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

Then—

Fadeaway hook.

Up.

Over.

Through.

Between Joji's outstretched fingers—

Swish.

13 – 23.

The whistle blew.

Foul.

Rikuya hit the floor.

Back flat.

Chest rising.

But his eyes—

Locked on Joji.

Silent.

I can do better.

He stood.

Stepped to the line.

One bounce.

Exhale.

Shot—

Clean.

14 – 23.

No roar from the crowd.

Just a shifting energy.

Like something tightened.

Rikuya backpedaled.

This time?

He wasn't retreating.

This time?

He'd won.

Against Joji.

Even if just for a moment—

The mountain had shifted.

…

Drakes possession.

Haruki walked it up.

Ball bouncing slow.

Theatrical.

Each dribble an invitation.

Each step, a dare.

Come press me.

I dare you.

Taiga gave him a half-step more space this time.

Not retreat.

Adjustment.

Learning.

Respect without surrender.

Haruki took it.

Quick jab.

Acceleration—

Step-back—

But Taiga didn't bite.

Slid in rhythm.

Feet light. Eyes calm.

Haruki rose anyway.

Deep pull-up.

Fired it—

Long.

Bounce off back rim.

Off-rhythm.

Dirga—

Snap.

Hands quick like a trap closing.

Rebound.

Eyes up.

Transition chance.

Rei was already streaking left wing.

Like he'd seen the miss before it happened.

Kaito flared right.

Quick. Balanced. Loaded.

Dirga fired:

Baseline skip.

Corner.

Kaito caught.

Didn't wait.

Didn't flinch.

Pull-up three.

Swish.

17 – 23.

The gym stirred.

No eruption—

Just a shift.

Like a storm cloud got just a little bit lighter.

"No hesitation!"

"Kaito makes his entrance with a statement!"

The bench stood.

Hands out.

Taiga slapped the air—short, sharp, like reigniting a flame.

Dirga didn't celebrate.

Didn't smile.

He was already turning.

"Next stop. Same fire."

The crowd stirred.

A ripple.

A shift in breath.

The rhythm had changed.

But not the war.

Because the Drakes weren't slowing.

Not even close.

…

Haruki inbounded immediately.

No pause. No flex.

Just motion—pure and deliberate.

Keita sprinted up.

Fast.

Physical.

Elbows brushing jerseys. Shoulders lowered like a fullback.

He wasn't gliding. He was driving.

Masato curled hard from the wing.

Screen coming.

Body crashing.

Rei fought through.

Slipped it—

But not in time.

Masato floated—

One dribble.

One glide-step.

Runner.

Soft.

Swish.

17 – 25.

…

Dirga nodded to himself as the net snapped behind him.

Not celebration.

Just confirmation.

He stepped forward—

And the court answered.

Not with light.

Not with sound.

But with synchronicity.

A heartbeat.

Shared.

Dirga raised a hand—

Fingers flicked once.

Kaito drifted right, just far enough to bait the closeout—

Not full sprint. Just gravity at work.

Rei cut baseline, knife-smooth—

Then popped to the elbow like a breath catching in a throat.

Taiga backscreened.

Rikuya ghosted to the top.

No contact.

Just motion designed to mislead.

Dirga slipped the seam.

One step.

Bounce pass—clean.

Corner.

Kaito.

Catch. Fire.

Swish.

20 – 25.

The bench lit.

Hands out.

Chests forward.

No roar—

Just momentum breathing louder.

Because Horizon wasn't just scoring now.

They were composing inside chaos.

…

The ball found its way back to Haruki.

Same walk.

Same flair.

Hip-swiveling dribbles. Behind-the-back spins. That infuriating, curated smirk.

But now?

Taiga wasn't chasing.

He was watching.

Every twitch of Haruki's ankle.

Each pivot of the hip.

Like notes in a rhythm pattern only he could hear.

"Eyes on his center mass," Coach Tsugawa had told him.

"Not the ball. Not the flair. Track the spine."

And Taiga was hearing it now—

The song behind the noise.

Haruki jabbed left.

Taiga didn't bite.

Crossover. Hop-step hesitation.

Taiga slid—tight, measured. Not back. Not wide. Just right.

Haruki's grin twitched.

"Still just a forward, huh?"

No response.

Taiga mirrored.

Silent. Surgical.

The crowd leaned in—

Haruki hadn't been shadowed like this in a while.

So he tried to break it.

Step-back. Behind-the-back again.

Taiga didn't just keep up.

He timed it.

Haruki looked off.

Whipped a pass to the right wing—Masato.

Too quick. Too casual.

Baited.

Taiga had set the trap.

Rei closed like a snapblade.

Masato twisted, caught—

Forced into a midlane floater off one leg.

Clank.

Rebound—Rikuya.

Secure. Violent hands. No bounce. Just possession.

And Dirga?

He didn't need to yell.

Everyone was already gone.

Haruki turned—still blinking.

Still registering the chess move that just unfolded.

But Horizon?

They were already in transition.

Already making the next step.

Rikuya launched it.

A full-court pass.

Arched like a comet.

Dirga sprinted—leapt mid-stride.

Snatched it clean in the air.

But didn't shoot.

He turned mid-air—whipped it to the corner.

Rei was waiting.

Feet set.

Eyes locked.

Hands ready.

Release.

Splash.

23 – 25.

The crowd erupted.

Not just because the shot dropped.

Not just because the gap closed.

But because something else had cracked.

Belief.

It surged.

From the bench.

From the bleachers.

From the floorboards themselves.

Dirga landed from the outlet and turned—

Just once.

A glance.

Over the shoulder.

Through the noise.

Eyes on Taiga.

And in that flicker of a second—

In the haze of sweat and echo and heartbeat—

They locked rhythm.

Not with a nod.

Not with a shout.

Just understanding.

The kind that only pressure could carve.

Haruki had been the match.

The Trickster.

The one who sparked chaos and laughed inside it.

But Taiga?

Taiga had learned to walk through fire.

And not flinch.

…

Haruki brought the ball up.

No smirk. No swagger.

His dribble was low, efficient. Surgical.

Eyes locked on Taiga.

The pressure had shifted.

He'd been read. Twice.

And a trickster exposed?

He doesn't double down.

He rewrites the play.

Quick swing—left.

Keita touched it once.

Back to Haruki.

But this time?

No isolation.

No rhythm battle.

He called for the hammer.

Joji.

The court seemed to tilt when the giant stepped up.

Like thunder with a heartbeat.

Rikuya fought through shadows—

Bodies that hadn't even formed the screen yet.

Too late.

Taiga planted.

Haruki took one dribble.

Then—

A blind wrap behind his back.

Joji caught it mid-roll.

Momentum in motion.

A wall of mass with a plan.

Rikuya lunged, arms up—

Tried to front the angle.

Joji swam through him.

Not around. Through.

One step.

Two.

Dirga rotated—shoulders low, arms extended.

Late.

Half a second too late.

Taiga cut down—perfect angle.

Ready to intercept.

But the ball?

Already gone.

Joji kept it.

And with one step and one palm—

He punched the rim open.

BANG.

23 – 27.

The gym exploded.

Not just noise—shockwaves.

The entire basket groaned,

like it might rip loose from the ceiling.

"JOJI HAMMERS IT HOME!"

"Haruki with the redirect! This isn't streetball—it's structural violence!"

Dirga, hands on knees.

Chest rising.

Eyes tracking. Calculating.

"We forced him to adjust," he muttered.

"So he did."

…

The ball bounced loose toward halfcourt.

Dirga caught it.

Heart still high from the dunk.

But not shaken.

Not this time.

He glanced at Rikuya—who nodded, breathing hard.

Joji was winning.

But not forever.

And Taiga?

Taiga stared across at Haruki.

Chest rising.

Eyes narrowing.

Because now they'd seen each other.

For real.

Not trick vs. brute—

But test vs. test.