CHAPTER 63: HORIZON VS HYŌGO IRON GIANTS : THE AWAKENING 2

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.

Kaito was slowing.

His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, heavier now. His steps lost that effortless bounce—like he was carrying weight no one else could see.

Dirga saw it.

Everyone did.

Then came the moment: Kaito winced, a hand drifting to his chest, just for a second. Not pain. Just... pressure. A quiet warning from the heart he had pushed too far.

From the bench, Coach Tsuguwa stood immediately. No hesitation.

"Rei. In."

Rei nodded, already peeling off his warm-up.

As the whistle blew for a dead ball, Kaito jogged off the court—shoulders proud, but face tight, every inhale measured. He passed Dirga, who met his eyes.

Dirga spoke low, firm.

"I’ll leave the paint to you, Kaito-senpai."

As the whistle blew for a dead ball, Kaito jogged off the court—shoulders proud, but face tight, every inhale measured. He passed Dirga, who met his eyes.

Dirga spoke low, firm.

"I’ll leave the paint to you, Kaito-senpai."

Kaito managed a breathless smile. But before he could speak, Rikuya stepped in, voice cutting through the tension:

"No—leave it to us."

Beside him, Taiga nodded, eyes steady now, no hesitation in sight.

"We can do this. Together."

The court buzzed with unspoken energy, as if the wood itself knew the tides were turning. Horizon wasn’t catching fire by chance anymore—this was combustion by design. Every gear was turning. Every player was locked in.

Kaito reached the bench. Rei clapped his shoulder on the way in.

"I’ve got you."

No words from Kaito—just a nod, sharp and exhausted. He sat, draping a cold towel over his neck, gaze fixed forward like he was still playing through his teammates.

...

Lineup:

Rei (PG). Hiroki (SG). Dirga (SF). Taiga (PF). Rikuya (C)

Dirga took a deep breath at half-court.

Three guards. Two versatile bigs.

A lineup unheard of in this era—too unorthodox, too risky. Too bold.

Until now.

Positionless basketball.

Not built on height—but on trust, instinct, rhythm.

Fluidity over structure. Flow over tradition.

On the other end, Hyōgo was scrambling—big men sagging, wings stretching out to defend the perimeter. They were expecting space, expecting threes.

But they weren’t ready for this version of Dirga.

Not the slasher. Not the corner shooter.

The Maestro.

The hidden conductor, finally stepping into the light.

Sharp. Decisive. Unselfish. Deadly.

Hyōgo’s response came fast.

Takeru fed Kenta in the high post, looking to punish the paint again.

But Rikuya was waiting. Chest-to-chest. No flinch.

Kenta spun, tried to muscle past—

SLAP. Clean strip from below.

Taiga scooped it up.

Breakaway.

Dirga led the charge—three on two.

He faked the lob to Rikuya.

Defense bit.

Zip.

Rei, trailing left. One dribble—pull-up from the wing—

Splash.

42 – 42.

Tied.

The crowd didn’t cheer.

They screamed.

Momentum had become a storm, surging behind Horizon like a wave crashing into steel.

Hyōgo called timeout.

Their coach slammed the clipboard.

Their structure—crumbling.

Huddle.

Sweat poured, but no one sagged.

No panic. No fear.

Coach Tsugawa didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

"You feel that?"

They all nodded.

"That’s not adrenaline. That’s trust."

He looked at Hiroki.

"Keep shooting. You’re not lucky. You’re good."

Then to Dirga:

"You’re the system now."

Dirga didn’t smile.

"I got it."

Then to Rikuya and Taiga:

"They’re gonna throw everything at the post. Trap, double, maybe triple."

Rikuya wiped his face. "Then we punish them."

Taiga tapped his chest. "Let them come."

Hyōgo tried to slow it down—bleed Horizon’s fire.

Takeru walked it up.

They swung it around the arc.

Renji tried to isolate Taiga at the elbow.

Bad idea.

One hard bump—

Swipe.

Loose ball.

Dirga pounced.

Another fast break.

Rikuya wide. Hiroki sprinting the lane.

Dirga went coast-to-coast.

Defense collapsed.

Kick-out. Hiroki.

Pump fake—defender flies—one dribble—pull-up.

Money.

45 – 42.

Two straight threes.

Hyōgo wasn’t just bending.

They were chasing ghosts.

Kenta roared for the ball. Demanded it.

He tried again on Rikuya.

Lowered his shoulder. Spun left.

Rikuya was already there.

Took the hit. Whistle.

Offensive foul.

The ref’s arm sliced the air.

Rikuya stood tall, fist raised.

The gym exploded.

From the bench, Kaito and Aizawa were on their feet—no one could sit anymore.

Rei jogged to inbound, glanced at Dirga.

"Keep it spinning."

Dirga nodded. "No brakes."

Dirga at the top. Horizon spread five-out.

He faked a handoff to Rei.

Drove hard left.

Defense collapsed again—

Kick-out. Taiga. Top of the key.

They backed off.

Nobody expected it.

He didn’t hesitate.

Launch.

The form wasn’t clean.

The arc was awkward.

But the shot?

Pure.

57 – 42.

The gym lost its mind.

Taiga jogged back, pounding his chest. Locked eyes with Rikuya.

"That’s three."

Rikuya grinned.

"Then let’s keep turning."

Hyōgo tried to slow it again—burn clock, buy time, breathe.

But Horizon wouldn’t let them.

Every pass was chased. Every screen blown up.

Rikuya was anchoring. Taiga was everywhere.

Dirga read the court like a map he’d drawn himself.

Takeru drove—cut off.

Kenta flashed high—denied.

Renji forced a contested three—

Clank.

Rebound—Hiroki.

He pushed. Clock ticking.

8... 7...

Rei trailing.

Dirga flared to the corner.

But Hiroki waved them off.

6... 5...

One-on-one.

Step-back.

4... 3...

Defender bites. Hiroki spins—mid-lane fadeaway.

2... 1...

Release.

Buzzer.

Net.

End of the third—59 to 42.

The gym felt alive.

Breath synced. Hearts pounding.

Every footstep echoed like war drums.

Horizon wasn’t just playing anymore.

They were becoming something else.

Not just a team.

Not just five players on a court.

A storm in motion.

The bench didn’t jump.

They stood. Silent. Watching.

Because they knew—

This was bigger than hype.

This was the shift.

From potential to proof.

From underdogs to inevitable.

As they huddled up, no one shouted.

No speeches. No fire.

Just eyes.

Locked in. Focused.

Hungry.

Fourth quarter coming.

And they weren’t looking to survive.

They were ready to finish.