I Died on the Court, Now I’m Back to Rule It

That was a first—

Rikuya lost the jump ball.

But this was Nationals.

It wasn't just about skill anymore.

There were centers out here with monstrous frames, bodies built to dominate.

Strength. Reach. Presence.

A different breed entirely.

…

Horizon Inbound

Dirga raised a hand. Called the set.

A sharp breath. Focus.

Hiroki jogged into position—

His first starting minutes of the tournament.

No nerves.

Just clean, fluid motion.

Like he belonged.

Aizawa flared out to the perimeter.

Taiga crashed into the high screen.

Dirga drove forward, slicing through open space.

Eyes up. Scanning.

Haruki stayed back—hovering, reading the play.

He didn't press.

He waited—like a coiled trap.

Dirga swung it to Hiroki on the wing.

One quick step—

Masato mirrored instantly, low and wide.

Hiroki rose for the mid-range pull-up—

But Joji rotated in—fast.

Too fast.

He didn't just contest the shot—

He devoured the air around it.

Clank.

Rim.

Rebound—Daisuke.

And then chaos.

The Drakes didn't pause.

Didn't reset.

The ball never stopped moving.

Haruki touched it—

Then

Mid-dribble, he whipped it to Masato.

Fake handoff.

No-look bounce—

Back to Haruki like a magician resetting the stage.

Dirga lunged—too late.

Taiga rotated—but Joji was already airborne.

A blur of raw power.

Lob—UP.

SLAM.

0 – 5.

"And that's a super statement to open the game!"

"Yeah, that's a hammer—driven straight into Horizon's rim!"

Dirga clenched his jaw.

He saw it clearly now.

Haruki—the trickster—was the engine of their offense.

Slick. Deceptive. Dangerous.

And on the other end of the court—

Joji.

The Hammer.

Not just big.

Fast.

Explosive.

A wall of muscle that moved like a guard.

Dirga's mind raced back—

In the last few matches, Horizon's center—Rikuya—had dominated.

Opposing bigs were rigid.

Heavy-footed.

They couldn't keep up with his bursts, his lifts, his hangtime.

But today?

Joji wasn't just matching Rikuya's explosiveness—

He was surpassing it.

Springing from the paint like a launched missile.

This wasn't the same kind of opponent.

This was new ground.

This was dangerous.

And just yesterday—

The Drakes were blown out by Toyonaka High.

Masaki, the Black Thunder, had run circles around them.

But today?

They didn't look shaken.

They looked locked in.

Like they'd learned.

Like they'd adapted.

And now—they'd come swinging.

First.

…

Horizon Possession

Dirga slowed the ball.

Tried to calm the tempo.

Tried to breathe.

He heard Coach Tsugawa's voice echo in his head:

"Don't get drawn into chaos."

Dirga called the next set—this one for Rikuya.

Low post isolation.

The pass was crisp—

But Haruki read it.

Didn't steal it—just brushed the lane.

Changed the angle.

Enough.

Rikuya caught it—off-balance.

Too low.

Timing gone.

Kick-out to Hiroki—

No rhythm.

He still pulled.

Clank.

Off the side iron.

Drakes rebound.

Haruki's Second Run

He didn't jog.

He flowed.

Like water slipping through fingers.

Not fast—just gone.

Horizon was still scrambling into transition when Haruki spun at halfcourt.

One foot plant.

Behind-the-back fake.

Dirga flinched—bit for a split second.

Then snapped back.

But it was already over.

Haruki had shifted—

A ghost step into space.

Step-back three.

Clean.

Splash.

0 – 8

"OHHH—he's cooking! Not just one, but TWO threes in a short span!"

"Yeah, Horizon's gotta answer here—or risk getting left behind."

…

Horizon Possession

Again, Horizon took the floor—

But the air was different now.

Tighter. Heavier.

Dirga brought it up.

Dribbled left, eyes scanning—

Looking for the opening, the pass.

Then—

Haruki.

Like a shadow—he appeared on Dirga's hip.

No sound. No pressure.

Dirga pump-faked—

And Haruki?

Gone.

No contact.

No steal.

Just erased from the frame.

Dirga swung it low to Rikuya in the post.

Haruki cut through the help lane again—

No hands.

Just presence.

Just enough to make Rikuya think.

A hesitation.

One beat too long.

Pivot—

Too late.

Kick-out to Hiroki—forced.

Shot clock dying.

Four.

Three.

Hiroki rose from the wing—

Contested. Off-balance.

Clank.

Rim again.

Drakes Ball

Haruki caught the outlet pass and didn't slow down.

Not even a little.

He accelerated—full throttle.

Gliding into the elbow—

Half-spin.

Dirga shifted, tried to meet him—

Too late.

Haruki planted.

Stopped dead.

Dirga slid past like he'd been yanked out of the play.

Empty air.

Haruki floated left—

One-foot jumper.

Smooth.

Effortless.

Splash.

0 – 10.

Back the Other Way

Dirga pushed the ball up—

Faster now.

Not by choice.

The court demanded it.

The pressure. The rhythm. The urgency.

No play call this time.

No structure.

Just raw instinct.

He raised a hand—motioned for Rikuya to screen.

A silent signal: Help me break this momentum.

Rikuya stepped up, solid stance—

But Haruki slipped under like wind through a crack in stone.

Fluid. Untouched.

Like gravity was optional.

Taiga flared to the corner—

Quick and sharp.

Dirga spotted him.

Fired.

Catch.

Shoot.

The release was clean—

Wrist snapped.

Swish.

2 – 10.

First clean basket since the opening minute.

A crack in the storm.

A breath of air.

…

Drakes Ball

Haruki grinned.

Just a flicker.

A ghost of confidence.

Not enough to taunt—just enough to say I'm not done.

No set play.

No counter.

Just chaos—on demand.

He crossed halfcourt—

Eyes half-lidded. Relaxed.

Dribbled like he didn't care—

Like the ball belonged to him.

Then—snap.

A sudden pivot.

Behind-the-back switch.

And then—he burst.

Slashed between two defenders.

A flash of white and black uniforms torn in opposite directions.

Dirga rotated—desperate.

Too slow.

Haruki hung in the air—

Left hand lifted,

Right hand palmed under the ball,

Mid-air meditation.

Two defenders jumped with him—

Bit hard.

Wrong read.

Flick.

Behind the back. No-look.

Laser to the corner.

Keita.

Catch.

Rise.

Three.

2 – 13.

…

Coach Tsugawa stood.

"Timeout."

The whistle pierced the gym like a blade.

Horizon jogged to the bench—rattled, but not broken.

Dirga grabbed a towel, jaw clenched tight.

Taiga slapped the back of his neck, pacing like a caged fighter.

Aizawa let out a slow breath, grounding himself.

Rikuya walked—silent, composed, unreadable.

Hiroki sat down hard, jaw twitching—still frustrated from the missed shots.

Coach Tsugawa's eyes swept across them.

He pointed, voice calm but cutting through the noise.

"Okay. It's just eleven points. That's nothing."

"If you miss, shoot again. Reset. Believe your shot."

He turned to Taiga.

"You're on Haruki now."

Eyes lit like coals.

Taiga, Horizon's best hustle defender, nodded.

No words—just fire.

"Dirga—focus on conducting the offense."

"Let him dance. You drive the rhythm."

He looked around again, gaze sharp.

"The rest of you—focus. And believe in yourselves."

"Yes, Coach!"

All five voices—stronger now.

Recentered.