I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 87: Horizon VS Seiryuu : Lines of Code, Beats of Chaos 1

Horizon: 22 – Seiryuu: 12

A ten-point lead.

In a game this fast, that was more than just numbers on a scoreboard—it was momentum, it was psychological pressure. It was the sound of Horizon throwing the first real punch of the tournament.

And the second quarter?

It was about to explode.

...

"That was a solid first quarter," Coach Tsugawa said, voice calm but charged like a blade kept under silk. "We’re going to do exactly the same in the second."

The team nodded, chests still rising and falling from the tempo. Their sweat glistened under the lights like battle-scars earned, not just shed.

Sayaka moved among them like clockwork—towel in one hand, water bottles in the other. Her expression focused, yet gentle. A field medic in a war that didn’t use guns, only grit and heart.

The players didn’t need to say much.

They already knew: this was only the beginning.

...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the court, tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm.

"How’s the data?" Teshima asked, his voice low and tight.

Coach Renjirō Tsukinomiya didn’t answer at first.

His eyes were glued to the bright screen of his laptop, fingers flying like a programmer trying to hack the outcome of the universe. Diagrams flickered. Charts auto-updated. Lines of code danced like a living algorithm still learning how to breathe.

"It’s still processing," he finally replied. His tone wasn’t nervous—but it wasn’t comfortable either. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

Teshima clenched his fists.

"It’s just a ten-point gap," Renjirō continued, his gaze never leaving the screen. "We can close that. We will close that."

"Yes, coach," the players responded, a little shaky—but still full of belief.

Renjirō exhaled, closed the laptop for a brief second, and looked up.

"You’ve followed my method for three years. Every drill, every practice. We’ve built this system from zero—based on logic, precision, data."

His hair, usually slicked and perfect, had started to fray slightly at the edges from sweat. He looked more like a manga scientist now—half nerd, half mastermind.

A Japanese Clark Kent without the cape, but with all the pressure.

"You just have to believe in me—just a little longer."

This time, the players didn’t just nod.

"YES, COACH!"

They said it louder. Firmer. Not out of blind obedience—but because they knew.

If their system could load in time, they would turn the tide.

But for now...

The equation was incomplete.

And Horizon was still writing chaos across their formula.

...

Horizon: 24 — Seiryuu: 12

Second Quarter Begins

The arena lights dipped for just a second, a flicker like a blink from the gods of the game. Then came the silence. A breath held by thousands. A stillness charged with something about to happen.

In that moment, you could feel it in your skin.

Not just a game.

A collision.

The calm before another storm.

The code... before the crash.

The ball was inbounded to Seta—predictable. But in the same heartbeat, he flipped the script. Without dribbling, he passed the ball to Teshima.

Unusual.

No—unthinkable.

Teshima was their engine when the data was complete. A player they unleashed only after the algorithms said: Now. But now? The system wasn’t finished compiling.

Was this a sign the program was ready?

Or a desperate override to stop the bleeding?

But no matter what Seiryuu planned...

Dirga was already reading it.

Teshima dribbled forward, low and sharp. His crossovers weren’t flashy—they were efficient. His body moved like someone solving a puzzle in real time.

Every hedge.

Every hand movement.

Every microstep from Horizon’s defense—he logged them.

But the system was still incomplete. Still building. Still learning.

On the bench, Coach Tsukinomiya looked more like a startup tech CEO than a basketball coach—his face glued to a glowing laptop screen. Dozens of windows flickered: Heat maps. Predictive passing arcs. Energy expenditure graphs. Defensive elasticity indexes.

He wasn’t just watching a game.

He was watching a simulation that was still compiling.

But Horizon Wasn’t Compiling. Horizon Was Creating.

Dirga crouched in stance, his body relaxed yet spring-loaded.

Eyes alive.

He wasn’t reacting—he was feeling.

Like a musician listening to silence before the first note.

Like a surfer reading the tide before it rises.

Mikami received the ball on the wing.

And in that split second—just before his dribble hit the floor—

Dirga moved.

Anticipation. No, prophecy.

He jumped the lane, intercepting the pass like he’d seen the future five seconds early.

STEAL.

Gasps erupted across the gym. Not screams—gasps.

As if the crowd couldn’t keep up with the speed of his read.

Fast Break – Horizon Counterattack. Dirga pushed the ball with one hand, not even looking down. Hiroki was already streaking beside him like a wingman.

One bounce pass. Smooth.

Hiroki caught it, absorbed the step, drew the defense—

And slipped it behind his back to Taiga slashing in from the weak side.

Layup. Clean.

Score: Horizon 24 – Seiryuu 12.

The Seiryuu bench stirred, but didn’t panic.

Coach Tsukinomiya narrowed his eyes and whispered under his breath:

"We’re closing in... They’re predictable. We just haven’t built the full sequence yet."

But that was the flaw in his assumption.

The flaw of any system built on repetition.

Because the problem wasn’t Horizon’s structure.

The problem was Dirga.

There was no function for him. No formula.

No clean code for his chaos.

He wasn’t playing by rhythm. He was rhythm.

One moment he’d dart into the lane like a blade, the next he’d slow to a crawl, throwing crosscourt skip passes from invisible windows no machine could detect.

He was jazz. In a world of metronomes.

And right now?

Jazz was winning.

Wakayama Seiryuu’s next possession came with a spark.

Teshima didn’t hesitate this time.

The ball found him at the top of the key—bounce pass from Seta, like a loaded gun passed in silence.

Taiga stepped up, hands wide.

But Teshima jabbed hard—left elbow to rib—just enough to knock the rhythm off beat.

One dribble.

Step-back.

Fadeaway.

Silk.

24 – 14.

It was clinical.

Mechanical.

Almost too perfect.

Like a line of code finally parsed correctly.

One green checkmark in a sea of compiling red.

But Horizon didn’t blink.

Dirga brought the ball up slowly, almost lazily. No rush. No urgency.

And then—he rejected the oncoming screen like it was an insult.

Sliced left.

Sharp plant. Instant recoil. Cut back right.

Seta stuck with him, step-for-step, teeth gritted.

But Dirga wasn’t trying to shake him.

He was baiting the help.

Jump-stop. Two feet down. Mid-air decision.

He looked to float it. Everyone bit.

Dump-off.

Rikuya. Two hands. Downward violence.

SLAM.

26 – 14.

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