CHAPTER 95: HORIZON VS SEIRYUU : MAESTRO’S FINAL SYMPHONY 3

Dirga’s voice broke through the pressure like a spear:

"If you don’t believe in yourselves—

Then believe in me.

I’ll bring you to the final.

No—

I’ll carry you to nationals."

...

The buzzer sounded, and the players stepped onto the hardwood again.

Dirga’s foot touched the court.

And the world... shifted.

[Maestro State: Activated]

[Flow State Detected – Game Pressure Index: 213%]

[Threshold Broken — Boost Scaling 300% | Duration: 03:00]

[Tempo Sight: GODFRAME – Activated | Duration: 00:45]

Three system prompts—no hesitation.

The Maestro was no longer just playing.

He was conducting war.

A sharp breath. The gym vanished behind a curtain of pure focus.

Colors bled. Noise warped.

Then—

Clarity.

Everything slowed.

The shifting of shoes.

The twitch of Teshima’s eyebrow.

The coil in Seta’s stance.

The flicker of breath behind Mikami’s lips.

It was like returning to a life once lived, a version of himself that had danced on the edge of genius and collapse.

Every instinct, every twitch of muscle memory—alive, buzzing beneath his skin.

Dirga didn’t hope he was enough anymore.

He became enough.

And if it wasn’t?

He’d break reality to make it happen.

The inbound came.

Like thunder uncoiled in rhythm, Horizon moved.

A blur—Dirga caught the pass in stride.

Seta stepped up, reading the angle. Too late.

Dirga exploded forward with a first step like a whip crack.

Godframe pulsed.

[Predicted defensive collapse in 0.8 seconds]

[Passing lane — right elbow | Aizawa curl cut: 93% success]

[Rikuya rolling hard: 87% | Delay screen detection: 1.2s lag]

Options. Calculations. Paths.

But Dirga wasn’t playing math.

He was playing music.

He no-looked a bounce pass behind the back—right into Rikuya’s hands, who finished with a hammer dunk.

Bang.

80 – 93.

Seiryuu barely touched the ball before Dirga ripped it again like a ghost born in shadows.

He didn’t slow.

Didn’t wait.

Godframe burned down to 39 seconds.

Time didn’t scare him.

Only silence did.

Pull-up three.

Swish.

83 – 93.

The crowd was erupting, but to Dirga, it was all static behind the war drum of his heartbeat.

A moment later—another break.

Taiga set a hard screen. Rei flared out.

Dirga saw everything—every seam of Seiryuu’s data collapsing under the weight of desperation.

[Shot clock collapse in 4.2 seconds]

[Rei pop: 72% contested]

[Dirga drive: 91% with foul draw]

[Execute sequence?]

Yes.

Spin. Drive. Step-through. Contact. And one.

85 – 93.

The lead was shrinking.

The godframe was fading.

But the fire was rising.

Dirga hit the free throw.

86 – 93.

The gym was shaking now—crowd surging, voices crashing against the ceiling like a rising tide.

But in Dirga’s mind?

Still silence.

The Godframe faded.

The augmented lines dissolved. No more probabilities. No more guided precision.

The predictions vanished into static.

But Dirga still had one thing:

Flow State: 300% Boost.

And he would burn every drop of it.

He couldn’t see the code anymore.

But he felt the game.

Every bounce. Every heartbeat.

1:00 left.

Seta walked the ball up, trying to calm the storm—slow it down, drain the tempo.

But Dirga?

He was already there.

Not just chasing the ball—

Chasing destiny.

He lunged—not for the leather.

For rhythm.

Seta flinched. The pass came early. Teshima on the wing.

Too late.

Dirga exploded forward.

Stole it.

Gone.

A blur.

A flick.

Layup.

88 – 93.

Seiryuu inbounded fast—they refused to crumble.

Seta to Mikami.

Quick pass.

Slip screen.

Fujisawa rolled into space.

Layup.

88 – 95.

But Horizon was already sprinting back.

Dirga didn’t even wait for a signal.

He was already in motion.

Rikuya sealed in the paint, dragging defenders.

Rei came curling around a screen like a bullet out of a rifle.

But Dirga kept it.

One-on-one with Teshima.

He danced.

Cross. Cross. Behind.

Teshima blinked.

Dirga stepped back—

Fired.

Splash.

91 – 95.

0:45 left.

Seiryuu possession again.

Teshima tried to reset the pace. Too late.

Aizawa blitzed the inbound.

Dirga floated like a ghost behind the screen.

Trap. Panic.

Seta drove in, drew Taiga—

Kick-out to Mikami.

Corner three.

Bang.

91 – 98.

But the response was instant.

Dirga launched the inbound full court to Rei, who caught it mid-stride—

Reverse layup!

93 – 98.

Seiryuu blinked.

0:33.

They tried to slow it again.

This time, Rikuya stepped up.

He didn’t need to steal.

He just needed to force hesitation.

Seta picked up his dribble.

Dirga pounced.

Rip.

Gone.

Full sprint.

Rei screaming behind him—

But Dirga didn’t look back.

Mid-air.

Contact.

Body twist.

And one.

96 – 98.

The crowd was melting.

Dirga walked to the line.

Breathing ragged.

Arms trembling.

But the fire?

Still there.

Free throw.

Net.

97 – 98.

0:22 left.

Seiryuu froze.

Coach didn’t call timeout.

Teshima took it himself.

Drove in—

Met Rikuya.

Met Taiga.

Collision. Ball loose.

Rei scooped it. Passed instantly.

Dirga running free.

The court stretched open like a promise.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow.

He launched from just inside the arc.

Pull-up jumper.

Net.

99 – 98.

0:06 left.

Seiryuu had one shot.

Final chance.

Seta curled.

Mikami screened.

The ball flew—corner three.

Too strong.

Clang.

Rikuya boarded it like his life depended on it.

Passed to Dirga.

0:00.

Buzzer.

Game.

Horizon: 99 – Seiryuu: 98.

Dirga collapsed to his knees.

Not from weakness—

But because the weight of belief had finally lifted.

...

The crowd was on its feet.

Screaming. Crying. Shaking.

Some with fists in the air.

Some with hands over their mouths.

Others simply stunned—frozen in awe.

On the court, Dirga was on his knees.

His chest rising and falling like thunder.

Rei stood over him, wide-eyed, before grabbing his teammate’s jersey and pulling him up into an embrace.

Aizawa, Rikuya, Taiga, Kaito—one by one, they crashed into the celebration.

No cheers. Not yet.

Just breathless disbelief.

Because they did it.

They actually did it.

On The other side

Teshima stood motionless, staring at the scoreboard.

Seta slowly sank to the floor, holding the towel over his head.

Mikami punched the hardwood once—gently.

Not in anger. Just in mourning.

They had played the perfect game.

But it hadn’t been enough.

...

The court-side announcer leaned into his mic, voice shaking with disbelief:

"And that’s it! Horizon wins! Horizon pulls off the impossible! Down by 15... with THREE minutes left!"

He stood now, half out of his chair, the crowd nearly drowning him out.

"No timeouts left. No fancy plays. No data advantage. Just heart. Just Dirga. Just basketball!"

He turned to face the crowd now, voice rising with emotion.

"You just witnessed a classic. One for the history books. One they’ll talk about at this school for ten years. Not because they were perfect. Because they refused to fall."