I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 85: Horizon VS Seiryuu : Exploding The Dam 1

With that, Dirga exploded toward the rim, the rest of Horizon moving in harmony with him—like sparks trailing lightning.

Seiryuu’s defense locked into place instantly. It was like watching automatons click into a grid—man-to-man, cold and calculated. But something was off.

Dirga wasn’t being guarded by Seta Naoto, the point guard.

Instead, Jinbo Haruto, the small forward, took the assignment.

A pre-read? Dirga thought.

They must’ve run simulations—predicted matchups, adjusted in advance. Jinbo’s size, his defense... makes sense. On paper.

But paper wasn’t the court.

Dirga didn’t stop.

He hesitated—a half-step freeze, a flick of the shoulder—and then exploded again, a slashing blur of motion. Jinbo bit. That fraction of hesitation broke the structure.

Now, Fujisawa, Seiryuu’s powerful center, rotated over—just as expected.

Dirga didn’t flinch.

With calm precision, he braked, lifted, and released a soft floater.

It rose high, arcing like a moonlit wave, slow and perfect in the air.

Swish.

2–0.

The crowd surged—buzzing, gasping, a ripple of noise that echoed through the arena.

"Dirga! What a way to start!"

"A statement move right out of the gate!"

The crowd erupted. Chants swirled through the arena like a rising storm. The energy was electric—and Dirga? He wasn’t done.

He wasn’t here to play. He was here to break the dam.

Seiryuu inbounded the ball.

But they didn’t rush.

No transition. No tempo.

They slowed it down—deliberate, methodical. It was obvious. They were trying to kill the rhythm. Control the possession count. Drain the shot clock.

They know, Dirga thought. They know we want a track meet. Big scores. Chaos. So they want to freeze it.

But Horizon had already read ahead.

They pressed. Hard.

As soon as the inbound touched Seta Naoto’s fingers, Taiga and Dirga converged like wolves. Seta didn’t even make it past the half-court line.

A trap.

Taiga’s pressure was suffocating—relentless hustle, arms wide, footwork precise.

Dirga mirrored, cutting off passing angles.

Seta turned, searching for help—

Too late.

Taiga poked the ball loose—snatched it.

Dirga was already in motion.

The pass came fast.

Dirga caught it in stride and launched toward the rim—but he saw it.

Fujisawa planted in the paint.

Teshima closing fast from behind.

Too risky.

Dirga faked a pass right—hands twitched, eyes shifted.

Both defenders bit.

Then with a bounce pass so quick it was nearly invisible, he slotted it left to Aizawa, who had just arrived at the three-point arc.

Aizawa blinked.

The ball was in his hands.

Wide open.

He really passed that? In traffic?

Perfect timing...

He reset his feet.

Rose.

Release.

Swish.

Swish.

5–0.

For the first time, Seiryuu looked... puzzled.

It felt like they were playing the fourth quarter in the first—the pressure, the speed, the suffocation. Horizon had pulled something unorthodox, maybe even unheard of:

Half-court press defense. From the jump.

Seiryuu inbounded again, this time with adjustments.

Seta wasn’t left alone—Mikami and Jinbo came back to support, forming a triangle of control, working to slow the game down.

They crossed half-court—just barely.

But Horizon?

Still relentless.

Man-to-man pressure. Tight. Aggressive. Constant.

Hands reached, feet danced, eyes never left the ball. Horizon wasn’t just defending—they were invading Seiryuu’s comfort zone. Poking. Prodding. Annoying. Disrupting.

And slowly, Seiryuu cracked.

They had no choice but to speed up.

Teshima stepped out—set a screen for Seta.

A textbook pick-and-roll setup.

But Seta rejected it—drove hard to the rim instead.

Aizawa read it. Helped instantly.

Cut off the lane.

Seta kicked it out to Fujisawa at the top of the key.

But...

Rikuya was already there.

Fujisawa tried to shake him—shoulder fakes, head fakes, footwork.

Nothing.

Rikuya anchored like bedrock, using his full frame to shut down space.

Fujisawa forced it—a hook shot.

Rejected.

Rikuya swatted it clean. The ball bounced high—airborne chaos.

It flew toward Teshima.

But Taiga was there.

Smaller. Younger. Lighter. But not backing down.

Teshima jumped. Taiga jumped.

Teshima got a hand on it—tipped it—

But Taiga disrupted the angle!

Miss.

Rikuya, again—a second jump.

Rebound secured.

Out to Kaito.

Fast break.

Aizawa saw the outlet and sprinted. Two blurs across the court.

Jinbo chased. Too slow.

Kaito took the lane. Aizawa filled the opposite wing.

Euro step. Left–right. Cut back.

Layup.

"This isn’t a game—it’s an ambush!"

"Horizon came with a plan, and Seiryuu looks completely out of rhythm!"

"And Kaito! The footwork! That euro step left Jinbo spinning!"

"I think this is the time for a timeout—Seiryuu’s in trouble!"

The arena erupted—not with cheers, but with a kind of tension-born awe. Gasps. Shouts. The squeal of sneakers echoing like thunder off the polished hardwood. Camera flashes blinked like lightning, catching sweat-soaked jerseys mid-sprint.

Every breath on the court felt heavy, like the players were inhaling steam rather than air.

And then—

"Timeout!"

Coach Renjirō Tsukinomiya’s voice cut through the chaos. Sharp. Unflinching. A scalpel in a storm.

The players from Wakayama Seiryuu walked toward the bench, their steps heavy, the weight of expectations clinging to their shoulders like wet cloth. Not a single word between them—only the thud, thud of rubber soles, hearts hammering in sync with the scoreboard.

Across the court, Horizon jogged back with a different energy.

No celebration.

Just focus.

Their eyes burned with the kind of fire that scorches from within—a silent promise that this wasn’t luck. This was war.

Cool air from the ceiling vents brushed against hot skin. The players sat, steam rising faintly off their backs, muscles twitching like they were still in motion.

Coach Tsugawa stood tall, voice low but sharp.

"You guys good?"

Sayaka moved quickly—no wasted motion. Towels slapped against shoulders. Cold water bottles hissed as they opened. The players gulped down relief, but their eyes stayed locked on the court.

"Okay, Coach."

Tsugawa’s smile was a blade.

"Keep the pressure. Keep attacking. If you’re tired, give the sign. We’ll rotate and break them here. First and second quarter—we kill the rhythm now."

"Yes, Coach!"

The bench didn’t fidget. Didn’t slouch. They sat like coiled springs.

A storm waiting for its next strike.

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