CHAPTER 107: HORIZON VS TOYONAKA : TEMPO WAR 3

13 – 10.

The gym erupted.

The crowd was on their feet, yelling, gasping, stunned.

Dirga raised a fist. Rei lowered his head in frustration, but Rikuya—he didn’t celebrate.

He landed heavy.

Turned.

Faced Masaki.

Eyes steady.

Voice low.

"Talk more."

Masaki walked a step forward. Just a step.

And smiled.

"Nice. I’ll destroy you."

The words lingered like smoke in the air.

Yuto didn’t even flinch. He just took the ball on the inbound, eyes forward, posture low. The floor beneath his feet felt heavier now—not from pressure, but from purpose.

He brought the ball up slowly, calculating.

But Dirga was already waiting.

This wasn’t the same Dirga from their first scrimmage. This Dirga’s eyes were ice.

No wasted motion. No empty space.

He knew.

"I know how you think, Yuto."

In his past life, Toyonaka was his home.

Yuto wasn’t just an opponent—he was a brother.

And that familiarity now became a blade.

Yuto tried to probe the right.

Dirga slid with him—sharp, fluid, effortless.

Yuto feinted left.

Dirga’s weight never shifted.

Not a bite. Not a blink.

"Your hips," Dirga thought, "You haven’t shown them. You’re guarding right."

"That means you want to explode left. But I won’t let you."

The two locked in a half-second of silence.

The air between them felt tense, like a stretched string about to snap.

"You really became this good?" Yuto said under his breath, eyes still locked.

"Thought you were just the brainy type. Not this."

Dirga smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

"Try me, Yuto."

Yuto clicked his tongue.

He couldn’t break him.

So he called for backup.

Masaki.

The Black Thunder stepped in—body like a wall, stance wide, muscles coiled.

The moment the screen touched Dirga’s shoulder, Yuto turned the corner—

But Dirga spun through it. Instantly.

A tight circle. No pause. Back in front.

Like he knew the screen was coming before it was even called.

Yuto faltered for a second.

Shot clock: 5 seconds.

Pressure.

Then—

Masaki.

He passed it off.

The moment the ball touched Masaki’s hands, Horizon collapsed.

Taiga. Aizawa. Double team. Fast. Aggressive.

Bodies crashed into his space.

He didn’t panic.

Instead—he danced.

A sudden cross.

A bait dribble.

Then a switch in rhythm—that dangerous tempo shift that only Masaki could do.

He sliced between Taiga and Aizawa, low to the ground, like thunder streaking through clouds.

Two steps. Elbow. Rise.

Mid-air, he switched hands.

The ball rolled off his fingers—

Pure. Clean. Deadly.

Swish.

13 – 12.

...

While the battle waged below, high in the stands—Ayaka stood tall.

Dressed in the team’s Red, black and gold colors, her whistle slung around her neck like a general’s badge of honor, she wasn’t just a spectator.

She was the heartbeat of Horizon’s supporters.

"CLAP! CLAP! STOMP! CLAP!"

Her hands moved in rhythm, her voice sharp and bright:

"DEFENSE! LET’S GO, HORIZON—DEFENSE!"

Her ponytail swung like a banner in the wind. The banner of belief.

Behind her, dozens of voices followed—students, parents, alumni—shouting, clapping, stomping.

The sound was thunderous, rivaling the game itself.

Then her eyes found Dirga.

In the chaos, he glanced up—just for a second.

Their eyes locked.

Ayaka smiled, winked, and gave him a single raised fist.

"We’re behind you."

Dirga didn’t respond—not with words. But his next step had more weight.

His next move, more purpose.

...

As Masaki’s jumper swished through the net — effortless, elegant, inevitable —

Dirga’s eyes lingered. But not on the shot.

On him.

His mind pulled him backward —

Not to the past few years.

But a past life.

A life where he wasn’t Dirgantara Renji.

He was someone else —

Another high school player in another timeline, donning the same Toyonaka uniform...

Standing side-by-side with Yuto and Masaki.

"Number 8—Set the screen! Yuto’s curling left!"

His own voice echoed in a dusty gym.

A younger Yuto dashed past him, sweat flicking off his brow, eyes razor-focused.

"Right! I got it!"

Masaki, then just a second-year prodigy, had been raw power and unpolished fire.

He crashed into defenders with a grin on his face and thunder in his step.

Back then, Dirga had been their point guard.

Their conductor. Their anchor.

He remembered their championship game.

He remembered crying with Yuto on the hardwood after a final buzzer-beater that rimmed out.

He remembered pulling Masaki off an opponent during a scuffle, Masaki’s rage almost uncontrollable.

"I’m not gonna let them disrespect you," Masaki had growled.

"You’re my captain."

Dirga had laughed through bloody gums.

"We’re all captains here."

Back in the now, the weight of memory pressed on Dirga’s chest.

The scoreboard read 13–12, Horizon clinging to the lead.

Across from him, Yuto stood, knees bent, locked in stance, eyes scanning like a machine.

Masaki was just behind, flexing his fingers, body vibrating with restrained fury.

They didn’t remember him.

But Dirga did.

"You two were my brothers once."

He curled his fingers into fists.

"But this time, we’re rivals. And I’ll beat you—because I know everything about you."

Every tendency. Every breath.

Masaki’s left pivot before a crossover.

Yuto’s glance at the rim before a fake pass.

The crowd couldn’t see it. But in Dirga’s eyes, this wasn’t just a game.

It was a test of fate.

And this time, he wouldn’t lose them to tragedy.

He’d face them. He’d challenge them.

And he’d win.

Time Remaining: 00:48

Two more possessions—maybe.

No room for hesitation.

Dirga inhaled through his nose.

GodFrame—Tempo Sight: Activated.

The world didn’t slow down.

Dirga accelerated.

His consciousness detached, lifting—like a drone rising above the court.

He no longer saw the game from behind his eyes.

He hovered above it all—untouched, unseen, omniscient.

The court transformed.

Lines sharpened. Colors faded.

Everything—everyone—reduced to motion and intent.

layers became silhouettes of energy. Blue trails for Horizon—calm, synchronized, flowing like a current and Red trails for Toyonaka—erratic, reactive, faster but easier to read.

Each player dragged behind them a comet trail of movement.

Arcs of where they were—echoes of where they’d be.

No faces.

Only decisions.

Every breath, every shift in weight, every twitch of muscle—it was all data.

Predictable. Patterned. Beatable.