I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 144: Horizon VS North Wolves : Declaration of Freedom 2

Aizawa exhaled.

Deep. Steady.

Not a gasp for air—

A breath in rhythm.

Minato glanced at him from across the court.

No smirk.

No glare.

Just the smallest nod.

Something between recognition... and warning.

...

Wolves possession.

Gaito brought the ball up—fingers tight on the seams.

His dribble wasn’t loose anymore. It was loaded.

Dirga shadowed him just past the arc. Calm. Calculating.

Gaito passed to Haru. Swing to Minato—top of the key.

Aizawa waited.

Minato caught, squared, and attacked—

One dribble.

Two.

Spin move.

Rise.

But Aizawa was glued to him.

No bite. No overstep.

Minato released anyway—

Short.

Clink.

The rebound arced high.

Rikuya boxed out clean, elbows wide.

Caught it. Secured. Flipped it to Dirga.

Dirga crossed halfcourt and slowed.

No sprint.

Just pace.

He raised one hand. No words. Only signal.

Taiga responded—slipped screen high.

Rei cut baseline, pulling Haru with him.

The Wolves tried to rotate.

Dirga faked left—

Then whipped it right.

Fast. Low.

Aizawa burst into the seam—catching it mid-stride.

Two steps.

One controlled dribble.

Float shot—

Soft. Arching.

In.

46 – 49.

"Back-to-back buckets for Aizawa!"

"He’s not chasing Minato anymore—he’s owning his lane!"

"This is Aizawa’s rhythm now. And it’s beautiful."

...

Wolves answered.

Minato took it in stride.

No hesitation.

Drove straight into Aizawa’s chest.

But Aizawa slid with him—shoulder low, eyes fixed.

Minato stopped short—fadeaway—

Denied.

Tight contest.

He passed out to Gaito.

Dirga rotated instantly.

Gaito called for a screen—but Horizon read it before he even planted.

Taiga hedged high. Rei rotated out.

Every lane? Closed.

Gaito forced a bullet pass—left corner.

Too sharp. Too early.

Dirga jumped it like he had magnetism in his ribs.

Steal.

Dirga didn’t break into a show.

No crossover.

No flashy behind-the-back.

He just ran.

Hard.

Fast.

Efficient.

One dribble. Two.

He felt the defenders behind.

He felt Aizawa—sprinting alongside like a shadow reborn.

At the free-throw line, Dirga stopped short.

Dropped the ball behind him like a surgeon setting a blade on the tray.

Aizawa caught it full-speed.

And rose.

Soft layup—

High kiss off the glass.

In.

48 – 49.

"This is no longer a comeback—

It’s a resurrection!"

"Horizon’s not clinging on. They’re taking control. They’re punching back!"

Aizawa landed on the baseline and turned.

He didn’t look at Minato.

Didn’t need to.

Because for the first time...

He wasn’t chasing.

And Minato?

He didn’t look away.

He watched him go.

...

Minato brought the ball up slowly. Deliberate. Grounded.

Passed to Haru, then ghosted to the top of the arc.

Gaito looped through the baseline—screens flickering like a carousel—but didn’t get the ball.

Not this time.

The Wolves were adapting. Trying to flex.

Minato raised a single finger.

Clear out.

Aizawa locked in.

No help. No switch. Just him.

Minato jab-stepped hard—testing balance.

Aizawa didn’t twitch.

Minato spun on his heel—quick, sharp.

Elevated.

Aizawa rose with him—but the release was clean.

Mid-range jumper.

Swish.

48 – 51. Wolves back in front.

Minato landed, chest heaving.

But he didn’t celebrate.

No glance at Aizawa.

No words.

No smirk.

He just turned.

Jogged back.

Eyes locked ahead.

All business.

...

Dirga brought it up—slower than before.

Measured.

Like a conductor returning for the final stanza.

The tempo dropped, but the precision sharpened.

He waved once.

Rei flared out right, dragging Haru with him.

Dirga drove hard—hips low, footwork perfect.

Defense crashed.

He kicked it out.

Rei caught it on the move.

One rhythm step.

Shot up—

Three-pointer.

Good.

51 – 51.

"Horizon ties it again!"

"Rei steps in like a ghost behind the stars—and cashes in!"

...

Next Wolves possession.

Gaito tapped his chest. Called a zipper cut.

Riku stepped in for the screen.

But Taiga stepped out early—cutting the passing lane.

The angle disappeared.

Gaito stuttered. Tried to pivot.

But the rhythm was gone.

And Dirga?

Already reading the misfire.

He exploded from the wing.

A blur.

Steal.

The Wolves scrambled back.

Dirga didn’t race.

He flowed.

Up the court in three strides.

At the free-throw line, he stopped.

Dead in his tracks.

Defense collapsed.

Dirga dumped it back—blind.

Aizawa was there.

Caught. One bounce.

Step through the middle.

Layup.

53 – 51. Horizon leads.

The bench erupted.

Scouts in the rafters leaned in.

Cameras tracked.

Even the broadcast team fell silent for a breath.

And Aizawa?

His face was calm.

No fury.

No desperation.

Just focus.

Clear as glass.

Minato stood beneath the rim, hands on his hips, watching.

And this time?

He smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not a jab.

A real smile.

"Finally..." he said under his breath.

"You stopped chasing."

His voice didn’t carry.

But Aizawa heard it anyway.

"And now..." Minato added, softer still.

"Now you’re flying."

...

The court didn’t feel like a gym anymore.

It felt like something older.

Something primal.

A battlefield shaped by breath and silence and blood-pounding instinct.

No more blowouts.

No panic.

No fear.

Just two sides locked in a rhythm war.

The Shepherd.

The Maestro.

The Brothers.

And the crowd, caught in the heartbeat between every pass.

Minato inbounded to Gaito.

The ball slapped his palms.

Gaito caught it, but not like before.

No swagger.

No storm in his step.

Only steel—and fatigue.

The Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. Still focused. Still reading.

But the rhythm of his dribble?

A half-beat slower.

Dirga saw it instantly.

Tempo cracks.

Gaito had set the tempo for thirty minutes—sacrificed stamina to orchestrate destruction.

But now?

Now the tempo was Dirga’s.

Dirga didn’t press full court.

Didn’t trap.

He just shadowed—subtle steps, off-angle positioning.

Gaito passed to Minato—right wing.

And like magnets, Aizawa was already there.

No call. No switch.

Just him.

Minato caught.

This time—he didn’t jab.

Didn’t test.

He backed in.

Low. Shoulders square.

One dribble.

Aizawa held.

Two.

He stayed low, chest locked.

Minato spun.

Aizawa didn’t guess—he reacted.

Minato rose.

Aizawa went with him.

Bodies met mid-air—

BANG.

Not a block.

Not a foul.

Just clean contact.

Minato twisted and flipped it high.

The ball kissed the glass and dropped in.

53 – 53.

No celebration.

No bark.

Minato jogged back, chest rising with slow control.

Aizawa followed.

Their eyes met briefly at halfcourt.

Minato didn’t smirk.

Aizawa didn’t flinch.

The most uptodate nove𝙡s are published on fr(e)𝒆webnov(e)l.com