On the court, Himuro's shooting form drew gasps from the crowd.
The spectators watched in stunned silence. They had never seen such a refined shooting technique—the ball traced an almost unreal trajectory through the air, slipping past the defense like it was inevitable.
"Incredible!" The murmurs spread through the stands.
"What kind of shot was that? It just went straight through!" someone exclaimed in amazement.
Seated in the audience, Takao had his eyes locked on Himuro, and after hearing Midorima's comment, he couldn't help but blurt out, "He's the closest to the Generation of Miracles!"
Midorima adjusted his glasses, his expression a mix of emotions. Slowly, he spoke:
"Yes, his skill and talent are impressive. You can tell he's been working relentlessly to close the gap between himself and the Generation of Miracles."
There was a subtle note of admiration in his tone, but he quickly followed up with, "But in the end, his potential has limits. He will never reach our level."
Takao sighed, offering a wry smile. "Even being this good must be tough for him."
Midorima nodded. He understood all too well how frustrating it was to be caught in the middle—not a prodigy, yet far above the average player. It was like being a solid B student in school: never carefree like those who had given up, yet never quite able to break through to true greatness, always just short of something unattainable.
As for Himuro's shot just now, Midorima had seen through it instantly—just like the rest of the Generation of Miracles. They were basketball geniuses, the kind of players who could analyze and replicate a move after seeing it once.
They could break down every detail of Himuro's shooting mechanics—every motion, every intention, every effect.
Yet, despite his impressive skills, there was still a gap. He was close to their level, but not quite there.
Takao understood this too. The true essence of the Generation of Miracles wasn't just technique—it was an almost supernatural instinct and an unparalleled understanding of basketball. They could make impossible plays seem effortless. Himuro was talented, but that final step remained elusive.
As the scoreboard updated to 28-36, the players from Fukui High felt the pressure mounting.
They knew they had to make a push if they wanted to win. Yuki Kawamura took possession of the ball, scanning the court for the best passing option.
This time, he chose not to pass to Shiro, since their ace had already exhausted a lot of energy battling Murasakibara in the paint.
Fukui needed to distribute their effort wisely to stay competitive.
Kawamura ultimately passed to Moyun, a player who had been stepping up throughout the game.
Standing beyond the three-point line, Moyun prepared to attack, while Himuro locked in on him defensively.
If he was being honest, Himuro had to admit that Moyun's natural talent surpassed his own. In various aspects—athleticism, reaction speed—it was clear. Despite not having formal basketball training before, Moyun had an edge physically that Himuro lacked.
The atmosphere on the court was tense. The battle was on.
Moyun started his move, dribbling low before making a sharp hesitation step, extending his right foot outward. The sudden motion forced Himuro to retreat instinctively.
But Himuro quickly realized that Moyun might be faking the drive, setting up a step-back jumper instead.
Adjusting his stance, Himuro braced himself to contest the shot.
However, Moyun was quicker than expected.
The moment he saw Himuro react, Moyun executed a smooth behind-the-back dribble, immediately stepping back before rising into a fadeaway jumper.
Himuro was a split-second late—he had no chance to contest it.
Murasakibara, locked in a physical struggle with Shiro under the basket, had no time to help on the perimeter. The ball arced beautifully through the air and swished through the net.
The crowd erupted in applause as the scoreboard updated to 28-39. Fukui had extended their lead to 11 points.
Moyun had just returned the favor to Himuro.
As Yosen regained possession, Kensuke Fukui quickly assessed the situation.
Murasakibara was being tightly marked by Shiro, and their other teammates lacked the ability to create their own shots. That meant the offensive burden fell squarely on Himuro's shoulders.
Without hesitation, Fukui passed the ball to Himuro, trusting him to deliver.
Himuro caught it in rhythm, wasting no time—he went straight into a pull-up jumper.
This shot was second nature to him, a move polished through endless repetition. His mechanics were precise, his release confident.
Moyun anticipated it and prepared to jump for the contest, fully aware that Himuro's shot was no joke.
But just as he pushed off the ground, his foot slipped slightly.
Glancing down, he realized he had stepped on a small patch of sweat. It was just enough to disrupt his balance. Gritting his teeth, he fought to recover, trying to jump anyway.
His reaction was quick, but the slip had cost him. His jump height was lower than usual.
Still, at the peak of his jump, his fingertips barely brushed the basketball. It was a minuscule touch, but just enough to alter the shot's trajectory.
And in that moment, Moyun finally understood the secret of Himuro's Mirage Shot.
Himuro's expression shifted. He hadn't expected his signature move to be disrupted.
The ball wobbled slightly in the air before clanking off the back rim.
It bounced around the hoop, rattling as if unwilling to accept defeat. After a few agonizing moments, it finally dropped through the net.
Himuro exhaled in relief, but his gaze toward Moyun turned more complex.
The rest of Yosen's team was just as shocked. They hadn't expected Moyun to challenge Himuro's shot like that. Clearly, Fukui High wasn't just about Shiro—they had more weapons than expected.