CHAPTER 32: HORIZON VS TOYONAKA 2 : KINGS DON’T FLINCH

The buzzer marking the start of the second quarter echoed through the gym like a war drum.

The scoreboard flashed: Horizon 20 – Toyonaka 26.

We were behind, but the gap wasn’t wide enough to panic. Yet. Every breath felt heavier. Every step came with the weight of a hundred eyes in the stands.

Toyonaka wasn’t just pressing us physically. They were hammering away at our rhythm. Their defense—tight, aggressive, always one step ahead. It was like trying to breathe underwater.

I looked over to Coach Tsugawa, who gave me the subtlest nod. That was all I needed.

[Echo Notification: Maestro’s Pulse – Active Skill 1 Available]

[Activate ’Maestro State’?]

[Yes.]

[Maestro State Activated – Duration: 60 seconds]

[Synergy increased. Passing, tempo control, and flow visibility enhanced.]

My heart slowed down. My vision sharpened. It wasn’t just me anymore—it was like I could feel everyone’s rhythm. Their steps. Their hesitations. Their next move.

I called for the ball.

Our possession.

Yuto was glued to me, but I didn’t need to shake him—I needed to shift the tempo.

I dribbled up with a casual pace, then snapped a look toward Rei, drawing Masaki’s attention. That half-second was enough.

I zipped a pass—tight, no spin—right between two defenders.

Aizawa caught it mid-sprint and elevated.

Layup. Swish.

22–26.

The Maestro was on the stage.

Toyonaka responded immediately.

Masaki took it coast to coast. Taiga stepped up, but Masaki faked left, spun right, and drove baseline.

He launched it up—Rikuya met him mid-air. Contact.

Foul.

Masaki went to the line. Sank just one.

22–27.

The crowd roared as if the game had just ended.

But we weren’t done.

The ball found its way back to me, and I orchestrated chaos again.

Quick touch pass to Hiroki.

He passed it right back.

A screen from Rikuya—ignored.

I went left instead. No-look dime to Rei, who was already pulling up from the arc.

Bang.

25–27.

We were flowing again.

The next few minutes turned into a whirlwind.

Masaki tried to muscle through Rikuya—blocked.

We recovered the ball.

Taiga pushed it up, handed it off to me mid-run.

I didn’t even dribble. I tapped it once—one-touch to Aizawa, who curled around the corner.

Reverse layup.

27–27.

I felt the pulse—of my team, of the gym, of the moment. Everything was moving together.

But Toyonaka didn’t break.

They bent—and struck.

Yuto ran a high pick-and-roll. Haruto rolled in hard, catching a bounce pass and slamming it down past Rikuya.

29–27.

First lead since the opening.

It was like that for the rest of the quarter.

Each basket answered with another.

Each scream matched by silence.

Halfway through the second, I caught Masaki eyeing me—reading me.

We both knew what this was.

A chess match disguised as war.

At the six-minute mark, the score stood at 35–34, Horizon up by one.

Then came the moment.

Rikuya boxed out Haruto on a missed shot, grabbed the rebound and kicked it to me. I sprinted ahead, hungry to widen the gap. But just as I passed half-court, Masaki rotated—he was reading the play.

I tried a skip pass to Rei—Masaki deflected it, and the ball bounced out.

Next play, he took it from the wing and drew in both Aizawa and Taiga.

Then he kicked it to Arakawa.

Corner three.

35–37.

The next few minutes turned tense.

We kept pace with quick inside passes and floaters, but they answered every single one.

By the time the clock hit the final two minutes of the half, the score was 41–41.

Yuto and I were locked in our own battle.

He picked off one of my drives. I returned the favor by intercepting his skip pass to Shunpei. We were mirror images, testing each other’s limits.

Then, the foul.

Masaki charged in off a missed three and tried to dunk over Rikuya.

Rikuya went up, arm to the sky—and collided hard.

The whistle blew.

And Masaki hit the ground.

The gym froze.

Rikuya stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched.

Masaki got up slowly, eyes locked onto Rikuya’s.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He stepped to the line and hit both shots.

41–43.

Aizawa growled. "They’re pushing us."

"We push back," I snapped.

Coach Tsugawa shouted, "Don’t lose your heads! The game is rhythm. Find it!"

And we did.

Taiga got a putback off a missed three from Hiroki.

43–43.

Then Aizawa stole a lazy pass and flushed a dunk in transition.

45–43.

Crowd roared.

But with 20 seconds left in the quarter, Toyonaka held the final possession.

Yuto dribbled up calmly. Masaki motioned for the ball.

He got it.

10 seconds.

I switched onto him. He smiled.

"Show me what you’ve got, Maestro."

He faked right.

I bit—just enough.

He went left, rose—

I jumped.

Too late.

His hand extended behind his head as he floated it toward the rim.

I soared up with him, arms stretched.

Block?

No.

He adjusted mid-air.

Passed it mid-air to Shunpei on the baseline.

Layup.

45–45.

Five seconds.

I grabbed the inbound.

Three seconds.

I pushed it fast—crossed midcourt.

Two seconds.

I jumped. Masaki followed.

Mid-air, I double-clutched, aiming for the backboard—

BAM.

Masaki’s hand smacked it off the glass.

Buzzer.

Halftime.

Horizon 45 – Toyonaka 45.

We jogged to the bench, the sound of cheering echoing in every direction.

Coach Tsugawa pulled us in.

"We’re are bleeding. But they’re bleeding too."

He turned to me.

"You got another symphony in you?"

I nodded.

Even if my hands shook.

Even if Masaki blocked me at the buzzer.

I wasn’t done yet.

Because kings might not flinch—

But neither do Maestros.