CHAPTER 116: HORIZON VS TOYONAKA : ECHOES AT THE BUZZER 1

The Horizon bench gathered like a weathered army regrouping before the final charge.

Sweat dripped.

Hearts pounded.

Legs ached like rusted metal.

Sayaka, ever reliable, moved between them like a medic in the trenches—

Handing out bottles, slinging towels over shoulders, her voice soft but steady.

"Here. Water. Breathe, okay? You’re not machines."

But they were damn close to becoming one.

Coach Tsugawa’s voice cut through the fog.

"You need to slow down. Stop letting them bait you."

The players raised their heads—exhausted, wired, blood still pumping too fast.

"When you play at their speed, your focus slips. And when focus slips—

You don’t score.

You make mistakes."

Dirga wiped his face, breathing through clenched teeth.

His vision still buzzing from Godframe.

His fingers twitched like they hadn’t left the court yet.

Coach’s eyes locked with his.

Not angry. Not panicked.

Just heavy—like someone trusting him with everything.

"Dirga.

You’re the maestro.

You control the tempo.

Don’t let them dictate the rhythm.

Not anymore."

Dirga nodded, jaw tightening.

"Yes, Coach."

His mind screamed to answer the chaos head-on.

His body burned to match the storm with fire.

But that wasn’t what the team needed.

Not now.

"Last quarter." Coach’s voice grew firmer. Sharper. A command.

"We play our game. Slow, focused, precise. If the shot isn’t clean—don’t force it. Reset. Breathe. Control."

"Kaito comes in at SG.

Dirga, you stay at point.

Rei at SF.

Taiga PF.

Rikuya holds the paint."

His voice lowered—but the weight behind it only grew heavier.

"This is it.

Remember why we’re here."

"Nationals."

The word hit like a match to dry wood.

"Yessh, Coach!" they shouted, almost in unison.

Tired voices, but voices still filled with fight.

As the buzzer for the final quarter echoed across the gym, Dirga stepped toward the scorer’s table.

He looked up.

The lights glared down like spotlights on a stage.

And in the sea of noise, one sound rose above the rest—

"GO GO GO HORIZON!!"

It was Ayaka.

Standing in the front row of the Horizon crowd, arms raised high.

Leading the students in rhythm and fire.

Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap.

"GO GO GO HORIZON!!"

Dirga exhaled, deeper this time.

Not out of fatigue.

But purpose.

His fingers curled around the ball.

As if gripping the pulse of the game itself.

The fourth quarter had begun.

And this time—

Horizon wouldn’t be dancing to Toyonaka’s music.

They would write their own.

...

Score: 56 – 58.

No one in the gym knew how this would end.

Only one thing was certain—

Something was about to break.

Toyonaka opened the quarter.

Yuto inbounded, a quick flick to Masaki.

No hesitation. No wasted motion.

And from the moment the ball touched his hands—

You could feel it.

Something in Masaki clicked.

His body moved the same,

but his presence was different.

Like a predator who had finally stopped playing.

Taiga stepped up—ready.

But even he could sense it.

That weight. That surge.

That silent pressure radiating off Masaki’s frame.

Another isolation.

A cold battlefield drawn on the hardwood.

Masaki dribbled.

One crossover.

Taiga stayed grounded.

A jab step left.

No reaction. Taiga didn’t bite.

But then—

BOOM.

A sudden step-back, followed by an explosive first step forward.

Masaki turned his back, shifting into a post-up, body low, elbows wide.

He began bullying his way in.

Taiga held strong—

But Masaki was 190 cm (six-foot-three) of raw power, fluid muscle, and controlled violence.

Every push came with a grind of sneakers.

Every pivot was a slam of shoulder into chest.

Taiga was tough—but Masaki was heavy.

Intentional.

Unstoppable.

He spun.

One flash of movement.

At the rim.

Rikuya rotated to contest.

Masaki leaned into the contact, body absorbing the blow mid-air—

Then released a fading, off-balance shot over the reach of the big man.

Swish.

56 – 60.

No foul whistle.

Just the ball through net and the dull thump of landing feet.

Taiga grimaced, chest rising and falling like a piston.

And Dirga?

From the top of the key, he saw it in Masaki’s eyes.

That wasn’t just a play.

That was a statement.

He recognized it—

Because he’d seen it before.

In another life.

Masaki wasn’t just trying to win.

He was ascending.

A monster in the making.

What Dirga remembered about Masaki—

From a past life, once as a teammate, once as a rival—

was more than just his power or his speed.

Masaki King—a Japanese-African American hybrid with the fire of two worlds—

had played in the U.S., trained under Division I intensity.

He’d once told the team:

"I’ll only stay in Japan for a year.

Then I’m heading back. NBA’s the real goal."

But in Dirga’s past life, he’d stayed.

Even into his second year.

And after Horizon’s rough first season, he returned with fury—

Brought them to the Inter-High Final.

Won it.

Then left for the States.

But this?

This moment?

It felt like Masaki was chasing something more than just a win.

He can’t go back to the States empty-handed,

Dirga realized.

He can’t call himself NBA-bound if he can’t even take Japan’s crown.

Like a hero climbing through stages—

Masaki was leveling up.

And this quarter?

This final stretch?

It wasn’t just a game anymore.

It was his trial by fire.

Dirga’s ball.

He tightened the laces in his mind.

This wasn’t third-quarter chaos anymore.

He wouldn’t let that pace happen again.

Everyone’s gas tank was sputtering.

If they hit that same tempo again—

someone would break.

So he activated it.

[Active Skill 1 – Maestro State]

"Usable once per half – 60 seconds."

It hit him like stepping into clear water.

His vision didn’t blur—

It sharpened.

The court slowed.

Everyone moved, but their actions felt traceable—predictable.

His instincts hummed in harmony with the rhythm of ten players.

The ball was an instrument.

And he was the conductor.

Dirga gave a subtle hand signal.

Nothing big. Just enough.

A brush of his wrist, a slight nod.

And Horizon responded—

like clockwork.

Rikuya sprinted in to screen—

But Dirga rejected it, veering opposite.

He exploded toward the paint, low and tight,

Yuto chasing,

Daichi rotating in panic.

A blur of bodies—

Dirga spun.

But Haruto was waiting.

Damn, he read it.

Too fast.

—Scan. Fast. Decision. Faster.

His eyes darted once—corner of the wing.

Bounce pass.

A perfect strike.

Kaito caught it.

One heartbeat.

Toyonaka rotated—Masaki shifted to intercept.

Too fast.

Kaito flicked the ball across the arc—

To the corner.

Rei. Wide open.

Masaki lunged, footsteps thundering.

But Taiga was there.

Boom—SCREEN.

Masaki slammed into it, staggered just a second—

Enough.

Rei rose.

Form balanced.

Feet square.

Eyes locked.

Release.

Ssshhhwwiiiii—

NET.

59 – 60.