CHAPTER 112: HORIZON VS TOYONAKA : WHEN STEEL MEETS THUNDER 4

"Realize it, Dirga."

And then he was gone.

What did he mean?

What is dirga need to realize

And then he peeled off.

Dirga blinked.

The words echoed.

And then—

It hit him.

Kaito wasn’t freezing him out.

He was freeing him.

He was saying:

"I can handle the offense. I can run the system."

"You... fix what’s breaking."

Dirga’s eyes locked on the far end of the court.

Masaki.

That monster. That machine.

That blade slicing through Horizon’s defense like it was paper.

And Dirga?

He knew Masaki’s tempo.

He knew Masaki’s tendencies.

He knew Masaki’s breath—the beat between hesitation and execution.

The Flow wasn’t just an offensive buff.

It was everything.

Speed. Reflexes. Perception.

Now it was time to use it on defense.

He’d been fighting the wrong battle.

This wasn’t about scoring.

This was about stopping the fire.

Dirga’s jaw set.

His body lowered into a stance.

Eyes sharp.

Focused.

Burning.

"Alright, Masaki..."

"Let’s see if I can cut thunder."

Inbound pass.

Yuto had the ball in his hands again—his eyes scanning the court with quiet calculation.

Dirga moved.

Toward Taiga.

"Let’s switch," Dirga said, voice low, calm, controlled.

"Let me try to guard Masaki."

Taiga raised an eyebrow, sweat glistening on his brow.

"Hmph. Alright. Let’s try it."

Switch confirmed.

Yuto passed.

And the thunder returned to Masaki’s hands.

Except this time—

So did the storm.

Dirga stepped up.

Close. Tight. Breathing the same air.

Activating: GodFrame.

once again Dirga’s perception detached from his body—lifted, ascended—until it hovered like an unseen spirit above the court. He was no longer in the game.

He was watching it unfold from the sky.

From this elevated view, the court was a digital battlefield. Players no longer wore faces—just forms. Glowing outlines of movement, rhythm, and decision.

Time slowed.

Not literally—

But functionally.

Every twitch of Masaki’s fingers.

Every shift in his heel.

Every ghost-step or hesitation.

Dirga read them all.

Masaki went into his arsenal.

Crossover. Left. Snapback. Hezi. Right again.

Dirga slid.

Mirrored.

Perfectly.

Masaki’s red trail lines—normally a blur—were now like threads in a web Dirga had already woven.

No help defense.

No double needed.

Just Dirga.

Alone. Against the storm.

Masaki’s brows furrowed.

Jaw tightened.

He felt it.

The weight. The mirror. The wall.

And frustration boiled over.

He drove—hard, shoulder-first, trying to force space where there was none.

Dirga stood firm.

Planted.

Grounded like a mountain.

Whistle.

"Offensive foul! Masaki!"

Gasps. Cheers. A roar.

Dirga’s stance didn’t break.

Chest heaving.

Eyes locked.

Masaki blinked in disbelief.

As if thunder had hit steel and finally... cracked.

Horizon ball.

And from the crowd—

Ayaka stood, fists raised high.

"LET’S GO, DIRGA! THAT’S HOW YOU FIGHT!!"

Ayaka’s voice cut through the static of the gym like lightning splitting the sky.

Sharp. Raw. Full of fire.

The crowd, stunned moments before, erupted.

Feet stomped. Hands clapped. Voices rose into a unified wave.

The energy shifted.

It rippled across the bench, through the players—

and finally reached Horizon’s hearts.

For the first time in the game—

they believed.

...

The tempo changed.

Kaito, still calm under pressure, commanded the court like a chess master.

His eyes flicked—left, right—reading, mapping, weaving the threads of the game.

He didn’t just use Dirga.

He used everyone.

Rikuya on short rolls.

Taiga stretching weakside defenders.

Aizawa slashing from the corners.

Kaito was the conductor now—

And Dirga had become the anchor on defense.

Flow State active.

Stamina Booster pulsing.

Dirga didn’t chase Masaki—he hunted him.

His body moved faster than his own thoughts, instincts sharpened to the edge of a blade.

Masaki still scored—

But not like before.

Not with ease.

Not without paying the price.

Dirga forced passes.

Stole timing.

Disrupted rhythm.

Toyonaka’s offense, once thunder, was now flickering under the strain.

And Horizon?

They thrived on that tension.

Even knowing—

this wouldn’t last.

30 seconds left in the second quarter.

Score: 36 – 37.

Toyonaka leading by one.

Dirga’s vision blurred for half a second.

The Flow was fading.

His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, and his muscles screamed in protest.

But the tank wasn’t empty yet.

The booster kept the fire alive.

Ball in Kaito’s hands.

Shot clock at 24.

One last possession.

Yuto stepped up to guard him.

Tight. Hungry. Desperate.

Kaito didn’t flinch.

Ten seconds.

Rikuya came to screen.

Yuto pushed through.

Defenders collapsed on Kaito—three bodies shifting toward the point.

Open man.

Rikuya.

A pass—sharp and fast.

Rikuya caught, rose, and released.

Swish—?

Clack.

No good.

The rebound was chaos—

Haruto and Taiga leapt, arms tangling.

The ball ricocheted off Haruto’s fingertips.

Out of bounds?

No—

Daichi dove.

Airborne.

Body crashing into the hardwood like a cannonball.

THUD.

You could hear it.

You could feel it.

But the ball—

still alive.

And Masaki?

Already running.

He caught it like a spark catching flame.

One dribble.

Then another.

Thunder.

Real, blistering thunder.

The court screamed beneath his shoes as he tore past halfcourt.

Eyes locked.

Legs pumping.

Rikuya in the paint.

Taiga and Aizawa trailing like storm shadows.

Dirga—

Legs burning. Breath ragged. Every step like dragging chains through mud.

But still chasing.

Masaki gathered.

Two steps.

And then—elevation.

He rose like a bolt released from a bowstring.

Rikuya leapt early—

Too early.

Masaki twisted midair, body contorting like a dancer.

Double clutch.

Aizawa came from behind—

Desperate.

Explosive.

But Masaki, still rising in the air, changed again.

A floater.

Graceful. Perfect. Lethal.

It floated over Aizawa’s reach like a drifting flame.

But Taiga was there.

Planted.

Eyes locked.

Timing perfect.

SWIPHHH—!

PANGG—!!

The ball hit Taiga’s fingertips.

A clean deflection.

It soared—

End over end—

Out of bounds.

And at that same second—

BUZZZZZZZZZZZ!!

Halftime.

...

Masaki landed and turned.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes still focused.

Still dangerous.

Taiga exhaled, chest heaving.

Hands on his knees.

The block wasn’t just luck—

It was desperation refined into perfect execution.

Dirga finally caught up.

Bent over.

Hands on his thighs.

Heart in his throat.

The sounds of sneakers sliding, coaches shouting, and the crowd’s scattered cheers all blurred into a single roar in his ears. His vision pulsed at the edges.

But the scoreboard didn’t lie.

Horizon 36 – Toyonaka 37. Half Time

Only one point.

Still breathing.

Still standing.

The storm hadn’t ended.

But for now—

It hadn’t swallowed them whole.

Dirga didn’t run the offense this quarter.

He didn’t orchestrate like a maestro.

He didn’t pull strings or call plays.

But he became something else.

Steel.

Unmoving. Unflinching.

Forged in fire, placed in the path of thunder.

Masaki had been a force—

Pure momentum, pure instinct, pure aggression.

But Dirga stood in his path,

And for the first time in the game...

Masaki hesitated.

Masaki faltered.

Not because Dirga was faster.

Not because he was stronger.

But because he refused to yield.

And that refusal—

That resistance—

Gave Horizon something they hadn’t had since tipoff.

Belief.

As the players trudged toward the locker rooms,

As sweat dripped and jerseys clung and lungs cried for air—

Dirga looked up.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t drop his eyes either.

Masaki glanced at him once.

And for just a second—

A flicker.

Not fear.

Not respect.

Something else.

Recognition.

Two storms.

Different skies.

Same fire.