I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 148: Burn Through the Trap

The air back at the dorm wasn’t loud.

No shouting. No jokes. No post-win madness.

Just the soft rustle of jerseys being hung up, the hiss of showers behind tiled walls, and the occasional clink of toothbrushes tapping against porcelain sinks.

Horizon had won.

They’d silenced the Wolves.

But no one felt like celebrating.

Not because the victory wasn’t real—

But because the war wasn’t over.

Dirga sat on the edge of his bunk, forearms resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded as sweat slowly dried on his skin. A towel hung from his neck, damp and warm. His breathing had already returned to normal.

But his mind hadn’t stopped moving.

Across the room, Aizawa lay flat on the wooden floor, rolling out his shoulder on a tennis ball. Silent. Focused. No headphones. No small talk.

Taiga mumbled to himself in the corner, half-asleep with an ice pack strapped to his ankle. Rei had dozed off beneath two towels. Rikuya, shirtless and still glistening with sweat, sat against the wall reviewing rebounding rotations on his tablet like tomorrow’s tipoff had already begun.

Because in a way—it had.

Tomorrow, they wouldn’t be first on the court.

Tokyo Kousei Academy had that honor.

The defending champions.

The kings of 2008.

The machine built in the capital.

They’d play the morning slot.

And Horizon?

They’d go second.

Against the team Tokyo Kousei had just finished dismantling:

Nagano Kurotsuki High.

...

Yoyogi Gymnasium – Court One, Morning

The gym was quieter than the day before—but heavier.

The air itself felt compressed, dense with tension.

Everyone watching understood what they were here to witness.

Dirga took a seat midway up the stands. He wasn’t alone. Around him were analysts with clipboards, rival coaches with narrowed eyes, and scouts jotting fast notes.

The scoreboard glowed like an omen:

Tokyo Kousei Academy 66 – Toyonaka High 43

6:02 remaining

Dirga’s eyes locked onto the court.

Masaki stood on the wing. Ball in hand. Eyes scanning.

He jab-stepped. Pump-faked. Then surged forward like lightning ripping through a cloud.

Two defenders closed in.

He spun.

Whipped a pass.

Yuto caught it and buried the corner three.

The Kousei bench barely reacted. The Toyonaka coach just paced, lips tight.

Because it didn’t matter anymore.

The game had already been decided.

Kousei’s depth ran ocean-deep.

Their second unit could start for half the teams in the tournament.

But it wasn’t just talent.

It was structure. Precision. Discipline.

They didn’t rely on momentum. They manufactured inevitability.

At the center of it all stood Kei Takahashi—the orchestrator, the rhythm engine. No showboating. No yelling. Just quiet command.

He didn’t call plays.

He whispered tempo.

When he sat, Taku Endō took over.

No charisma. No emotion.

Just execution.

Their offense didn’t slow when he came in.

It sharpened.

Taku wasn’t a leader like Kei.

He didn’t need to be.

He was a scalpel. Clean and deadly.

Toyonaka had come in with fire.

Masaki—raw electricity. Every Euro step looked like the court itself braced.

Yuto—captain and crusader. Everywhere at once. Ball pressure. Help defense. Scrambles. Deflections.

They weren’t backing down.

But they weren’t winning, either.

Kousei picked them apart.

Screen reads. Ghost cuts. Off-ball counters. Defensive shifts that looked like choreography.

It wasn’t basketball anymore.

It was a language—

And Toyonaka didn’t speak it yet.

Masaki threw down a violent putback dunk with four minutes left. The crowd roared—not because it changed the outcome.

But because sometimes, even in a storm, a fire still burns.

Dirga didn’t cheer.

He watched.

Masaki landed, jaw clenched, didn’t even glance at the bench.

He jogged back on defense like nothing happened.

Because he knew.

They weren’t just losing.

They were being measured.

And found unfinished.

Final Buzzer

Tokyo Kousei Academy 78 – Toyonaka High 56

No fist pumps.

No celebration.

Kousei just bowed.

Then walked off as if the job was incomplete.

In the hallway, Masaki passed Dirga.

Their eyes met.

No nod. No words. Just understanding.

Let them walk in peace, Dirga thought.

Their flame wasn’t gone.

It was just burning lower now.

Quieter.

Deeper.

...

Back in the locker hallway, Sayaka leaned against a vending machine, eyes on the printed box score.

"Masaki dropped 22. Yuto had 9 assists," she read aloud. "But their bench got outscored 32 to 6."

Dirga let out a slow breath.

She added, voice cool:

"Kousei doesn’t just beat you.

They expose everything you lack."

Dirga nodded.

Then asked without turning:

"What do you know about Nagano Kurotsuki?"

Sayaka blinked.

"They’re weird."

Dirga raised an eyebrow.

"Weird how?"

She pulled a crinkled stat sheet from her folder.

"Lowest-scoring team in the tournament. But top three in steals, deflections, and opponent turnovers. They don’t win by scoring."

Dirga looked up toward the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"They win by erasing."

Sayaka nodded slowly.

"Think of it like this: If Tokyo Kousei is the mirror that shows you everything wrong with your game..."

She paused.

"Then Nagano Kurotsuki is the fog that makes you forget how to play it."

...

Pre-Game – Horizon Locker Room, Minutes Before Tipoff

The locker room felt like a pressure chamber.

No music. No trash talk. No wasted movement.

Just the sound of jersey fabric stretching, sneakers being laced, and the distant rumble of the crowd leaking through the hallway—like thunder waiting to strike.

The whiteboard at the front of the room was filled edge-to-edge with Kurotsuki’s traps and zones, drawn in sharp black lines. Rotations that didn’t press, didn’t chase—

They waited.

Then snapped shut like jaws.

Coach Tsugawa stood beside it, hand still holding the marker, though he hadn’t spoken for nearly a minute.

He didn’t need to.

Everyone was already locked in.

Dirga was standing, arms crossed, eyes scanning every angle on the board like he was already breaking out of the maze.

Aizawa sat forward on the bench, elbows on knees, bouncing the ball gently against the floor—rhythmic, calm, dialed in.

Kaito, the captain, was tying his shoelaces tighter than usual. When he looked up, there was no smile—just steel in his eyes.

"We don’t get baited," Kaito said quietly, voice cutting through the silence. "They want us to react. Forget who we are."

He looked around the room.

"Don’t let them turn us into something we’re not."

Hiroki, leaning against the locker with arms folded, nodded slowly. "We stay us. But sharper. Cleaner. They play like fog—so we move like a knife."

Taiga stood near the wall, bouncing slightly, energy caged inside him. "If they wanna trap someone, they better pick the right guy. ’Cause I’m running through every screen."

Rei smirked. "Just don’t run through me."

Rikuya, chalk on his hands, muttered, "They don’t go for the rebound. They go for the trap. Watch the second defender."

Coach Tsugawa finally spoke—his voice low, but unshakable.

"They want hesitation. They want chaos. But they’re not playing ghosts out there. They’re human. So treat them like it."

He jabbed the marker toward the board.

"If they shift, we punish. If they trap, we skip. If they freeze the lane, we slice through it."

Then he turned to Dirga.

Dirga stepped forward without needing a cue.

"No fog. No fear. Our pace. Our rhythm."

He pointed toward Aizawa.

"You ready?"

Aizawa stood.

Eyes clear.

Voice steady.

"Let’s burn through the trap."

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