CHAPTER 55: PREPARING FOR THE TOURNAMENT

The faint squeak of sneakers echoed off the polished wood floors, mingling with the rhythmic thump of basketballs hitting the ground. Horizon High’s gym, with its tall, dust-flecked windows and aging scoreboard humming faintly above, was once again alive.

Outside, dusk crept in. The sky over Osaka was a pale orange canvas, clouds drifting lazily, as if the world outside the gym didn’t know that something important was brewing within.

Dirga leaned back against the cool gym wall, arms folded across his chest. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. Practice had ended, but the tension hadn’t left the air. Across the court, Aizawa lazily spun a ball on one finger while humming the latest EXILE track. Taiga, sitting cross-legged on the bench, chomped down on a protein bar and flipped through a stack of dog-eared basketball magazines—Slam Dunk, Basketball Monthly Japan, maybe even an old Shonen Jump tucked inside.

No one said it aloud, but everyone felt it: something big was coming.

At the front of the gym, standing beside a whiteboard stained from years of dry-erase battles, was Sayaka—the team’s manager and their quiet commander. Clipboard in hand, dressed in her Horizon PE jacket, she looked every bit like someone ready to go to war.

"Alright, everyone, listen up," she called out, her tone crisp and practiced. "The tournament bracket’s been released."

A few heads lifted. The room quieted instantly.

Sayaka uncapped a blue marker and began sketching the bracket. With quick, confident lines, the board transformed into a tournament tree.

"This is the Kansai Regional," she began. "Same rules as our prefectural tourney—single elimination. Sixteen teams."

She pointed to the columns forming a rough pyramid.

"From Shiga—two teams.

Kyoto—four.

Osaka—two.

Hyōgo—two.

Nara—two.

Wakayama—two.

And two wild cards from the inter-prefecture playoffs."

She circled the top of the bracket.

"Four wins. That’s the goal. Four wins, and we’re Kansai Champions."

Sayaka paused, giving the words space to land.

"That crown comes with a ticket to the Inter-High Nationals in Tokyo this summer."

No one moved. No one blinked. Even the rustling magazine in Taiga’s hands was frozen mid-turn. Every player’s heart was beating faster.

She continued, flipping her clipboard to a new sheet. "There are twelve slots in the Nationals. Eleven are locked in—one per region. The twelfth? A wild card."

She underlined the word.

"It’s decided in a playoff between all second-place teams from each region. That means if we lose in the finals, there’s still a chance—but not one we can afford to rely on. If we want to write our own story, if we want to walk in with our heads high—we win all four games."

She looked at them, one by one.

Dirga felt her eyes pass over him like a searchlight. It wasn’t intimidation—it was a challenge.

"So what’s it gonna be?" she added. "Do we fight for a second chance? Or do we claim our ticket with both hands?"

The silence in the gym deepened, heavy like the air before a storm.

Then Taiga whispered, "Let’s gooo..." under his breath, barely audible.

Aizawa caught the ball mid-spin, gaze serious now.

Rikuya rolled his shoulder and cracked his neck, letting out a short breath through his nose like a boxer entering the ring.

Sayaka tapped her clipboard again. "Our first opponent—Hyōgo Iron Giants. They won their prefecture. And they’re tough."

She turned back to the board and began drawing new formations. "They’ve got a pair of identical twins—Center and Power Forward—but both play like true centers. People call them the ’Twin Towers.’ They dominate the key, both offensively and defensively. Think of playing against two walls that can move."

"Can they shoot?" Dirga asked, stepping forward slightly.

"They’re not shooters. Their range caps at the free-throw line. But inside the arc? They eat rebounds and crush second chances," she replied. "Their guards are decent. Number 7’s their playmaker—fast, left-handed. Tends to pass behind the back when driving."

Before the murmurs could start, a deeper voice echoed across the court.

"Focus on me."

Coach Tsugawa stepped forward, his black tracksuit zipped halfway and a whistle dangling from his neck. His arms were crossed behind his back, as if judging a battlefield. His tone was less harsh than usual, but there was steel in every word.

"We can beat them. You’ve all come a long way. We’ve shaped this team from raw pieces into something real. If we keep our coordination tight, don’t get intimidated in the paint, and push transition fast—we can win."

"You’ve got the tools. What you need now... is fire."

A moment passed.

"YES, COACH!" the team roared.

The gym lit up with energy.

Practice resumed—lighter than usual, but focused. Coach Tsugawa didn’t run them through hell today. Still, every drill had intent. Every pass had purpose. The team, though tired, moved with one mind.

Dirga ran drills beside Rikuya and Aizawa, sweat soaking into his wristband. He didn’t even notice the soreness in his legs anymore. Just the sound of the ball, the rhythm of their movements, and the silent chant in his head: Four wins. Just four.

Later, as others collapsed on benches or changed their sneakers, Dirga approached Sayaka again.

"Do we have footage on Hyōgo?"

Sayaka gave a quick nod. "Yeah. I burned the discs earlier. DVD format—there’s a set in the record room. I also found a few of their matches from last year on tape. They run a similar system."

Dirga’s eyes sharpened. "Perfect."

He made his way to the record room, a dim, tucked-away space behind the gym office. The air was thick with the scent of old plastic, dry paper, and chalk. Inside were rows of VHS tapes, DVDs in cracked jewel cases, and a dusty CRT TV with a built-in player.

Dirga picked out the disc labeled Hyōgo Finals - Iron Giants, inserted it into the tray, and hit play. The screen flickered before footage filled the small screen—grainy, but good enough.

There they were. The Iron Giants. Number 14 and 15—identical twins, towering, fluid, ruthless in the post.

Dirga sat on the metal chair, a notepad open on his lap. He jotted down tendencies. Notes. Player habits. He rewound clips. Watched again. Paused on foot placements, closeouts, body angles.

He wasn’t the most vocal player. He didn’t give speeches. But this—this was how he led.

By understanding the enemy before anyone else did.

Outside, the sun had long set, and the faint buzz of a vending machine hummed in the background.

Dirga closed his notebook and stood up. He could still see the twin towers in his mind.

They’re coming to win.

He tightened his grip on the pen.

But so are we.