CHAPTER 61: HORIZON VS HYŌGO IRON GIANTS : IN THE PAINT 2

Takeru feeds Kenta deep in the block. Rikuya leans in.

Too much.

Kenta lobs it over—Renji skies in.

Slam.

28 – 28.

The scream shakes the gym.

And the score is tie

That scream doesn’t shake Dirga. It focuses him.

Back on offense, Horizon adjusts.

Kaito stays off-ball. Dirga commands the pace now, walking it up with a boxer’s bounce. Not fast. Not slow. Just uncomfortable.

He calls a ghost screen from Aizawa, knowing full well Hyōgo will switch. He wants them to.

They do.

And now the mismatch is there: Hyōgo’s power forward caught out high, guarding Dirga’s handle.

Dirga crosses low, sweeps right, then stops dead—the defender over-commits.

Inside pivot.

Spin.

Contact.

Shoulder to chest.

Dirga absorbs it, elevates, and flicks a floater over Renji’s late rotation.

Swish.

But it doesn’t drop.

The floater arcs high—soft, perfect—and kisses the front of the rim.

It wobbles.

Hangs.

Then rolls out.

Another fight in the paint.

Dirga’s momentum carries him to the floor—but his eyes never leave the ball.

Because he knows.

It’s not over.

It never is—not when Rikuya vs. Kenta is still alive in the paint.

And now?

Now it’s a war zone again.

Rikuya launches himself upward. Kenta’s already there—massive, unmovable, hands like steel traps.

They meet mid-air.

CRACK.

Bodies collide—shoulders, forearms, torsos—and the rebound doesn’t come clean. It pops free, pinballing off fingertips.

One bounce.

Rikuya slaps it.

Kenta shoves back.

Two giants.

A single prize.

Rikuya lunges again—second jump faster than the first—and palms the ball on the way down.

Whistle.

Foul?

No.

Jump ball.

The ref rips the ball from their tangle of arms.

The crowd surges. Half cheering. Half booing.

Dirga gets to his feet, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his temple.

He locks eyes with Rikuya across the court.

This is the game now.

Not just points.

Possession.

Leverage.

Control.

The two bigs step into the circle.

Ref raises the ball.

Dirga tunes out the world.

Everything slows.

Even the toss.

Rikuya doesn’t just jump. He times it.

Kenta goes first—too early.

Rikuya waits a heartbeat—then explodes.

Tap.

Clean.

Right to Rei on the wing.

Rei doesn’t wait.

One dribble.

Pump fake.

Pull-up.

Bang.

30 – 28.

No celebration. Just transition.

Horizon doesn’t waste the fire.

Back on defense, they press the perimeter just enough to force Hyōgo into a half-step of hesitation.

But the Iron Giants aren’t rattled.

They grind.

Renji slashes baseline—Takeru threads the needle with a bounce pass through traffic.

Rei shifts late. Not enough.

Layup.

30 – 30.

Tit for tat.

Pace and pain.

Dirga jogs it up again, chest still rising with every breath, but his eyes stay clear. Calm.

He doesn’t look to the sideline.

He owns the moment now.

Another ghost screen—this time from Rikuya.

Fake contact.

Hyōgo hesitates.

Dirga drives left—but not for the shot.

He spins.

Kicks out to Aizawa in the corner.

Quick trigger.

Three.

Short.

Rebound—again—is chaos.

This time, it’s Taiga, crashing in from the top of the arc.

One hand tips it.

Dirga’s already cutting.

The ball falls into his path.

Catch.

Rise.

Mid-air adjustment.

Reverse layup—off glass.

32 – 30.

Horizon’s bench explodes.

The court is alive again.

No one smiles.

Because they know.

Even with that brilliant reverse from Dirga, even with the bench up and the rhythm briefly tipping in Horizon’s favor—they’re still losing the war inside.

Every missed shot feels like a gamble now.

Not just a stat. Not just a clank.

A risk. A potential four-point swing.

Because Hyōgo isn’t just grabbing rebounds.

They’re turning them into weapons.

Renji and Kenta don’t care if Horizon shoots 60%. They care about that 40% window—and they own it.

And the math is brutal:

Rei may hit 3-of-5 from deep...

But if he misses two and Hyōgo converts both into second-chance buckets?

That’s a wash. Worse—momentum bleeds.

Dirga sees it.

It’s not about the scoreboard.

It’s about possession volume.

The Giants get more cracks at the basket.

Not because they’re smarter—because they’re heavier. Stronger. Relentless.

And Horizon?

They’re walking a tightrope.

Every shot must land.

Every rotation must hit.

Because if it doesn’t—

Kenta’s there. Renji’s coming.

And they’re not just scoring.

They’re punishing.

Rei misses his next shot—long off the back iron.

Renji crashes in, untouched.

Putback. Easy.

32 – 32.

Dirga pushes back—kicks to Taiga in the corner.

Wide open.

Miss.

Kenta skies for the rebound, bulldozes through contact, no whistle.

Outlets fast.

Takeru glides in transition, 2-on-1.

Fake pass—floater over Aizawa.

32 – 34. Hyōgo takes the lead

Now the rhythm is slipping.

Dirga slows the pace, tries to reset.

But Hyōgo senses it—they’re pressuring more now, playing higher, daring Horizon to attack the paint again.

They won’t.

Dirga drives, draws two, dishes out—

Kaito takes the three.

Clang.

Another board. Another outlet.

And now the crowd is roaring.

This time, Renji doesn’t dunk it.

He spins into a hook over Rikuya.

32 – 36.

Dirga wipes his face with his jersey, sweat burning his eyes.

They’re not even playing bad.

They’re playing clean.

And still—Hyōgo just keeps coming.

Rikuya tries to muscle back, posting up Kenta.

But Kenta holds.

Body low. Centered.

The hook shot rims out.

Kenta clears it.

Fast break again.

Hyōgo’s bigs running the floor now.

Renji finishes with a soft layup over a late-chasing Aizawa.

32 – 38.

Coach Tsugawa rises off the bench. No timeout yet. He wants to see who breaks.

Dirga draws a foul with a mid-range pull-up—

Hits both.

34 – 38.

Dirga wipes his eyes.

It’s not fatigue. It’s clarity.

They’re not playing badly.

But Hyōgo has more bites of the apple.

More chances.

Because they’re winning the margins.

Not the scoreboard.

The volume.

Dirga draws a foul. Hits both.

34–36.

But final possession—Hyōgo slows it.

Everyone knows.

Isolation.

Kenta vs. Rikuya.

Two giants.

Kenta backs him in. Leans. Spins.

Dirga rotates over—

Too late.

Dunk.

Scream.

Buzzer.

Score: 32 – 40 Hygo lead by 8 point

Hyōgo didn’t win that quarter.

They took it.

In the air.

In the trenches.

In the cracks between the stats.

And Horizon?

They walk off not beaten—but bruised.

Not broken—but aware.

Because this is no longer a test of skill.

It’s a test of will.