CHAPTER 83: BEFORE THE GAME

Night Before the Game. After dinner, the entire Horizon team gathered once more in Takeshi-sensei’s room. Ayaka came along too, quietly slipping in and taking a seat beside Sayaka.

Coach Tsugawa stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes serious.

"Tomorrow," he began, "we face Wakayama Seiryuu Institute."

The room instantly fell silent. Everyone knew what that meant. They had watched it unfold today—Wakayama’s calculated domination, the unraveling of Kobe Minami Tech like pulling threads from a sweater.

"You saw how they played," Coach continued. "They stayed defensive, quiet, even weak for the first two quarters. But that wasn’t weakness—it was data gathering. Observation. Once they had what they needed..." he paused, eyes sweeping over the team, "they crushed their opponent in the third quarter. Systematically."

The air in the room grew heavier. No one needed to ask—they remembered what they saw. Wakayama didn’t just win. They dismantled, dissected, and discarded.

Sayaka chimed in from beside him, opening a tablet and showing the lineup.

"Most of their players operate like machines—cold, calculated, efficient. The most dangerous is their captain, Teshima Akihiro. Power forward. Some call him The Terminator. It fits."

"And their point guard," she added, "Seta Naoto. Think of him as the Robin to Teshima’s Batman—but don’t underestimate him. Fast, precise, and annoyingly intelligent."

Coach Tsugawa took the lead again, eyes sharp.

"And then there’s the mastermind behind it all. Renjirō Tsukinomiya, their coach. A genius. Still in his twenties and already reshaping how basketball is played in Japan. Maybe even the world."

A long silence stretched as the team absorbed the weight of what lay ahead.

Then Coach leaned forward, tone shifting—not from fear, but fire.

"But listen. If they have data, we have unpredictability. If they move by calculation, we move by chaos."

"We throw everything at them in the first quarter. Hit them hard. Confuse their systems. Break the data before it forms. Dirga—I want motion. I want movement, scoring, flow. Force them into error."

"Yes, Coach!" the team responded in unison.

With that, the meeting ended.

One by one, the team members left to return to their rooms. But as Dirga was about to step out, he caught sight of Ayaka.

She didn’t say a word. Just gave him a small smile and mouthed,

"Ganbatte."

Then, with a soft laugh, she raised her hand in a little gesture—a ’yes’ pose, fist clenched, thumb up.

Dirga didn’t say anything back. But his eyes locked with hers, and in that brief moment—he knew.

Tomorrow was war.

...

The air that morning had the chill of something important.

Not bitter. Not sharp. Just cold enough to wake your bones. Cold enough to remind you this wasn’t just another day on the court.

The streets near the stadium were barely lit, the pale grey sky hanging low as if the clouds hadn’t decided whether to rain or not. The neon signs from nearby vending machines glowed like lonely stars, casting soft reds and blues across the concrete.

Nobody said much.

You could hear the soft clack of duffel bag zippers, the shuffling of sneakers against pavement, and someone’s cheap MP3 player bleeding faint music through tangled white earphones.

Today, only two games were scheduled:

Horizon vs. Wakayama Seiryuu — the opener.

Heian Gakuen vs. Toyonaka — the closer.

When Horizon arrived at the venue, it was like déjà vu—Toyonaka’s team was just arriving too. For the second day in a row, it felt like fate kept crossing their paths at the starting line.

Dirga scanned the group. There it was again—that subtle tension surrounding Masaki. Something was off.

"Ohh, how are you guys?" Takeshi was the first to break the silence, raising a hand in greeting.

"We’re good," Coach Reina replied warmly as she walked up with her team.

Soon, Coach Tsugawa and Coach Reina were chatting about tactics, casually swapping complaints about how tough today’s matches were shaping up to be. Still, both wore the steady confidence of people who believed their teams would win.

Aoi drifted toward her father but quickly got scooped up into Sayaka and Ayaka’s conversation about the crowd yesterday. Kaito and Taiga were comparing warm-up routines. Aizawa was already bouncing a ball off the wall, trying to psych himself up. Meanwhile, the other players laughed, joked, and talked about yesterday’s games and predictions for today. Everyone seemed relaxed... except Masaki.

He stood slightly apart, quiet, distant.

Dirga watched.

Stepped closer

"Something happen?" he asked, voice low.

""No. It’s fine." Masaki barely glanced at him.

Dirga didn’t believe that for a second. He narrowed his eyes. He switched to English, trying to shift the tone.

"I’ll ask again. What’s wrong?"

Masaki looked at him for a second, then gave a clipped answer in English too.

"Just... a difference in beliefs inside the team."

Dirga exhaled slowly. He didn’t need all the details to understand—Masaki was clashing with someone. Maybe about strategy, maybe about leadership. But tension like that could sink a game before it even began.

"You better fix it. Before the game," Dirga said, tone flat.

"That kind of thing? It’ll split a team mid-court."

Masaki’s reply came instantly. Cold. Certain.

"I can win. Even alone."

Dirga blinked. And something about those words—it ticked him off.

"Don’t be stupid," he said. "You’re not that kind of player."

"Maybe I have to be."

Before Dirga could reply, Kaito’s voice cut through the air.

"Dirga! We need to get ready! Now!"

Dirga turned slightly but shot Masaki one last look.

"I don’t know what happened, and maybe you’re right... maybe you can win alone."

"But don’t you dare lose. We’re meeting in the finals. That’s not optional."

Masaki didn’t flinch.

"I’ll win."

Masaki didn’t respond.

But his eyes—the fire was back.

Dirga nodded, then jogged after Kaito. His footsteps echoed in the tunnel as the lights flickered overhead.

The kind of place where legends didn’t shine—they bled to get remembered.

The locker room door creaked open. Inside, the smell of sweat, pine from polished floors, and rubber from fresh tape filled the air. The clatter of benches. Someone’s laugh. Zippers, sneakers, towels being tossed over hooks.

Dirga sat down, tightened his laces, and looked at the wall for a second.

There was nothing fancy about this day.

But it was about to become unforgettable.