CHAPTER 64: HORIZON VS HYŌGO IRON GIANTS : THE LAST STRAW

59 to 42. Horizon Leading.

Dirga glanced toward the Hyōgo bench. He could see it now—clear as day. Frustration etched into their faces. Shoulders slumped. Eyes down. Confidence cracked, maybe even shattered.

They couldn’t win on the perimeter.

They couldn’t win in the paint.

Not with Taiga hustling like a madman, and Rikuya owning the post.

Their frontcourt had become a wall.

And Hyōgo kept running straight into it.

Coach Tsugawa gathered the team, voice calm but charged with purpose.

"Alright," he said, "we’re going back to our usual formation."

He turned to Dirga.

"Dirga, take the point. Rei slides to shooting guard. Aizawa, you’re back in at small forward. Taiga stays at power forward, Rikuya holds the center."

He then turned to Hiroki, offering a proud nod and a smile.

"Hiroki, you’ve done great today. Rest up—you’ve earned it. Let’s keep that rhythm going into the next game."

Then Coach Tsugawa clapped his hands once, sharp and loud.

"Let’s break them—and go home."

The team snapped in unison.

"Yes, Coach!"

...

Dirga stood at the top of the arc, dribbling low, eyes scanning like a Maestro on the the orcestra.

Rei flared to the wing. Aizawa cut baseline and curled out.

Taiga and Rikuya set a stagger screen, then rolled in opposite directions—

chaos by design.

Hyōgo scrambled to switch. Too late.

Dirga slipped the ball to Rei.

Catch. Rise. Fire.

Bang.

62 – 42.

It felt like a hammer blow.

The crowd didn’t cheer—it howled.

Hyōgo came back, Takeru pushing with reckless urgency.

But the rhythm was gone now. Everything was rushed, off-balance.

He drove baseline—Aizawa closed the door.

Kick-out to Kenta—

But Rikuya was already there.

He didn’t block it.

He swallowed it.

Fast break.

Dirga to Aizawa—who faked a pass, spun, and floated it in with a soft kiss off the glass.

64 – 42.

Timeout Hyōgo.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Not to Horizon.

Coach Tsugawa didn’t call a huddle this time.

He just stood, arms folded, eyes sharp.

"Finish it," he said.

No schemes. No plays.

Just purpose.

When the game resumed, Hyōgo tried to attack the paint again—

Desperate. Repetitive. Predictable.

But Taiga was a storm now—feet quick, hands faster.

He deflected a pass, dove across the hardwood, crashing into the sideline like a missile.

The ball stayed in. Aizawa scooped it up.

Dirga pointed ahead—Rikuya was sprinting the floor.

Aizawa lobbed it—

BOOM.

Rikuya slammed it with both hands.

Glass rattled.

66 – 42.

And then it hit.

Not just to Hyōgo.

To everyone.

Horizon wasn’t playing above their level.

This was their level.

From the beginning of the tournament, they’d been grinding. Clawing. Building.

Waiting for the moment when everything would click.

Now?

It wasn’t clicking.

It was roaring.

The fans chanted louder.

The bench leaned forward like they were about to leap into battle themselves.

Hyōgo tried to mount one last push. A long three from Renji.

Off the mark.

Takeru tried to crash the glass—

Taiga bodied him mid-air, tipping the ball to Rikuya.

Dirga slowed it down now—methodical.

A conductor with full command of his orchestra.

Rei curled off the screen, quick as a flicker, dragging two Hyōgo defenders with him. Sneakers screeched on the hardwood. The noise of the crowd blurred into a low hum of tension.

Dirga saw it all unfold like he was reading music.

No hesitation.

A flash behind his back—no look—perfect weight on the pass.

Taiga caught it at the elbow. One dribble. Step in. Elevation.

The shot was calm. Cruel.

Splash.

68 – 42.

A dagger disguised as a jumper.

Hyōgo’s bench flinched. Their bigs sagged, stunned. For the first time all game, the fire—their identity—snuffed out. The paint, once their sanctuary, now a graveyard of broken plays and failed entries.

Their advantage was gone.

Useless.

A strategy built on size, shattered by rhythm.

Dirga saw their faces—the disbelief, the unraveling. Did he feel bad?

No.

Not today.

This was war. And Hyōgo had already lost the battlefield.

But even in war, there’s respect.

Dirga stopped with the flair. No more flash, no more razzle. Now it was just precision. Efficiency. Kill shot after kill shot. Every run was a bucket. Every move a lesson.

Rei popped out again, this time with just enough daylight.

Catch. Rise. Fire.

Boom.

71 – 42.

The net snapped like a whip. The gym exploded in a cascade of sound—cheers, gasps, stomps. Horizon’s bench was on its feet again. Even the assistant coaches were grinning.

Hyōgo inbounded, rushing now, desperate to break the storm. But desperation made them sloppy.

Kenta tried to bully into the post. Bad decision.

SWAT.

Rikuya blocked it clean, palms ringing from the force. Ball loose—Dirga snatched it like a predator.

Transition.

He sprinted, eyes scanning—Rei wide, Aizawa cutting through the middle.

Aizawa ghost-screened across the top, slipping behind the defender.

Dirga delivered.

Catch. One-dribble pull-up at the elbow.

Swish.

73 – 42.

Thirty-point difference.

The gym fell into a kind of surreal quiet—not silence, but a stillness, like the moment before a storm hits full force. The Horizon bench didn’t jump. They didn’t need to. The damage had been done.

On the floor, Hyōgo’s shoulders slumped. Their movements were slower now—not from fatigue, but from something worse: doubt. The kind that creeps into your lungs and makes every breath feel heavier. They weren’t just losing. They were unraveling.

Dirga could see it in their eyes—the blank stares, the fading fire, the desperation trying to flicker one last time but choking under pressure. The court, once a battlefield, had turned into a stage. And Horizon? They weren’t just playing anymore.They were performing.

Taiga’s sneakers squeaked like thunder as he cut across the floor, legs still burning, chest heaving—but alive. He’d become the pulse of this team. Every rebound. Every hustle. He was the drumbeat.

Rikuya was the wall. The stone. He no longer needed to block every shot—his presence was enough. Just him standing tall made Hyōgo hesitate, stutter, delay.

And Dirga...

Dirga had become the conductor, The Maestro

No more flashy passes. No heat checks. No showboating.

Just precision.

Every motion, a decision. Every step, a beat. He drove not to dazzle, but to devastate. He respected the game too much to mock a fallen opponent—but he’d honor it by playing it to the very edge of what it demanded.

"Like sheep... herded into slaughter," one commentator murmured, unable to look away.

"Like a puzzle that’s already been solved," the other said. "No mystery left. No fight. Only the result."

They weren’t wrong.

The gym itself had shifted. The air carried tension, not between teams anymore—but between destiny and defeat. Hyōgo had come in with confidence, muscle, reputation. But now?

Now they looked hollow.

Their once-dominant paint presence had become a graveyard—patrolled by Rikuya’s shadow and Taiga’s relentless drive.

Their wings couldn’t breathe—Rei suffocated them. Hiroki had torn them apart earlier. And Dirga... Dirga had decoded them like a language he’d always known but never needed to speak—until now.

And still—he kept playing. Kept honoring the game. No shortcuts. No mercy, either.

Because this wasn’t just about a win.

It was about proving who they’d become.

"Absolutely unbelievable!" the commentator shouted, barely audible over the cheers. "Hyōgo started strong—first quarter was neck and neck! They even took the lead in the second—but now... this?"

"This fourth quarter," the second voice joined, breathless, "it’s not just a collapse. It’s a transformation. Horizon isn’t just winning—they’re orchestrating."

"They are a symphony of precision," the first added. "And Hyōgo? They’re being drowned out by the sound."

"They bring a symphony of death," the second whispered. "Any team watching this... you better be ready."

BZZZZT.

Final buzzer.

The horn didn’t just mark the end of the game. It was a funeral bell for Hyōgo’s dominance.

85 – 48.