CHAPTER 125: THE WEIGHT OF THE JERSEY

Dirga rested for another 45 minutes.

The clinic, quiet again—save for the soft hum of machines and Ayaka’s steady presence at his side.

They spoke in low voices—half banter, half comfort.

And then—

"Onee-san, did Dirga wake up already?"

Sayaka’s voice rang from the hallway, light and worried.

"Yeah," Ayaka said, half-smiling. "This guy’s been awake. Eating and complaining like usual."

Dirga groaned. "I heard that."

The door creaked open again.

And just like that—the room was full.

Kaito. Rikuya. Taiga. Aizawa. Hiroki. Rei.

Coach Tsugawa. Takeshi-sensei. All crowded around his bed.

Aizawa was the first to speak. "Seriously, Dirga-kun? You collapse once and suddenly you’re a celebrity. The reporters are going nuts for you."

"Yeah! Our MAESTRO collapses and the whole gym explodes. You sure know how to make an exit." Taiga chimed in, his timing perfect as always.

"We gotta prepare for the ceremony, man. Don’t think you’re skipping out."

Kaito leaned in, grinning.

"We need our ace. The Maestro."

Even Rikuya spoke, calm as ever.

"Can you walk?"

Dirga exhaled. "I think I can. Still hurts, but... I’ll manage."

Takeshi-sensei clapped once, drawing everyone’s attention.

"Alright, kids. Let’s get ready."

Dirga slowly pushed himself up. His legs wobbled, his arms still heavy—but he stood.

And then, someone handed him his uniform.

The black, gold, and red of Horizon.

Scarred, sweaty, sore—

He pulled it on.

Not just cloth. But colors. Meaning.

He was ready to stand.

To walk.

To receive what they fought for.

To rise—again.

The Maestro.

...

Dirga stepped out of the clinic hallway and into the tunnel that led back to the court.

His footsteps echoed on the polished floor, every step slow but deliberate, each one more solid than the last. The cool, dry air of the gym hit his face. Sweat, faint antiseptic, and the electric hum of anticipation buzzed around him.

In the center of the court stood a stage, modest yet dignified, draped in red and gold banners bearing the official emblems of the 2009 Kansai Regional Basketball Tournament. The arena lights dimmed slightly—then a single spotlight bloomed down onto the platform like dawn breaking over a battlefield.

Dirga raised his eyes.

There they stood.

Authority figures in dark suits. Cameras—some big, blocky, unmistakably 2000s—rolled with blinking red lights. Scouts from universities and pro circuits sat in shadowed corners, notebooks in hand. Reporters whispered and scribbled.

And on that stage, in full view of the packed gym—Yuta Tabuse.

The first Japanese-born player to ever step foot on an NBA court.

Phoenix Suns. 2004. A trailblazer.

Dirga glanced to the side. Coach Tsugawa, arms crossed, lips tight in what might’ve been a small, proud smile. Did he know Tabuse-san personally? Maybe. Maybe he gave advice. Maybe, in another lifetime, they fought the same battles.

The announcer’s voice cut through the tension like a starter pistol.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we now begin the official closing ceremony of the 2009 Kansai Regional Basketball Tournament. Today, we honor those who endured. Who rose. Who fought until the final whistle."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the audience. Then—

"We are honored to be joined by two giants of the sport. First, the Head of the Japanese Basketball League, Mr. Toshimitsu Kawachi. And second—our pride, our pioneer—Mr. Yuta Tabuse."

Applause thundered. The bleachers shook beneath stamping feet. Flashbulbs burst like firecrackers.

Dirga’s heart thudded—not from nerves. From memory. From déjà vu.

He had seen this before. But not like this.

In his past life, this moment had passed without Yuta Tabuse.

Now, the legend stood before him.

Kawachi-san stepped forward to speak. His voice was old but steady, worn like a long-traveled road.

"My only hope," he said, pausing to look over the crowd, "is to make basketball not just a sport—but a future. Not just in Japan, but to the world. Through talent. Through heart."

One sentence. But a sentence that held dreams as wide as oceans.

The applause returned, respectful and slow.

"And now," the announcer continued, "we begin with our third-place winners... from Kyoto... the reigning champions, fallen to two new titans this year, but still standing strong—Heian Gakuen!"

A disciplined cheer came from the Heian Gakuen section.

Mamoru Riku, tall and cold-eyed, led the team as they walked single-file to the stage.

One by one, they received their medals—presented by Kawachi-san and Tabuse-san with quiet nods and firm handshakes.

Click. Flash. Camera shutters captured each moment.

As Heian bowed and exited the stage, Dirga knew—

This was more than ceremony.

It was history being written.

The announcer returned, voice proud and rising with reverence.

"And now... stepping forward as the runner-up of the 2009 Kansai Regional Tournament... one of the rising titans—Toyonaka High School!"

Applause boomed. A different kind. Not just for victory—but for a team that stood tall in defeat.

"Led by the Black Thunder, Masaki King, a king of offense... and the Toyonaka Shield, Yuto Kobayashi, a stone on defense. This team—grit and glory. We pray they blaze through the Wild Card and reach the Nationals!"

From the tunnel, Toyonaka stepped into the light.

Yuto led the march—chin high, eyes forward, the weight of loss in his jaw but not in his steps. And beside him, Masaki.

The gym held its breath.

Skin like black diamond under the lights, braided hair swaying, eyes that burned like a forge. He didn’t walk—he strode, like someone who had faced down gods and wasn’t done yet. His jersey clung to the sweat and fight still lingering on his body.

Behind them came the squad—Shunpei, Haruto, Daichi. And in their center:

Coach Reina, sharp-eyed and composed.

Manager Aoi, hands folded in front of her, her presence quiet but unwavering.

As they reached the stage, the applause rose once more.

One by one, they bowed.

Kawachi-san and Yuta Tabuse stood firm, offering medals, firm handshakes, and—most of all—respect.

Flashbulbs burst.

Masaki stood beside Yuto, the silver medal now pressing against his chest like unfinished business.

His gaze never faltered.

Not toward the cameras. Not toward the stage.

His eyes were already elsewhere—

Chasing the next summit.

There were no smiles.

Not yet.

But the silence they left behind as they stepped down from the stage—

Spoke of resolve.

A storm was coming.

And Toyonaka would be part of it.

Then came the final roar.

"Anddddd now—our champions!"

The announcer’s voice surged like a crashing wave.