I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 74: Horizon VS Rakuzan : Against the Beat 1

"Hehehe... we got you," Reiji smirked, glancing sideways at Dirga like a hunter admiring the snare tightening around its prey.

"He’ll adjust," Asahi replied coolly, arms crossed, voice flat. No gloating. Just certainty.

"So, what now?" Tsukasa asked, bouncing the ball softly, eyes already scanning for the next move.

Asahi didn’t blink. "We widen the lead. Make it too far for comfort. Then we go back to our usual strategy."

He turned toward them—calm, merciless.

"We don’t just win. We break teams. We crush the brain first."

There was no laughter now. Not even from Reiji.

Because they knew: Asahi’s tactics were never loud. Never flashy.

Just rhythm.

A subtle shift in tempo. A nudge in timing. A delay in movement. He didn’t need to outplay Dirga. He just needed to manipulate the lens through which Dirga saw the game.

And Dirga?

He was the lens. The tempo reader. The one who saw the court as a song.

So Asahi changed the tune—bar by bar—until even the conductor lost the beat.

...

On the Horizon side Dirga wiped sweat from his brow.

"You okay?" Rikuya asked, kneeling beside him.

"Yeah..." Dirga muttered, breathing heavy. "Just... need to adjust."

Rikuya gave a short nod, firm and steady. "Make it fast. We’ll give you the time you need."

He clapped Dirga’s shoulder, and for a moment, the court felt smaller.

Not because Rakuzan was closing in—

But because Horizon was closing ranks.

Dirga looked around at his teammates—their eyes calm, ready, waiting.

He wasn’t alone.

And that meant one thing:

He could still turn the rhythm back.

...

The rhythm was no longer Horizon’s to read.

Every pass from Rakuzan hit earlier than expected. Every screen snapped cleaner, sharper. The ball flowed like water over uneven rock—always shifting, always slipping just past Dirga’s fingers.

He wasn’t behind in effort.

He was behind in timing.

A sliver late on the switch. A half-step slow to the corner. The tempo felt like jazz with broken time signatures—intentional dissonance. It made sense, but only after the play ended.

Another whistle.

Offensive foul – Rei.

"What?!" Rei shouted, wide-eyed. "He flopped!"

But the ref was already turning away. Asahi had sold it perfectly—body collapsing just as Rei’s shoulder brushed past.

Coach Tsugawa was already standing, arms out. "That’s three phantom calls, ref!"

The official pointed to the bench. "Next outburst, it’s a tech."

Reiji walked past the chaos with a small clap, his smirk aimed at Dirga.

"He’s unraveling," Reiji whispered just loud enough. "One call at a time."

Dirga didn’t answer. His jaw locked.

Because it was true.

Rakuzan had mastered the gray space—clean enough for the refs, brutal enough to bend Horizon’s rhythm.

And Asahi?

He never even smiled.

He just shifted angles. Changed paces.

Then let the refs fill in the damage.

Next possession.

Asahi ran it like a silent conductor.

Tsukasa dribbled up. No urgency.

Reiji faked a curl, then slipped out to the corner.

Asahi was already moving before the ball swung.

Slipped into a low post seal, body wide, arms tight.

Hiroki tried to push back—but the timing was off.

The angle was wrong.

Whistle.

Blocking foul. Hiroki.

Coach Tsugawa dragged a hand down his face.

Dirga exhaled. Hard.

This wasn’t basketball.

It was sleight of hand.

But it was working.

31 – 33.

They were still up.

Barely.

Timeout.

...

Horizon bench.

Coach Tsugawa didn’t yell.

He didn’t need to.

The frustration was already thick in the air—sweat, grit, and swallowed curses.

Dirga sat hunched over, towel draped over his head, chest rising and falling like a piston.

Finally, he spoke.

"It’s the refs again. They’re baiting them," Dirga said, voice low but steady.

He wiped his face, then looked up.

"They’re switching pace mid-play—fake pauses, sudden bursts. Sharp re-entries right into contact. Refs fall for it every time."

Kaito leaned in, still panting.

"So what do we do?"

Dirga’s eyes narrowed.

"We don’t play their rhythm."

He pointed at the floor like he was conducting an invisible map.

"We play the gaps. If they’re late, we punish. If they bait, we show our hands. No reach. No push. Beat them with space."

Taiga clenched his fists and slammed one into the other.

"Then let’s steal the damn tempo back."

Coach Tsugawa stepped forward.

"Exactly. Keep the ball moving. No isolation. Reset if needed. Stretch the clock, make them defend the full 24 seconds. Make them work. They hate that."

The players nodded in unison.

They couldn’t overpower Rakuzan’s rhythm yet.

But they could slow the beat.

They could turn the song into static.

...

Back on the court.

Dirga held the ball up. Calm. Steady.

Two passes. A screen. Reset.

Slow. Boring.

Rakuzan tightened—less comfortable now.

No chaos to exploit.

Finally, Aizawa slipped baseline.

Dirga hit him with a bounce pass so sharp it hummed.

Layup.

31 – 35.

Next play.

Asahi took the inbound.

No rush.

No fire.

Just ice.

A single nod to Tsukasa.

Same rhythm. Same formation.

Familiar. Deceptive. Deadly.

Reiji curled around the screen like smoke—

—but Dirga was there.

Not late.

Not early.

Almost.

His fingers brushed the passing lane.

Too light.

Reiji caught. Reset.

But Asahi noticed.

An eyebrow twitched. A shift in breath.

Dirga was decoding it.

Not just reading the game—rebuilding it in real time.

The tempo climbed.

The court became a warzone of rhythm and violence.

Every Horizon possession — a grind.

A battle against not just Rakuzan’s defense but the referees’ silence.

Tsukasa pressed like a shadow.

Kido used his weight like gravity.

Araki’s screens were knives wrapped in silk.

And yet—

Horizon fought.

They scored.

Through broken plays.

Through missed calls.

Through sheer refusal to back down.

Reiji slipped baseline again—

Another cut.

Another foul masked in motion.

Another two.

Rakuzan 42 – Horizon 38.

Dirga panted.

His lungs screamed for air.

His legs were molten lead.

Every heartbeat was a drum in his ears.

But his mind—

Spun. Faster. Sharper. Deadlier.

Not panic.

Precision.

Thoughts didn’t come one by one.

They came all at once.

Every screen. Every cut. Every twitch of a defender’s foot.

Not just reaction.

Prediction.

His brain felt electric—

Like a conductor mid-symphony.

"...just a little more," Dirga whispered, eyes glassy, locked somewhere between the real and unreal.

"Maestro state."

"Tempo sight."

A thousand rhythms collided inside him.

Footsteps. Screeches. The crowd.

Every sound became a signal.

Every motion a melody.

If he could find the thread—

The perfect tempo—

He wouldn’t just read the court.

He would own it.

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