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

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.

…

Horizon ball.

Dirga brought it up the floor—

Dribble steady as a heartbeat.

But slower.

Not from fatigue.

From weight.

They could feel it now.

The chaos pressing on their lungs.

Tight. Relentless. Invisible.

Their feet didn't just move—they dragged the moment with them. Every step was friction against momentum.

Aizawa cut weakside.

Hiroki floated baseline.

Taiga popped to mid-post, showing hands for the high seal.

Rikuya fought for inside space.

And across from him?

Joji Shimabukuro.

Not a defender.

A structure.

A wall with knees and a pulse.

A monument dressed in black and red. Breathing. Watching. Waiting.

Dirga called a snap flex screen.

Hiroki curled.

Nothing.

No daylight. No window.

Just bodies.

Aizawa slipped backdoor.

But Masato read it like a headline.

Cut him off before the pass even left Dirga's hand.

Dirga pump-faked. Once.

Then a twitch—fake high, then dumped it low.

Rikuya caught.

Pivoted into the post.

Then—

BAM.

Joji met him.

Not with arms.

With torso.

With mass.

A full-body collision that sounded like someone slamming a filing cabinet shut.

Rikuya gritted his teeth.

Drove his shoulder back into Joji's chest.

Nothing moved.

The crowd groaned—half from impact, half from the inevitability.

Joji didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Rikuya spun. Faced up.

Elevated for a jump hook.

Blocked.

Clean.

No drama.

No shout.

Just erasure.

The kind of block that didn't just deny points—

It denied hope.

The ball ricocheted to Haruki.

And the chaos?

Lit again.

Dirga backpedaled fast—

Low. Arms wide. Braced.

Taiga sprinted back into frame, chest pumping, eyes wild.

But Haruki?

All motion.

All flow.

Like music made of ankles and shift steps.

Stutter.

Cut.

Spin.

Taiga slipped—just half a foot.

But that was enough.

Haruki didn't pause.

Didn't hesitate.

Lobbed.

Joji crashed the baseline like a meteor.

Two hands.

No mercy.

BOOM.

The backboard trembled.

The rim rattled.

And the gym—

Exploded.

11 – 21.

…

Taiga landed hard.

His heel barked pain up his leg, but he didn't flinch.

He just stared up at the rim, jaw tight.

"Damn," he muttered.

Not fear.

Just facts.

Just awareness.

Of where they stood—

And what they were up against.

Horizon tried to respond.

Dirga pushed the tempo—

Quick motion. Sharp angles.

Aizawa set a brush screen.

Hiroki flared up—free on the wing.

Dirga hit him clean.

Catch. Rise. Release.

Clank.

Too flat.

Too quick.

Too urgent.

The rebound?

Joji. Again.

Like the paint was his living room—

And Horizon just kept barging in without knocking.

Haruki didn't signal.

Didn't glance at the bench.

Didn't call a thing.

He just ran.

And the Drakes—

They moved like a pack that didn't need to bark.

They knew.

Keita trailed to the corner.

Masato faded wide to the wing.

Taiga chased like his shoes were on fire.

Rikuya tried to brace, plant, wall off Joji—

But Joji didn't even shift.

Just walked through him.

Like Rikuya was air with opinions.

Haruki faked left.

Dirga slid into position—eyes locked, feet loaded.

For a second—

They froze.

Then Haruki smiled.

Mid-air.

Mid-spin.

He didn't shoot.

He no-looked it backward—

A flick, casual, cruel.

Joji caught.

Turned.

And laid it in—

soft.

Like it didn't matter.

Like the world was weightless for him.

11 – 23.

…

Back on Horizon's end,

Dirga slowed the ball.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he had to.

The storm was swelling now,

and he could feel it in the soles of his shoes.

In the silence between sneakers and scoreboard.

He glanced at Taiga.

Chest heaving.

Hands clenched into tight, twitching knots.

Fury, not fear.

Then at Rikuya—

Shoulders blotched with red from Joji's steel-plated screens.

Arms bruised, breathing short.

But both of them?

Still upright.

Still staring down the riot.

Still here.

Dirga swallowed.

Voice barely audible over the noise.

"Pressure always shows the cracks."

It was meant for the Drakes.

A mantra. A memory. A line from Tsugawa.

But right now?

He wasn't so sure.

He felt it—

That tiny voice in his ribs.

Maybe the cracks weren't theirs.

Maybe they were ours.

This wasn't just about tempo anymore.

Not a game of rhythm.

This was gravity.

And Horizon?

Horizon was playing uphill.

…

Then—

The whistle.

Sharp. Sudden.

Like a breath punched into the lungs.

Substitution.

Coach Tsugawa stood, expression unreadable, and nodded once toward the scorers' table.

Two figures stepped forward.

Kaito—already peeling off his warmup, quiet fire dancing behind his eyes.

And Rei—sliding his shooting sleeve up, calm as a still lake, not saying a word.

Dirga stepped toward the sideline.

No questions. No protest.

Just trust.

Tsugawa gave a subtle hand sign—barely a twitch of his fingers.

No speech. No clipboard.

Hiroki and Aizawa jogged off.

Breathing heavy, but steady.

They didn't need to ask.

They already knew.

Fresh rhythm.

Different angle.

New blood.

As Hiroki passed Kaito, he gave a quick tap to the chest.

"Let it burn," he muttered.

Kaito didn't answer.

Just clenched his fist once—

Like reigniting a promise.

Rei slipped into formation like he'd never left it.

Eyes forward. Feet light. No hesitation.

Dirga – PG

Kaito – SG

Rei – SF

Taiga – PF

Rikuya – C

The court shifted.

The air changed.

The Drakes didn't sub.

They didn't need to.

They had the lead.

And the rhythm.

…

Next Horizon possession.

Dirga brought it up—

Slower. But steady.

Tempo still pulled like gravity—

But he braced into it this time.

Shoulders square.

Breath sharp.

He called it:

Mid-post entry. Rikuya.

Pass clean.

Right into the pocket.

Rikuya caught it.

Squared his feet.

Elbows wide.

Then—Joji crashed in.

First shoulder—

BOOM.

Rikuya held.

Feet dug in like stakes.

Second shoulder—

BOOM.

Still standing.

The gym tensed.

Every breath on pause.

Rikuya spun.

Joji read it.

Anticipated.

Shuffled to mirror—hips wide, arms ready.

But Rikuya wasn't done.

He bumped.

A shift in weight.

Created just enough space.

Then—

Fadeaway hook.

Up.

Over.

Through.

Between Joji's outstretched fingers—

Swish.

13 – 23.