I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 158: Horizon vs. Kurotsuki : The Forgotten Fang 1

Toyonaka Horizon High 50 - Nagano Kurotsuki High 41

"Another quarter of Dirga’s vision! He really is the maestro!"

"Maestro, phantom, tempo-breaker—he’s writing this game like a symphony."

"Yeah, but Kurotsuki doesn’t break. They bend. Let’s see what they’ve been hiding."

...

Horizon Bench

Laughter—not loud, but low and warm, like jazz under breath.

Taiga draped his towel like a cape, smirking beneath it.

Aizawa elbowed Rikuya in the ribs, murmuring a box-out joke only they could hear.

Dirga drank water slowly, eyes half-lidded, listening—not to voices, but breath.

No one was gassed.

They were breathing in rhythm.

Tuned.

The tempo?

Theirs.

Coach Tsugawa barely needed to speak.

He just gave a small nod and said:

"Don’t slow down. Just finish the piece."

Then—

Kaito stepped forward.

No more hand on ribs. No grimace. He stood like stone warmed by fire.

"Coach," he said, steady. "I’m going."

Tsugawa raised one brow.

"How long?"

Kaito held up two fingers.

"First two minutes. Then rest."

He paused.

"Put me back in the last two."

Coach met his gaze.

Silent calculation.

Then—

A nod.

"Clock it."

Kaito turned to Dirga.

"Hold the tempo."

Dirga gave the faintest smile.

"Don’t drop it when you come back."

Kaito’s smirk was razor-thin.

"I’m the final verse."

...

Kurotsuki Bench

Silence.

Not peace—pressure.

Coiled tension in the lungs.

Sho leaned forward, elbows on knees, glare carved into the court like it owed him something.

Toshiro rubbed his jaw, wrist tape biting too tight.

Coach Renji finally moved, voice just above a whisper.

"They’ve boxed us into structure," he said.

"They’re dictating the echo."

He raised his eyes, cold and sharp.

"I won’t let them end on harmony."

Then—

He turned.

To the quietest one on the bench.

Ryōta.

Still as dusk.

Breathing slow.

The only starter who hadn’t owned a moment.

Yet.

Renji pointed.

"No more shadows. No more screens."

"You’re the distortion."

Ryōta stood.

No smile.

No sound.

Just a nod—measured, weightless.

Like he’d been waiting for this all game.

Not forgotten. Just loading.

Now unleashed.

...

The whistle blew.

Sho inbounded to Eiji.

No rush.

No signals.

Just breath.

Kurotsuki didn’t move back onto the court.

They flowed.

Eiji brought it up with a slow jog, eyes unreadable, hands feathering the ball like it might break.

Horizon matched them in formation—

Taiga and Rikuya communicated in low grunts,

Aizawa scanned angles like a machine,

Dirga already shifting, anticipating the weakside hedge before it even formed.

But the ball?

It was misdirection.

The real action was behind the current.

Ryōta—

Unmentioned since tipoff.

Unseen by design.

He drifted like mist across the baseline, half a step behind the paint.

Silent. Intentional.

Then—

A single brush behind Sho at the high elbow.

No call.

No screen.

Just presence—

A whisper in defensive rhythm.

Taiga flinched.

Half a step. A heartbeat. A fragment of instinct.

And that—

Was all they needed.

Taniguchi sold a flare cut high, dragging Kaito’s attention by the thread.

Toshiro jabbed into a dive down the middle, baiting Aizawa into a premature slide.

Sho?

He didn’t hesitate.

Slipped beneath the elbow—

Cut precise as a scalpel.

Behind them all, Ryōta turned.

Planted himself behind the play like an echo that had always been there.

Still.

Anchored.

Waiting.

Sho caught it mid-post.

Fluid.

Turned.

Released—

A soft midrange floater.

Net, clean.

50 – 43.

No roar.

No fist-pump.

Just the thunk of the net and quiet steps back.

Kurotsuki didn’t need applause.

They weren’t chasing momentum.

They were chasing rhythm.

Tone.

A shift in the song.

Dirga caught the inbound.

Paused.

Felt something.

Not pressure.

Not fear.

A pull.

But he couldn’t name it.

Couldn’t place the note.

Only that it was rising.

Building.

...

Dirga brought it upcourt—

Light. Smooth.

Fingers dancing, reading the shape before him like sheet music.

Kurotsuki wasn’t pressing.

No traps.

No suffocating pressure.

But something was off.

It looked like the same 2–3 shell—

But it breathed.

Loose.

Intentionally loose.

Like fabric with hidden tension in the weave.

Kaito curled around a stagger screen from Aizawa. The rhythm was sharp.

Rikuya flared baseline. Space opened.

Clean lanes.

Dirga motioned—swing.

Kaito caught.

Sho closed—

Too fast. Too eager.

Dirga smiled.

Punish.

Kaito exploded off the first step.

Two defenders collapsed inward.

He fired a bounce pass across the key—

Aizawa cut.

Perfect angle.

Perfect read.

Except—

Tap.

The ball veered.

Not a full steal.

Not even a real deflection.

Just a touch.

A whisper of contact—

Enough.

It spun off course, half a meter wide.

Aizawa reached—missed.

It tumbled toward the sideline like a skipped stone.

Toshiro scooped it.

Already in motion.

Transition.

One pass.

Another.

Layup—clean.

50 – 45.

...

Dirga brought it up.

Measured. Smooth.

Nothing looked wrong.

Not yet.

He called a brush motion.

Kaito floated right.

Taiga dragged low.

Aizawa curled left—caught the ball in full stride.

He jabbed.

Drove.

Sho stepped in—cutting off the lane.

Clean.

But Aizawa didn’t panic.

He reset.

Kicked it back out.

Kaito caught.

One hard dribble.

The defense sagged—just enough.

Dirga shifted out to the wing, calling for the swing pass.

Kaito fired—

But the ball never made it.

Ryōta moved.

Not fast.

Not aggressive.

Just exactly when it would hurt most.

No dive.

No stretch.

He stepped into the lane like he’d always been there.

Thunk.

It hit his hip.

The ball deflected forward, loose.

Toshiro pounced.

Caught it mid-bounce.

Fast break—on.

Eiji pushed.

Kick-out.

Taniguchi.

Pull-up three in transition.

Net.

50 – 48.

"HORIZON TURNOVER—AND KUROTSUKI MAKES THEM PAY!"

"That wasn’t a bad pass. That was a perfect read... by someone."

But the broadcast didn’t name him.

Didn’t even catch it.

Ryōta didn’t raise a hand.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t blink.

Already jogging back.

Already fading into the next moment.

...

Dirga turned slowly.

Brows low.

Breath sharp.

He rewound it in his head.

There hadn’t been a trap.

No blitz.

No rotation.

Just—

A disruption.

A skipped heartbeat.

A pass just slightly wrong.

That wasn’t defense.

That was interference.

Dirga took the inbound again.

But now?

His grip on the ball tightened.

Not too much. Just... tighter.

Eyes scanning not for defenders—

But for what was beneath them.

Behind the rhythm.

Under the surface.

The fog wasn’t gone.

It had just taken on a new shape.

Something was off.

Not broken.

Not shattered.

Just—

Off-axis.

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