CHAPTER 72: HORIZON VS RAKUZAN : WE’RE NOT BACKING DOWN 3

Rakuzan 25 - Horizon 27

Now?

The lead was real.

And with it came a silence from the Rakuzan crowd.

Not defeat.

But doubt.

A silence that said: "Wait... are we losing this?"

Rakuzan inbounded again.

But the air was different now.

Tense. Tilted.

Reiji caught the ball, but he wasn’t smirking anymore.

He was tight.

Not in his body—no. His mechanics were still smooth. But his timing? His reads?

Off.

Dirga shadowed him now—not just physically, but mentally.

Every step Reiji made, Dirga was there—half a second before he expected it.

"Step right," Dirga murmured.

"Then spin. Right?"

"Oh wait... you’re too slow for that now."

Reiji shoved off—just a little harder than necessary.

The ref didn’t call it.

But the bench saw it.

The crowd saw it.

And Dirga felt it.

A crack.

He wanted more.

Not just mistakes.

He wanted doubt.

He wanted Reiji to feel every second drag like weight on his chest.

Rakuzan swung the ball—Asahi tried to break the rhythm.

He took Rei off the dribble, got by—elevated—

Denied.

Rikuya spiked it off the glass.

Dirga was already gone.

The rebound snapped to Rei—who hurled it ahead.

Dirga caught it in stride.

And Reiji was right behind him.

He went up—

Reiji closed in—

WHACK.

Hard foul.

Way too hard.

Dirga spun in the air, slammed to the floor.

The crowd gasped.

The whistle blew—twice.

Technical Foul.

The gym erupted.

Tsugawa was up off the bench.

Even Asahi winced.

Reiji didn’t even argue. He just stared at Dirga on the floor—chest heaving.

The fury wasn’t even hot anymore.

It was cold.

Like something breaking apart inside.

"Get up," Reiji growled.

"You think this is over?"

"You’re just a cocky second-half star. I run this."

Dirga sat up. Slowly.

Then smiled.

Not with arrogance.

With victory.

"No," he said.

"You run your mouth.

I run this court."

He stood, unshaken, walked to the line.

The gym was buzzing—half boos, half awe.

Reiji stood near midcourt, jaw clenched, fists tight.

The mask was gone.

Dirga sank the first free throw.

Swish.

25 – 28.

Second one.

Swish again.

25 – 29.

And Horizon got the ball back.

You could feel the tension in the gym shift.

It was no longer "Can Horizon keep up?"

It was:

"What if they’re just better?"

Bonus possession.

Dirga inbounded—then whispered to Reiji as he jogged past:

"You cracked.

Now watch me shatter you."

0:36 remaining.

Bonus possession.

Dirga inbounded.

He stepped in just after the whisper passed Reiji’s ear.

The words didn’t matter.

It was the tone—sharp, surgical.

Like someone flipping the chessboard mid-match and daring you to keep playing on the floor.

Reiji didn’t respond.

Didn’t even look back.

His fists were clenched now.

Not focused.

Not locked in.

He wasn’t in the game anymore.

He was trapped in the emotion.

Dirga brought the ball up slow. Calm.

No rush, no wasted movement.

He could feel it—like wind behind a sail.

The whole court bending toward him.

Not just players.

The game itself.

Like it knew who was holding the pen.

Just pressure through poise.

Rei came up top.

Taiga slid corner.

Rikuya floated baseline.

Spacing perfect—like a trap with no obvious teeth.

Tsukasa pressured Dirga early. Tight defense.

Hands out. Chest up.

Dirga let him.

One dribble. Two.

Then a sudden snap—a crossover and a burst of speed down the middle.

Collapse.

Asahi rotated. Kido stepped in.

Reiji finally reacted—too fast, too angry, too much.

Dirga never flinched.

He rose—eyes not on the rim, but the arc.

Skip pass. One-hand sling.

Rei—wide open.

Catch.

Shoot.

Release.

Swish.

24 – 31.

Reiji finally called for the ball on the inbound—but Asahi ignored him.

Tsukasa waved Reiji away.

Tension. Confusion.

Reiji stormed to the corner as the play initiated without him.

Tsukasa dribbled up. Passed to Kido.

Kido held it too long—Dirga trapped it with Aizawa.

Rushed swing to Asahi.

Three on the clock.

Asahi pulled from deep—contested.

Clank.

Rikuya vacuumed the board again—his sixth rebound of the quarter—and tossed it immediately to Rei.

:07 left.

Rei didn’t force it.

Passed to Dirga.

:05.

Dirga scanned—Reiji tried to jump the lane. Overcommitted.

Dirga faked the handoff—Reiji bit—spun back the other way.

:03.

Dirga hit Aizawa cutting baseline—touch pass to Taiga in the short corner.

:01.

Taiga rose.

Followed through—

Swish.

24 – 33.

Buzzer.

The crowd erupted.

Horizon’s bench popped up—chests bumping, fists raised.

Kaito was clapping from the end of the bench.

Coach Tsugawa didn’t say a word.

He just nodded.

In other side the comentator

A stunning reversal here—Horizon wins the quarter 25 to 12 after trailing 21–11 earlier. That’s a 22–3 run to close the half. What do you think?"

"Well, I think it’s the mind game, plain and simple. You saw it—first quarter, Rakuzan was playing smart, composed, getting under Horizon’s skin."

"But Horizon? They fired right back. Flame for flame."

"Exactly. You watch Dirga closely—he’s not just playing basketball out there. He’s waging psychological warfare. From the very start, he’s been poking at Reiji, taunting him from a distance. Never overt. Just... calculated."

"It’s been boiling under the surface all quarter."

"Yep. And now Rakuzan’s showing cracks. Horizon isn’t just in the game—they’re controlling it."

"Do you think Rakuzan bounces back after the half?"

"Well... there’s still Asahi. He hasn’t gone full gear yet."

"And if there’s one thing we’ve learned watching Rakuzan all season—it’s that you don’t beat them in two quarters. You survive them."

Reiji didn’t blink.

But his knuckles were white.

His jaw locked so tight, his cheek twitched.

Dirga had done something rare.

He hadn’t just stolen the momentum.

He had stolen belief.

He didn’t speak to his teammates.

Didn’t walk to the bench.

Didn’t even blink.

He just stood there—alone—near half court.

Steam in his lungs.

Jaw tight.

Eyes locked on one target.

Dirga.

Jogging back alongside Taiga and Aizawa.

Smirking.

Not celebrating—just owning it.

Confident. Still.

Dirga glanced at Reiji.

Held the stare for just a second.

Then nodded—just once.

Not mockery.

Not disrespect.

Just a message:

"Two quarters left.

Come break yourself."