.
The release was effortless – not rushed, not forced, just pure mechanics.
Swish.
The gym froze.
Midorima blinked. Ōtsubo's jaw clenched. Even the Shutoku bench murmured.
"A big man… shooting like that?"
Grigori didn't celebrate. He just turned, backpedaling, a small grin tugging his lips. "Welcome to hell, bitches."
Next possession, same spot. He rose again. Swish.
Then again. Swish.
Each shot was colder and crueler.
Midorima's frustration boiled over. He lunged forward on the fourth attempt, hand snapping up with perfect timing – it should have been a clean block.
But Grigori didn't shoot. He stopped mid-motion.
The shot turned into a pump fake, smooth as mercury. Midorima flew past him – helpless.
Grigori dropped the ball low, crossed once – tight, fluid, absurdly fast for someone his size. Ōtsubo stepped in – too late.
BOOM.
The dunk was thunder, the rim trembling in protest. Ōtsubo stumbled backward; the crowd gasped.
Grigori hung for a heartbeat, eyes dark and wild – and then he screamed. "THIS COURT BELONGS TO ME!"
The roar tore through the air.
Even the Shutoku bench went silent.
Then the trash talk began. Every possession, every rebound, every dribble – Grigori's voice cut through the gym like a cold wave. "You call that defense?" "Shoot, kid, shoot again!" "Didn't your mama teach you? Respect your higher ups!" "Sit your ass down, bitch."
Midorima tried – he truly did. He forced a couple of threes, each one cleaner than the last… but the rhythm was gone. The ball rimmed out, rolled off the iron, bounced away.
Every miss echoed louder than the crowd itself.
On the Shutoku bench, one of the seniors leaned forward, voice low and uneasy. "I've seen that look before… that thing."
Takao glanced at him. "What thing?"
"Animal instinct," the veteran said. "That guy has it. He is a real predator..."
"What animal do you think he is, senpai?" another asked quietly.
The senior pointed toward the court, where Grigori stood, chest heaving, eyes wild, shouting insults after another dagger three.
"The orca," he said. "The killer whale. Plays with his food before he eats it."
From there, it was over.
Novak orchestrated like a pro vs AAU team – his passes slicing through the defense, Deng and Biha crashing through the paint like armored beasts.
Every rebound belonged to Onitsuka.
Every mistake from Shutoku became a dunk, a roar, or another soul-crushing three.
By the final minutes, Midorima was pale, drenched in sweat, staring blankly at the rim. His form was still textbook, but the certainty was gone. He launched one last desperate three – unguarded, clean release.
Clang.
He stared at his hands, trembling slightly. They weren't listening anymore.
Grigori walked past him, whispering just loud enough to cut. "Come find me when you learn how to play, boy."
Midorima didn't listen, the sound of the buzzer was the only thing ringing in his ears. His posture stiff, he moved his head slightly to see the box score.
Away 102 – Home 62.
~~~~~
The whistle had long gone silent. Both sides lined up at center court, sweat still dripping, hearts still pounding.
No words. No arrogance. No smirks.
When the Onitsuka boys extended their hands, the Shutoku players accepted. The gym, moments ago thunderous, now breathed in solemn quiet – respect heavy in the air.
Grigori shook Midorima's hand firmly, neither smiling nor taunting. "Good game," he said simply, his voice calm again, his predator's fire sealed away.
One by one, they left the court.
No one noticed the figure standing near the gym doors. Michiko. Her expression was unreadable – part awe, part disbelief.
She had believed in the boys, yes. She had seen their training, their growth. But this? This was domination.
Her gaze swept the court. Shutoku's players were skilled, disciplined, talented. The Generation of Miracles' aura hung over them like an invisible crown. Yet all of that shattered when met with the weight of true competition.
It wasn't talent that separated them – it was exposure. The Onitsuka boys had been tested, pressed, pushed until the breaking point. The Generation of Miracles had never been challenged.
They stopped growing the moment they started winning.
Michiko's eyes found Midorima, still standing near half court, staring blankly at the rim that had once felt like his domain. His right hand hung loosely by his side, trembling faintly.
He looked lost – not defeated, but disoriented. For the first time in his life, his perfect logic, his luck, his unshakable confidence, had betrayed him.
He had always believed that with enough precision, with enough discipline, with enough luck he could control everything.
He had been outplayed, not just outscored.
Takao stood nearby, equally shaken but trying to hold himself together. "Hey… Midorima," he said softly, "you okay?"
Midorima didn't answer. He simply exhaled, slow and long. "I didn't think… something like this was possible."
Takao bit his lip. "Yeah. Me neither."
They stood there, long after the crowd dispersed, the sound of sneakers and chatter fading into the distance.
That's when Daniel walked over. Novak and Aisha followed him – she was still holding a small notepad, translating every word between the two sides.
Daniel's limp was noticeable but controlled. He stopped a few feet away from them.
"You two played well," he said in calm, deliberate English. Aisha echoed in Japanese beside him, her voice gentle but firm.
Takao bowed slightly. "Thank you."
Daniel nodded once. "But…" he started, looking from Takao to Midorima, "you focus on the wrong things."
Midorima's eyes lifted.
Daniel continued, his tone even but cutting. "You've got great shooters. A smart point guard. But basketball isn't about isolation. It's about space. About creation. About the rhythm between five people, not one."
Aisha translated, her Japanese smooth, carrying Daniel's edge perfectly.
Takao nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
Novak pointed at Takao and added, "You should be using this guy better. He sees the floor – use that. Let him shoot more. Work on catch-and-shoot threes. He can do that, can't he?"
Takao blinked, surprised. "I… maybe."
Daniel leaned in slightly. "Don't say maybe. Say yes. You train it – it becomes real."
He pointed toward Ōtsubo, the big man still sitting slumped at the bench. "And him. You teach him to shoot open jumpers. Doesn't matter if he's not perfect. Just confident. Spacing isn't about perfection – it's about pressure. If he can make the defense move and open lanes for the others, you've already won."
Aisha translated, her tone softening Daniel's words but not the message.
Finally, Daniel turned back to Midorima. "And you," he said, voice quiet now. "You're good. Very good. But you've built a cage around yourself."
Midorima frowned faintly. "A cage?"
"Precision," Daniel said. "You've turned it into religion. But that's not how real players grow." He took a step closer. "Learn how to create your shot – not just repeat it. Dribble. Drive. Attack. Don't wait for perfect. Perfection doesn't win games. Pressure does."
He threw a ball to Novak. He caught it and from the place where he was standing he threw the ball towards the basket that was on the other end of the court. The shot wasn't perfect, not like Midorima's, but swished into the net. Midorima and Takao stood there shocked.
"Many guys can shoot like that," Daniel simply stated, "not a pretty shot, not like yours, but it's just a fun trick shot. You shouldn't be building your game around it."
Novak nodded. "And defense," he added. "You're tall enough. Use your body. Don't just stand there hoping they miss. Make them miss."
Daniel's gaze hardened. "If you do that – if you learn to bend without breaking – you can be the strongest in Japan."
Aisha translated his last line slowly, every syllable deliberate: "Moshi sō sureba, kimitachi wa Nihon de saikyō ni nareru."
The words hung there, echoing softly across the quiet gym.
For a moment, neither Takao nor Midorima spoke.
Then Midorima bowed, deeply – his usual pride buried under something heavier, deeper. "Thank you," he said, quietly but firmly.
Daniel nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Then go earn it."
He turned, motioning Novak and Aisha toward the exit. Midorima watched them leave – tall silhouettes framed by the pale evening light spilling through the gym doors.
For the first time in years, his heart wasn't filled with arrogance… but with hunger. He looked down at his hands again – the same hands that had built him as a player – and clenched them tight.
He whispered under his breath, "I won't break."
Takao smiled faintly beside him. "Yeah, I know you won't."
And somewhere far down the corridor, Michiko was still standing by the wall, smiling to herself, her mind already racing ahead.
They'll evolve now, she thought. They have to.
Because the age of the Miracles was over. And something new – something way more dangerous – had just begun.