Midōrima's Three-Point Rain: The Challenge of Precision Calculation

The air in the Teikō First Team Training Hall, after bearing the wild impact of Aomine and the crushing power of Murasakibara, still seemed to carry the residual heat of colliding muscles and the salty sting of sweat. Yet, as the training shifted to half-court set shots, a different, icy and precise atmosphere began to permeate the space. Bai Ze You's gaze was involuntarily seized by the figure standing at the left baseline corner—Midōrima Shintarō.

He stood tall and straight as a pine, wearing his signature glasses, the gaze behind the lenses sharp as a scalpel, meticulously adjusting the tightly wound bandage on his left wrist and the finger guard on his right index finger. Every movement was as precise as the meshing of clockwork gears, carrying an almost obsessive ritualism. Before him, several basketballs were neatly arranged, like shells awaiting launch. His entire aura switched instantly from the earlier lazy observation to a cold, focused, oppressive "sniper" mode.

"Half-court set shot test! Ten shots each! Midōrima, you go first!" Nijimura Shūzō's voice broke the silence.

Midōrima adjusted his glasses, the lenses reflecting the ceiling lights, obscuring his eyes. He walked to the left baseline, bent down, and with fingertips as steady as if measured a thousand times, lightly brushed the rough surface of the basketball. Then, he bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, raised the ball, pushed off the ground, lifted his arm, and flicked his wrist—the movements flowed like water, each link as precise as a textbook replica, without a hint of deviation!

"Swoosh!"

The ball traced a perfect, breathtakingly high parabola, like a precision-guided missile, swishing through the net! The crisp sound of the net echoed sharply in the silent gym.

"1/10." The upperclassman serving as recorder called out, his voice carrying habitual reverence.

Midōrima's expression remained blank as he moved to the next spot—the left 45-degree angle. The same preparatory movements, the same ball-raising posture, the same release rhythm. The ball once again traced that familiar, perfect arc through the air!

"Swoosh!" Another clean swish!

"2/10."

Like a machine running a preset program, he silently moved to each fixed point: the top of the arc, the right 45-degree angle, the right baseline, the free-throw line... Each shot was terrifyingly calm, each ball's arc, spin, and speed leaving his hand with no margin of error! That ultra-precise parabola, as if measured by an invisible ruler, carried a cold, despair-inducing beauty.

"Swoosh!" "Swoosh!" "Swoosh!"... The crisp sounds of the net were like a countdown to death, hammering against the hearts of every onlooker.

"9/10!" The recorder's voice carried a barely perceptible tremor. Only one shot left, the right baseline.

Midōrima stood still, once again going through that perfect set of preparatory movements. He took a deep breath, his gaze through the lenses locking onto the distant center of the hoop like a laser. He bent his knees, lowered his center, raised the ball... Just as the ball was about to leave his hand, a faint metallic grinding sound came from somewhere in the gym ceiling! A hanging fixture seemed to have loosened slightly, shaking a little!

This tiny change might have no effect on an ordinary person, but for Midōrima, who pursued absolute precision and factored environmental variables into his calculations, it was like a grain of sand falling into a precision instrument!

Midōrima's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly! His flawlessly consistent release rhythm showed a nearly undetectable pause! The height of his ball raise seemed a fraction of a millimeter higher than before, and the angle of his wrist press seemed to have a minuscule deviation!

The ball left his hand! It still traced a high parabola, but those as sharp as Akashi, Nijimura, and even Momoi Satsuki on the sidelines, caught that barely noticeable difference—the arc seemed slightly flatter, the spin a little weaker!

"Clang!"

The ball hit the inside back rim, bouncing high! It rattled on the rim a few times, and finally... barely, with a suffocating suspense, rolled into the net!

"10/10! All in!" The recorder's voice carried a relieved excitement.

All in! But the danger of that last shot was like a tiny thorn, piercing Midōrima's precision-driven, perfectionist heart. He stood still, adjusted his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses coldly sweeping over the spot on the ceiling where the noise had come from, his thin lips pressed into a hard, straight line. Though no words were spoken, the silent chill and a hint of offended irritation were clearly conveyed to everyone. For Midōrima, a "barely made" shot was itself a failure.

"Next, Bai Ze You!" Nijimura's voice rang out, carrying a hint of barely concealed anticipation. Everyone's gaze instantly focused on You.

You walked to the left baseline, the same spot as Midōrima. He picked up a basketball, without Midōrima's elaborate ritual, just habitually feeling the ball's texture with his fingers, then slightly bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity. His shooting form wasn't as textbook-perfect as Midōrima's; it carried a unique, fluid, natural rhythm. He raised the ball, pushed off, lifted his arm, and flicked his wrist—the movements were smooth and relaxed, with a flowing, graceful beauty.

"Swoosh!"

The ball traced an equally beautiful arc, swishing through the net! Clean and sharp!

"1/10." The recorder called out.

You's expression was calm as he moved to the next spot. Left 45-degree angle, catch, bend, release!

"Swoosh!" Another hit!

"2/10."

Top of the arc, "Swoosh!" Swish!

"3/10."

Right 45-degree angle, "Swoosh!" Precise hit!

"4/10."

Right baseline, "Swoosh!" Still crisp!

"5/10!"

Five consecutive swishes! Smooth! Steady! No wasted motion! Though lacking Midōrima's cold mechanical feel, it was full of unique rhythm and confidence. Low murmurs and suppressed exclamations began to rise from the sidelines. This newcomer's shooting touch was also this soft and consistent?!

However, as You stepped up to the free-throw line, Midōrima Shintarō's icy voice cut through the air like a scalpel:

"Interference."

Midōrima had somehow already moved to about two meters in front and to the side of You. He adjusted his glasses, the gaze behind the lenses sharp as needles, locking onto every subtle movement of You, his voice flat: "Keep shooting. I'll interfere with you."

The air froze instantly! Interfere with shooting practice?! And by Midōrima Shintarō himself?! This was practically hell mode!

Nijimura Shūzō crossed his arms, showing no intention of stopping it, his eyes instead burning with even greater interest. Akashi Seijūrō stood silently to the side, his heterochromatic pupils like icy probes. Aomine grinned, wearing an expression of someone ready for a show. Murasakibara yawned, seeming to find it a bit interesting now. Momoi Satsuki's pen stopped mid-air, her cherry-pink eyes full of tension.

You's movements didn't pause at all. It was as if he hadn't heard Midōrima's words or felt that tangible, icy gaze. He slightly bent his knees, lowered his center, raised the ball, his gaze calmly locking onto the basket.

Just as You lifted his arm, the ball about to leave his hand! Midōrima moved! His movement was swift as a ghost, yet as precise as if measured by a ruler! His long body instantly shifted half a step sideways, his right arm shooting out like a venomous snake, lightning-fast, blocking the most direct line of sight between You's shooting hand and the basket with pinpoint accuracy! At the same time, his cold, formulaic voice rang out: "Visual interference Type A! Release angle correction rate decreased by 12.3%!"

You's line of sight was completely blocked by that suddenly appearing hand! Only the shadow of Midōrima's arm remained before his eyes! The immense psychological pressure and sudden visual deprivation would be enough to deform any shooter's form!

Yet, You's arm-raising motion showed no hesitation! His wrist still flicked out smoothly! The ball left his hand! The arc it traced seemed slightly higher than before!

"Clang!"

The ball hit the front rim, bouncing high! Missed!

"6/10." The recorder's voice carried a hint of regret.

Interference effective!

Midōrima expressionlessly withdrew his arm, adjusted his glasses, as if he had merely completed a precise experimental operation.

You calmly picked up the ball and returned to the free-throw line. There was no fluctuation in your amber eyes, only a deeper focus. You bent your knees, lowered your center of gravity, and raised the ball again.

This time, Midorima's interference was even more cunning! The moment you lifted the ball, instead of reaching out to block your vision, he suddenly pressed forward a step, closing in like a phantom! An immense pressure surged instantly! At the same time, his cold voice rang out like a curse: "Oppressive Close Defense! Disrupting balance! Core stability expected to drop 18.7%!"

The overwhelming force made your body involuntarily sway slightly! A minuscule stiffness appeared in your shooting motion!

The ball left your hand! The arc was clearly off!

"Clang!" It slammed hard against the rim and bounced out!

"7/10." Another miss!

Two consecutive failures under Midorima's precise interference! The murmurs from the sidelines grew louder. Midōrima Shintarō, Teikō's most precise "Sniper" and "Defense Computer," was teaching this dazzling newcomer a harsh lesson with his flawless calculations and predictions!

You stood still, watching the bouncing ball, and slowly exhaled a breath of stale air. Sweat trickled down your temple. You felt the scrutiny and challenge hidden in Midorima's cold gaze. This wasn't a contest of strength, but a silent war of calculation and counter-calculation, prediction and counter-prediction! Deep within your amber eyes, beneath the calm like an ancient well, a spark of "fighting spirit" was fully ignited. You loved challenges, especially this kind of dual test of intellect and skill!

You bent down, picked up the ball, and stepped onto the free-throw line for the third time. This time, you didn't immediately bend your knees to prepare. Instead, you slowly dribbled twice, your gaze calmly sweeping over Midorima's stance, then looking toward the distant hoop, as if conducting some silent calculation.

Midorima still stood at your side-front, his gaze behind the lenses like a hawk's, capturing every subtle muscle cue from you.

You moved!

Your center of gravity suddenly dropped sharply! Your shoulders twitched slightly, your eyes sharp as they stabbed to the right, executing a small but incredibly realistic fake drive to the right!

Midorima's pupils contracted slightly! The amplitude of the shoulder shake, the angle of the eye shift, the trend of the center of gravity drop... Data flashed through his mind in an instant! Probability of driving right: 67.3%! His center of gravity almost instinctively, almost imperceptibly, shifted half a step to the right, ready to block the driving lane!

But the moment Midorima's center of gravity shifted! Your descending body, relying on immense core strength and ankle explosiveness, forcibly halted the swaying motion! At the same time, your right wrist, dribbling the ball, flicked with lightning speed as if vanishing! The ball, in an incredibly tight space, traced a bizarre arc, passing from behind your own back, impossibly, to your left hand! Simultaneously, using the rebound force of your center of gravity, your whole body, like a spring compressed to its limit, rose from the ground toward the left—the tiny gap created by Midorima's shifted center of gravity—and pulled up for a jump shot!

A sudden rhythm change! A fake move followed by an immediate pull-up after a behind-the-back dribble adjustment! The entire motion was seamless, flowing as if practiced a thousand times! It perfectly combined the deception of the fake with your own explosive power!

For the first time, a clear flash of astonishment appeared in Midorima's eyes! His precise calculations and predictions, faced with this action that completely defied normal shooting rhythm and combined extreme body control with deception, suffered a fatal delay! He forcibly twisted his center of gravity to try and block, but he was half a beat too late!

The ball flew from your fingertips! Spinning faster than before, it traced a flatter but quicker arc!

"Swish!" It went cleanly through the net!

"8/10!" The recorder's voice carried a hint of excitement!

Success! Using a fake move and a bizarre rhythm change, you had deceived Midorima's defensive calculations!

Midorima's expression didn't change, but the hand pushing up his glasses exerted a little more force. The gaze behind the lenses grew even colder and sharper.

"Continue." Your voice was calm and flat, as if that brilliant shot had been just ordinary.

The fourth ball, interference. You caught the ball at the top of the arc. Midorima shadowed you, maintaining the optimal interference distance. You dribbled to adjust, then suddenly executed a highly realistic cross-over fake drive right! Midorima's center of gravity was instantly deceived!

The moment his center of gravity shifted! Your right wrist, controlling the ball, flicked with lightning speed! The ball, in an incredibly tight space, traced a "V" trajectory, passing between your legs to your left hand! At the same time, your body, having deceived his center of gravity, pivoted on your left foot and executed a rapid spin move in place, trying to shake him off!

"Driving route prediction: left-side cut-in! Blocking angle correction!" Midorima's cold voice rang out! Relying on his terrifying prediction and reaction speed, he forcibly halted his deceived center of gravity, and his large frame, like a precision gate, instantly blocked the path you would take after the spin!

But you stopped your spin halfway through! Your rotating body, relying on immense core strength and flexibility, forcibly halted in place! At the same time, your left hand holding the ball, in the moment your body completely lost balance and seemed about to fall, relying on muscle memory formed through countless practices and astonishing touch, flicked your wrist with incredible softness, tossing the ball toward the hoop!

An off-balance floater! A completely unexpected finishing move!

The ball traced a low, bizarre arc!

"Swish!" It went cleanly through the net again!

"9/10!"

"Whoa--!!" A huge gasp erupted from the sidelines! What kind of immense core strength and soft touch did it take to execute an off-balance floater like that?!

Midorima stood still, watching the rolling ball. The gaze behind his lenses was like a frozen lake, for the first time clearly reflecting a ripple called "confusion." His calculation model seemed to have no preset for a variable like "off-balance floater." This newcomer's playstyle was full of "unpredictability" that couldn't be fully analyzed by common sense and data!

The last ball! Right side, forty-five degrees! Score 9/10!

The air in the entire gym seemed to freeze. All eyes were fixed on you. Midōrima Shintarō stood at your side-front, closer than before, his gaze behind the lenses as cold as polar ice, calculating every pore of your body into his data. He wouldn't be fooled by the same trick twice!

You dribbled slowly, each bounce heavy and steady. Sweat dripped from your chin. You could feel Midorima's tangible, cold calculation field, as if all your movements were being broken down into data streams, rapidly simulated in his brain. This was a silent war, the ultimate showdown between precision instruments and unpredictable phantoms.

You slightly bent your knees, lowering your center of gravity. Midorima's eyes sharpened like blades, capturing every subtle muscle cue from you.

Your upper body suddenly swayed left! The amplitude was small, but the details were realistic! Your eyes stabbed sharply to the left! A fake move pretending to drive or pass!

Midorima's data stream analyzed instantly: Fake probability 83.6%! Intending to create space to shoot! Center of gravity unmoved, arm slightly raised, ready to block the shooting lane!

The moment Midorima made his predictive reaction! Your swaying body didn't retract; instead, using the momentum of the sway, you pivoted on your right foot, your entire body, as if pulled by invisible threads, spun rapidly 180 degrees to the left and back! A back pivot! At the same time, your right hand controlling the ball, in the instant of the spin, flicked your wrist with extreme concealment, and the ball, as if given life, hit the floor with a lightning-fast bounce, impossibly passing through Midorima's instinctively spread legs! A nutmeg pass?!

The target wasn't the hoop! It was a teammate (Kobayashi) cutting from the baseline!

"A pass?!" Midorima's pupils contracted sharply! His precise calculations were completely misled! All his predictions had focused on your personal finish! A nutmeg pass?! This extremely risky, low-success-rate passing method was completely outside his database of "reasonable choices"!

In the moment of Midorima's shock, Kobayashi had already caught that scalpel-precise nutmeg pass and easily scored a layup!

"Assist! White Team scores!" The referee's voice rang out.

The ball went in! Although you didn't score yourself, this offensive play, using a nutmeg pass that completely defied Midorima's calculation logic, had utterly dismantled Teikō's "Precision Sniper's" defense system! A different kind of "breakthrough"!

The entire training gym fell into a brief silence. Everyone stared dumbfounded at the scene. Breaking Midōrima Shintarō's defense with a nutmeg pass? It was simply a fantasy!

Midorima stood still, unmoving. He slowly pushed up his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses locked tightly onto that silver-haired figure high-fiving Kobayashi. His eyes were still cold, but deep within, unprecedented stormy waves surged! Precision, calculation, data... Everything he prided himself on, in the face of this variable named "Bai Ze You," seemed to have encountered an unfillable gap for the first time! A cold fury at being completely toyed with swept through his heart like a chill.

At the sidelines, deep within Akashi Seijūrō's heterochromatic eyes, undercurrents surged beneath the frozen lake. He stared intently at you, his fingertips unconsciously pressing hard, almost crushing his sleeve. That entire sequence of moves... from the realistic fake to induce Midorima's prediction, to using the spin to cover the nutmeg pass... every step precisely struck the blind spots of Midorima's calculation model! This was no longer just talent; it was the ultimate control of defensive psychology and court spatial reading! The true core of the "Phantom"! He picked up Momoi's shorthand notebook and heavily wrote down: Unpredictability. The corner of Akashi's mouth curled into a clear, cold smile, but one filled with intense strategic interest. Teikō's arsenal needed such a variable.

Nijimura Shūzō's booming laughter broke the silence: "Hahaha! Good shot! Bai Ze! Beautiful pass!" This cheer was full of appreciation for your court creativity.

Aomine Daiki, arms crossed, had deep blue eyes burning with even fiercer flames. He saw the cunning and creativity you displayed against a top defender like Midorima, which made his battle lust boil even more. Murasakibara Atsushi paused in his chewing of a Umaibo, his purple eyes carrying a hint of confusion and annoyance at being disturbed, muttering: "...A pass? So troublesome..."

On the second floor of the training gym, Kise Ryōta grabbed the railing excitedly: "Wow! A nutmeg pass! So cool! So sneaky! Midorima-senpai's expression! Hahaha! Bai Ze-senpai! You have to teach me this move!" His admiration for you had reached its peak.

On the sidelines, Momoi Satsuki's cherry-pink ponytail swayed slightly with excitement, her fair cheeks flushed. The pen in her hand danced wildly across her shorthand notebook, her cherry-pink eyes filled with shock and pure research fervor. "Unbelievable... a pass selection that completely defies the data model... a precise grasp of Midori-kun's psychology... and that kind of unrestrained creativity under the pressure of precision calculation... this is simply..." She lifted her head, her gaze at the silver-haired boy on the court brimming with awe and the thrill of discovering a new continent.

Just then, a cool, calm voice, carrying the power to cut through all noise, rang out from the sidelines:

"Bai Ze."

Akashi Seijūrō had walked to the edge of the court at some point, his heterochromatic eyes like icy probes, staring straight at Yū, who had just finished celebrating with his teammates. His voice was low, yet it cut clearly into everyone's ears:

"Can your phantom... fool the 'Generation of Miracles'?"

Those words, like a boulder dropped into a calm lake, instantly stirred a tidal wave in everyone's hearts! Fool the Generation of Miracles?! Akashi was actually using such high praise to position this newcomer who had just joined the First Team?!

Yū turned around, his red and white training uniform soaked with sweat, clinging to the smooth, powerful lines of his muscles. He met Akashi's unfathomable gaze, his amber eyes still calm, but deep within, a glint of unprecedented sharpness, like a drawn sword, quietly ignited.

He didn't answer. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint, yet unmistakably clear, arc—full of confidence and challenge.

The answer was in the silence. The White Phantom's dance steps were destined to bewilder the entire world on this stage, where countless geniuses had gathered.