Horizon 40 – Zenith 32
Halftime.
Kaito collapsed near the baseline, chest rising and falling like waves in a storm. Rikuya immediately caught him.
"I'm fine," Kaito rasped. "Just… gimme a minute."
Coach Tsugawa didn't hesitate. "Takeshi-sensei. Get him to the clinic."
We helped Kaito off the court—our captain, our anchor—and just like that, he was gone.
The locker room felt heavier.
Coach stood in front of us. Calm. Focused.
"This is a good result so far. But this game's not over. Not even close."
He looked at me.
"Dirga. It's your tempo now."
I nodded, clenching my fists. My legs were sore, lungs tight—but my mind was clear.
Time to take control.
…
We returned to the court. The crowd buzzed louder than before. Cameras. Phones. Commentators.
On the opposite end, Zenith's starters returned. Isaiah Dumont looked like a machine—zero emotion. Emir Al-Fayad cracked his knuckles. Ryoga Tanikawa was already stretching into the corner.
This wasn't a game anymore.
It was war.
our possession.
I brought the ball up. Isaiah met me at half court.
Close. Breathing distance. He watched everything. Not just my dribble—but my eyes, my hips, even the angle of my wrists.
Dribbling was death.
So I passed.
Quick bounce to Rei, then I cut to the wing. He passed back without hesitation—one-touch.
I didn't even dribble—just tapped it behind my back to Aizawa cutting down the middle.
Layup.
42–32.
It had begun.
Zenith didn't panic. Isaiah took the inbound and calmly ran their offense. No flash. Just results.
Pick and pop with Ryoga.
Three.
42–35.
Then they pressed.
Next possession, I was nearly trapped—Isaiah and Leonard closing fast. Instead of dribbling, I flicked the ball behind my head. It bounced once and landed in Rei's hands on the other side of the court.
He faked, drove, kicked to Aizawa.
Midrange jumper.
44–35.
The crowd began buzzing.
"What kind of pass was that?" one of the commentators shouted. "Did Dirgantara even look at his teammate?"
It didn't matter.
But Zenith kept coming.
Isaiah sprinted into the lane, passed mid-air to Emir—slam dunk.
44–37.
Then a steal.
Ryoga. Transition three.
44–40.
Timeout Horizon.
Coach didn't raise his voice. "Dirga. You keep doing that. Creative, clean, fast. Don't second-guess. If they're going to trap you? Punish them for it."
I wiped my sweat and nodded.
"Rei, Taiga, Hiroki—follow his rhythm. Don't try to guess—just trust it'll come."
Back on the court, Isaiah pressed me immediately.
But I didn't backpedal.
Instead, I hit Rei with a no-look skip pass across the court. He caught it in rhythm—up and over.
Swish.
47–40.
Again, Isaiah charged up. No hesitation.
This time he went himself—spin, drive, draw the foul, and-one.
47–43.
The pace shifted.
We hit. They answered.
I passed behind-the-back to Hiroki—baseline jumper.
They came down—Ryoga drilled a deep three.
I bounced a no-look dish through two defenders to Taiga for a dunk.
They faked a handoff and gave Leonard a driving lane—slam.
Points. Punches. Blades in the rain.
By the five-minute mark, the score was tied. 51–51.
The gym felt like it might explode.
My hands were burning.
Sweat dripping down my chin. Heart pounding. But every pass I made now flowed through instinct. No hesitation. Just rhythm.
We weren't running plays.
We were dancing.
And then—
I did something new.
A fake overhead pass, then turned midair and bounced it between my own legs to Aizawa under the basket.
Layup.
53–51.
The crowd lost it.
"That's absurd!" the commentator screamed. "What even is that pass?!"
Zenith, rattled but not broken, pushed back.
Isaiah finally got free from me. Hit a pull-up in my face.
Tie game.
Rei answered with a curling shot from the corner.
56–53.
Ryoga responded—another three. The man was a sniper too.
56–56.
Every bucket felt heavier.
Every pass, a gamble.
And then—
I drove left. Isaiah chased. I jumped like I would shoot—
Then spun mid-air and dropped the ball to Hiroki in the corner.
He hesitated—but launched.
Bang.
59–56.
Zenith came back. Isaiah passed to Leonard who muscled through Taiga for a dunk.
59–58.
Twenty seconds left in the third.
I waved my team forward.
Rei sprinted around a triple-screen. I tossed the ball behind my back, bounced it through a defender's legs and it landed perfectly in Rei's hands.
He rose.
Time expired.
Swish.
62–58.
End of third.
We didn't roar.
We didn't celebrate.
We just walked off.
Dripping. Breathing. Focused.
Because this wasn't the end.
Not even close.