I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 137: Horizon VS North Wolves : Before the Wolves Howl 1

The whistle shrieked.

The ball flew high into the air.

Rikuya rose—arms stretched—like a tower unfurling at the heart of Horizon.

His fingertips met the ball first.

A clean tip.

Dirga caught it in motion, already moving.

No delay. No setup.

Horizon’s first possession had begun.

The lineup locked in:

Dirga at point guardRei at shooting guardAizawa at small forwardTaiga at power forwardRikuya at center

Dirga took the ball across halfcourt, his body moving on instinct, mind already scanning.

The crowd buzzed—electric.

From scouts to students, every eye followed the rising rhythm.

His right wrist glinted—Ayaka’s wristband, wrapped snugly in place.

She wasn’t in the crowd.

Too far, too sudden.

But she had promised—she’d be there if they made the knockouts.

Then I’ll get us there. No matter what.

Haru, the Wolves’ shooting guard, picked Dirga up immediately—tight, chest to chest.

Meanwhile, Gaito, the point guard was guarding Rei instead.

Huh. They’re hiding their PG from me?

Or was it more than that?

They’re setting him loose. Gaito’s reading the rhythm from the off-ball lanes...

But no matter.

Let’s start with a message.

Dirga dribbled at the top of the arc.

Suddenly—crossover.

Then—hesitation.

Haru’s body flinched—he bought the fake.

Dirga stepped into a quick jumper from the top—

But then—

PAAKK!!

A massive figure slammed into view.

Riku Sakamoto, the 193 cm center of the Wolves, leapt from the paint like a monster springing from fog.

His hand crushed the shot out of the air.

Blocked.

The ball ricocheted, high and wild, spinning away.

Dirga stumbled back.

That close? That fast?

He covered that much ground without a sound...

But Horizon wasn’t frozen.

Taiga snatched the ball mid-scramble.

No hesitation—he pivoted and passed to Rei on the wing.

Rei took it for barely a second—bullet pass straight to a slashing Aizawa.

He cut through the paint like a blade, flashing red and black.

But then—Minato.

Already there.

Already rising.

Big brother vs. little brother—again.

Aizawa leapt—fully extended, going for the lay.

Minato launched after him, chasing from behind, arm stretching over his head.

The crowd gasped.

Contact imminent.

But Aizawa didn’t freeze.

Double clutch.

Mid-air shift.

A flick of the wrist—elegant, sharp.

Minato’s hand flew past—air only.

Swishh—!

2–0.

First blood: Horizon.

Aizawa landed, breath heavy, sweat already forming at his brow.

But his eyes—his eyes never left Minato.

Still midair. Still falling.

That glare between them was sharp enough to cut steel.

Dirga stepped forward immediately, hand outstretched.

"Nice take," he said.

Aizawa grabbed it. Pulled himself up.

No words. Just a nod.

The fire was already lit.

The North Wolves inbounded fast. The ball found its way to the Shepherd himself.

Gaito Fujimori.

No wasted motion.

He dribbled up, smooth and fluid, every bounce a quiet pulse. Like he wasn’t in a game—but conducting one.

Dirga stepped into position, shadowing him. Not too tight. Not too distant.

He wasn’t chasing.

He was baiting.

Come on... take it.

Dirga’s expression was calm. Even inviting.

Gaito raised an eyebrow—then surged forward, thinking he saw an opening.

A flash of movement.

[Black Mirage: Counterveil]

Time bent.

Momentum reversed.

Gaito lunged into space—

And Dirga was already there.

Like he had stepped through the pass lane.

RIP—

Ball gone.

Dirga’s hands.

Before Gaito could react, Dirga exploded upcourt.

Immunity to physical disruption activated.

Bodies tried to reach.

Arms flailed.

But they bounced off like air.

[Phantom Drive]

Muscles surged. Stride elongated.

Speed spiked.

He wasn’t running—he was slicing through gravity itself.

By the time the Wolves reacted, he was already under the rim.

One step.

Two. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Lay-up.

Clean.

4–0.

The stadium roared—part shock, part awe.

The announcers snapped into motion.

"OH! What did we just see?! Horizon’s Maestro—Dirgantara Renji—just STOLE the Shepherd’s tempo and punished it with a coast-to-coast finish!"

"The underdog from Kansai makes a statement! Two baskets. A steal. A shutdown on the supposed best playmaker in Japan! That’s not luck—that’s war."

The camera zoomed in on Gaito.

Still poised. Still calm.

But his eyes... had narrowed.

And up in the rafters, scouts scribbled faster.

...

Gaito’s expression finally cracked.

Not much. Just a tightening at the jaw. The twitch of a vein near his temple.

But for someone nicknamed The Shepherd—it was telling.

He looked like a conductor whose orchestra had just gone off-beat.

Annoyed. Tense. Like he wanted to fix the tempo but didn’t know how.

The Wolves inbounded again.

The ball returned to Gaito.

He walked it up this time—controlled, deliberate, more cautious now.

The tempo dropped a beat.

Dirga shadowed him again.

A meter of space. Maybe less.

Same as before.

Same trap.

But Gaito didn’t bite this time.

Not again.

He wasn’t just talented—he was smart.

Instead, he snapped his fingers—figuratively—and called for a screen.

Tomoya Ishikawa, the Wolves’ power forward, barreled forward like a moving wall.

Big. Heavy. Sharp angles.

A hard screen on Dirga’s left.

Gaito moved to use it.

But Taiga read the switch instantly.

"SWITCH!" he shouted.

Slide. Step. Shift.

Taiga dropped low and switched onto Gaito, cutting off the lane.

And that’s when it happened.

Flash.

Gaito didn’t even hesitate.

With a flick of his wrist—a behind-the-back bounce pass slipped between Taiga’s legs.

Not just sneaky.

Surgical.

The ball arced diagonally—left wing to right corner.

Dirga’s eyes widened.

Minato was already there.

Open.

A full second of daylight.

Too long.

He caught it in stride.

One motion.

Perfect elevation.

The release was smooth. Confident. Balanced.

Swish.

4–3.

A clean, devastating answer.

The crowd gasped.

Even Horizon’s bench froze for half a second.

"That pass," a commentator whispered. "That was disgusting."

"Only Gaito Fujimori could throw that between the legs, across the court, with no vision... and hit a corner shooter in motion."

"And that shooter? That’s no rookie. That’s Minato Haruto. One of the most dangerous scorers in the country."

Aizawa stood frozen at the arc.

His chest rising.

Minato landed from his shot, already walking back.

His eyes—cold. Sharp. Amused.

He looked directly at his younger brother.

And smirked.

"Keep trying, little bro."

Aizawa’s fists clenched.

His jaw flexed.

But he didn’t say a word.

Dirga glanced at Aizawa—eyes alert.

He could feel it.

The fire was starting.

And Horizon?

Just getting warmed up.

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