CHAPTER 62: HORIZON VS HYŌGO IRON GIANTS : THE AWAKENING 1

Score: 32 – 40 Half Time

The sound of sneakers scuffed against the court as Horizon High walked into the locker room, a team bruised more by rhythm than score.

No one spoke at first.

Rikuya slumped onto the bench, sweat running down his cheek like tears no one would ever admit to. His jersey clung to him like a weighted vest, soaked and sagging from the war in the paint. His chest rose and fell slowly, but heavily—like he was learning how to breathe again.

Taiga sat beside him, silent.

Coach Tsugawa stood at the front, the dry-erase board in his hand untouched. His voice, when it came, was quiet—too quiet for comfort.

"Eight points."

Eyes turned to him.

"That’s the gap."

No fire. No yelling.

Just truth.

"Not insurmountable. But we need to adapt."

He looked at Rei and Aizawa first. "Rest. You’ve taken hits that should’ve been fouls. Ice down. This one’s going deep."

They nodded, both grimacing as they peeled off their jerseys, revealing the purple bruises blooming like flowers across their ribs.

"Kaito, Hiroki."

Kaito met the coach’s eyes and nodded, composed as ever. Hiroki, on the other hand, clenched his fists, face a mixture of nerves and purpose. This was his first true battlefield.

"You’re in," Tsugawa said. "Fresh legs. Fresh perspective. Hiroki, you don’t have to be Rei. You just have to shoot when open. Trust your form."

Then his gaze locked on Taiga.

"You’ve watched long enough. Rikuya’s been getting mauled out there. He needs backup. You need to step up."

Taiga blinked, almost flinching at the weight in those words.

"You’re his partner now."

Taiga’s fists tightened around his knees. "Yes, Coach."

Coach turned away, tossing the whiteboard onto the bench.

"Basketball’s not just about talent," he said. "It’s about adjustment. Will. Response."

The buzzer rang, a sharp electric hum that snapped them all upright.

"Now let’s respond."

...

The buzzer sounds.

Lineup: Kaito (PG). Hiroki (SG). Dirga (SF). Taiga (PF). Rikuya (C).

Hyōgo’s court presence was unmistakable. The Takasugi twins—Kenta and Renji—returned like sentinels from a siege. Shoulders thick as armor, sweat glistening across their brows like war paint. This time, they weren’t alone.

Their teammates had caught the scent of blood.

Horizon stepped out with a new energy, but also unfamiliar roles.

Dirga slotted into the small forward position for the first time all match. Not quite a scorer. Not quite a playmaker. But maybe—just maybe—exactly what they needed.

He glanced to his left.

Hiroki.

[ echo scan Hiroki]

Hiroki Andou

Age: 15

Height: 168 cm

Weight: 58 kg

Attributes:

Inside Scoring: D+ to C-

Shooting: B+ to A

Playmaking: A

Defense: D to C

Physical: B- to B

Mentality: C to A

Quiet. Light-footed. A kid with fragile confidence but an iron will. Dirga could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t here to be invisible.

And then ahead.

Rikuya and Taiga.

The twin towers. Unproven, untested—but no longer alone.

"Let’s show them we’ve got more than one weapon," Dirga muttered under his breath

The game start with Horizon posesion

What will Kaito choose ? using the paint ? the parimeter ? or maybe an isolation ? but isolation is to hard to do since they just need to do a zone defense with that twin in paint it close to imposible to penetrate it

Kaito dribbles up, surveying the floor. His left hand taps twice on his hip—signal play "Ghost Veil."

Hiroko sprints off a double screen by Dirga and Taiga on the right wing. Kaito hits him with a clean chest pass. Hiroki sets his feet. Shoots.

35 – 40

SWISH.

The net barely whispered as Hiroki’s shot splashed through, clean as silk.

Textbook.

Dirga watched the arc, the follow-through, the stillness in Hiroki’s hands. Controlled. Disciplined. But behind those calm mechanics, he saw the twitch in Hiroki’s eyes—the nerves, buried deep beneath performance.

He stepped in close, voice low but steady.

"Nice shot," Dirga said. "It’s okay to miss. Just believe in them."

Then his eyes drifted toward Rikuya and Taiga—toward the beating heart of their frontcourt.

One gear had started to turn.

Now they had to make sure the rest of the machine followed.

For the next possession by Hyogo

Takeru dribbled up the court, low and aggressive. Dirga met him at the perimeter, crouched like a coiled spring. But Takeru wasn’t looking to create. He pointed—then called it out:

"Isolation."

Kenta answered the call.

He planted himself in the post, a wall of muscle and memory. Rikuya squared up in front of him, feet set, shoulders tense.

Thud. Kenta rammed his shoulder into Rikuya’s chest. Once. Twice.

Spin. Baseline. Elevation.

Rikuya rose to contest—but not high enough.

Bucket.

35 – 42.

But Kaito wasn’t slowing down.

He exploded off the rebound, pushing the pace like a man running from gravity. Horizon surged with him.

Dirga flared out to the wing—received the pass. Pump-fake. One step inside—defenders collapsed.

He kicked it to Taiga at the elbow.

Taiga hesitated.

The gym hushed, crowd leaning forward, breaths caught like hanging threads.

He pulled.

Brick.

But then—

Rikuya flew.

Skying between Renji and the rim, he plucked the rebound from thin air, his fingers brushing the glass as he tipped it home in one fluid motion.

37 – 42.

The crowd pulsed. And on the court, Rikuya didn’t celebrate.

He didn’t have to.

There was something in his face now—an intensity. A revelation.

He was starting to understand.

Hyōgo tried to respond fast—Takeru pushing the ball up again. But now, the rhythm was shifting.

Taiga was everywhere.

He blitzed the pick-and-roll like he saw it a second ahead of time, trapping Takeru with Kaito on the wing.

Takeru panicked—dumped the ball to Renji.

But Taiga rotated early.

Contest. Miss.

The ball popped up—

Rikuya again.

Snatched it out of the air with authority.

Kaito was already gone. He found Hiroki in stride—but defenders closed quickly.

Reset.

Dirga. Back to Kaito. They moved the ball like fire through dry grass.

Then—Kaito saw his lane.

He snaked through, step-through into the paint. Two defenders collapsed.

Kick. Rikuya. Baseline.

The trap came fast, another double-team.

But before the wall could close—

Taiga flashed.

Slipping behind Renji like smoke through cracks, hands ready.

Rikuya fired a bounce pass low and fast.

Caught. One dribble. Two hands.

SLAM.

39 – 42.

The crowd exploded.

Taiga roared, veins in his neck taut, chest heaving—alive, for the first time all game.

Dirga clenched his fist.

Second gear: engaged.

The machine was no longer turning.

It was awakening.