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

Toyonaka Horizon High 11 - Naha Southern Drakes High 17

The buzzer shrieked—but the gym didn't breathe out.

Not yet.

The air hung heavy, dense with tension, like steam pressed tight beneath a lid of glass.

Horizon shuffled back to the bench—

Not broken.

But bent.

Not beaten.

But battered.

Their jerseys clung like second skin, soaked and salty.

Sweat cooled on bare arms and burning backs.

Their lungs fought to find a rhythm, but hearts still pounded—wild, relentless—from the storm that was the first quarter.

Their legs jittered beneath them, muscles twitching from adrenaline they hadn't finished burning.

Eyes stayed wide, scanning for ghosts of plays that had already ended.

The chaos hadn't settled.

Only paused.

No one dared speak first.

Not the coach.

Not the captain.

Even the crowd held its voice hostage—

Unsure whether to cheer… or fear what came next.

…

Coach Tsugawa stood still.

He didn't reach for the clipboard.

Didn't sketch out plays with that worn black marker.

Didn't bark corrections.

He just looked at them.

Each face.

One by one.

Silence, but not empty.

The kind of silence that hums. That warns.

Shoes squeaked faintly in the background, players from both benches adjusting, restless—but in Horizon's huddle, stillness reigned.

Dirga sat on the far end of the bench, eyes narrowed, shoulders rising and falling with methodical control.

His chest was calm.

But his fingers tapped—quiet, exact—an invisible tempo against his knee.

Not panic.

Calculation.

A metronome before the second act.

Beside him, Rikuya rolled his shoulder, lips pressed tight.

Tender, bruised—two hard collisions with Joji left their mark.

Red streaks near his ribs bloomed like battle paint.

Aizawa was deeper down the bench, eyes closed, face tilted to the ceiling, drinking air like it might vanish.

He'd sprinted through every rotation, fought through screens, chased shadows off-ball.

His lungs held, but his legs?

They were starting to whisper their protest.

Hiroki stood apart.

Arms loose.

Shooting invisible jumpers into the dead air.

No drama.

No complaint.

Just the rhythm.

Catch.

Release.

Repeat.

The ball wasn't in his hands—but the motion stayed. Elbows in. Flick of the wrist. Form sharp enough to cut through fog.

And then—

Taiga.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fists clenching and releasing with the force of restrained earthquakes.

Power trembling under skin.

His eyes weren't on Coach Tsugawa.

They were locked—unchanging—on one person.

Haruki Miyazato.

Southern Drakes' point guard.

The storm in sneakers.

Some players looked away when Haruki started dancing with the ball. Taiga didn't blink.

He watched every twitch of the shoulder, every shift in Haruki's weight, like memorizing the pattern of a flame before trying to grab it.

…

Coach Tsugawa finally exhaled.

Then he spoke.

Low. Even.

Like the calm before something fractures.

He stood in front of them, arms folded across his chest, posture as still as carved stone.

His eyes, though—sharp. Surgical.

"Pressure always breaks something," he said.

A pause—

Not for effect, but for clarity.

"Make sure it isn't us."

Two seats down, Rikuya rotated his shoulder in slow circles. A fresh red scrape crossed his upper bicep like a warning flare—another souvenir from his war with Joji Shimabukuro.

Three collisions already.

The fourth? Might break more than pride.

"His hips are too damn wide," Rikuya muttered, wincing. "It's like boxing out a fridge."

Behind the bench, Taiga rolled his neck until it cracked. Sweat tracked down his jawline in slow, gleaming threads.

But the grin?

That stayed razor-sharp.

"He's a fridge?"

"Then I'm gonna tip it over."

Rei didn't speak. He rarely did between quarters.

He just stared forward, eyes blank but twitching ever so slightly.

His legs bounced in rhythm—quiet, mechanical.

Like he was already syncing to a beat no one else could hear yet.

Coach Tsugawa's voice came again.

No louder. Just clearer—cutting through the gym's static like chalk across glass.

"Don't match their chaos."

He paced once—slowly—then stopped, drawing a mental line in the dust.

"We keep pushing the same edges."

"But we're not testing for a break. We're testing for patterns."

His gaze moved down the bench.

He didn't just look at them.

He read them.

Flushed adrenaline.

Flickers of fear.

Coiled potential.

Each one burning in a different hue.

He continued:

"Keep testing the pressure—until it gives."

A beat.

Then—

"Because it will."

He turned to Dirga.

"You hold the structure."

Dirga nodded once, tapping his fingers against his knee. The tempo had shifted. He already heard it.

Then, to Taiga:

"You stay on the fire."

Taiga's grin sharpened like a blade meeting whetstone.

He didn't nod.

He flexed his fists once.

That was enough.

…

The whistle sliced the air.

Horizon ball.

Dirga brought it up slow.

Measured. Deliberate.

His sneakers whispered over the hardwood—soft static against the humming pressure.

The first quarter had left more than bruises.

It had scarred the rhythm.

Split the tempo.

Shattered the flow.

Now?

Now was recon.

Now was surgical.

Find the crack. Exploit it.

Taiga moved first.

Ghost screen. Quick flare out to the wing. Shadow work.

Rikuya ducked low under the elbow, fighting for inside position against Joji—

The walking glacier.

Elbows like crowbars.

Weight like a loaded truck.

Dirga kept dribbling.

Eyes scanning. Reading.

A slow burn—not hesitation, but bait.

Haruki floated near the arc.

Smirking.

Light on his feet, like the court was his stage and the chaos his choreography.

Hiroki snapped off a shallow curl.

Aizawa flared to the weak side.

Good movement. Sharp angles.

But still—

No opening.

No misstep.

No soft spot.

So Dirga made one.

A sudden jolt—

He drove hard left.

One dribble.

Two.

Then—snap—a no-look bounce pass, crisp and low, slicing through the defense.

Taiga caught it baseline.

Planted.

Rose.

BOOM.

But Joji came flying—

Not jumping.

Launching.

Like a slab of metal ripped from gravity.

The block wasn't just clean—

It resonated.

WHAM.

The ball didn't bounce.

It rebounded off impact like a bullet—straight into Haruki's hands.

By the time Horizon turned—

Haruki was already gone.

Dirga shouted—"Recover!"

But the Drakes didn't wait.

They never waited.

Haruki coasted down the lane—

Crossed left.

Snapped right.

Slowed...

Then—

Snap—ball through his legs.

Into a spin so slick it dropped Taiga half a step behind.

He could've finished.

Could've laid it in.

But he lobbed.

Joji rose.

Not climbed—rose.

Like a warhead launched from the earth.

SLAM.

The rim shook.

The gym followed.

A wave of sound and shock rippled out like a pulse through concrete.

Momentum flipped—

Like a coin spun too long in midair.

11 – 19.