CHAPTER 90: HORIZON VS SEIRYUU : DOWNLOAD COMPLETE 1

Halftime Score: Horizon 47 – Seiryuu 27.

A 20-point avalanche in just two quarters.

Horizon’s players walked back to the locker room drenched in sweat—like soldiers returning from the front lines.

The mood? High.

The energy? Cautiously victorious.

But Dirga?

Dirga was pale.

He sat slumped against his locker, head tilted back, chest rising slow and shallow. His eyes weren’t just tired—they were drained. His hair clung to his forehead, and though his breathing wasn’t heavy, something inside him felt... hollowed.

That second quarter hadn’t just cost him stamina.

It had cost him presence.

And then—

A soft chime in his head.

[System Notice: Item Available – Stamina Booster x1]

The translucent interface flickered before his eyes, unseen by anyone else. The icon pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision—inviting.

His gaze lingered.

Fingers twitched.

[Use now?]

No.

With a blink, he dismissed the window.

"Not yet."

"Save it... for the final battle."

He still had gas. Not a full tank—but enough.

And he trusted Coach Tsugawa to read the rhythm, just like he always did.

So Dirga leaned back again, eyes closed, riding the thrum of fading adrenaline.

Third quarter was coming.

And the storm hadn’t even started yet.

...

In the Locker Room

Coach Tsugawa stood in front of them, arms crossed, sweat drying on his brow.

"Alright," he said, voice calm. "That’s a damn good half of basketball."

The team exhaled, a few players cracking tired smiles.

"Not just a 20-point lead. Not just buckets." He pointed to Dirga.

"That heat check from the logo? That wasn’t just points. That was psychological warfare."

The room chuckled.

"But this game isn’t over." His tone dropped, sharpening like a blade.

"You’re not playing against boys anymore. You’re playing against code. That machine over there?"

"It’s done downloading."

Silence.

Even Dirga opened his eyes, just slightly.

"They know your tendencies now. Your speed. Your spacing. Your breathing patterns, for god’s sake."

"So here’s how we fight back—we get unpredictable."

Coach pulled out a clipboard and sketched rapidly.

"Kaito runs point. Rei goes two. Aizawa back at the wing. Taiga holds power forward, and Rikuya keeps the anchor."

"Dirga and Hiroki, rest. Recharge. But stay sharp."

"This third quarter—this is the quarter where we end it. Or..."

A pause.

"...where we have to crawl out in the fourth."

The team roared.

"YES COACH!!"

...

Meanwhile, in the Seiryuu Locker Room...

The silence was different.

It wasn’t tension.

It was calibration.

Coach Renjirō wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t sweating.

He was typing.

Lines of code scrolled past his glasses. His expression was placid, methodical, and unwavering.

Teshima was the first to speak.

"Coach... we need to change something. Fast."

Renjirō simply smiled.

"No need. We already have."

He stood, closed the laptop with a click, and addressed them like a mathematician explaining an equation he’d solved five years ago.

"Dirga’s burst in the second quarter? It was a boost. Adrenaline. Random variable. He’s spent."

"But us?" His eyes glinted behind his lenses.

"We’re optimized."

He projected the tactical overlay on the wall.

Heat zones. Passing trends. Foul risks. Bench stamina.

The data was immaculate.

"Their habits are carved. Their plays are patterned. Their floor balance is readable."

"This... is where the tide turns."

The players nodded in unison. No hesitation.

"We don’t need emotion. We don’t need revenge."

"We need execution."

A chorus of confident voices rose:

"Yes, Coach!"

Seiryuu stood.

The download was complete.

...

Third Quarter Begins

Possession: Horizon

Kaito dribbled up the court. Smooth. Calm. Mechanical in his control.

But across the floor?

Something was different.

Seta Naoto no longer looked like a reactive defender.

He looked... in sync.

He didn’t just trail Kaito.

He mirrored him.

Horizon ran a simple horns set—Taiga flashed to set the screen, Aizawa came curling from the opposite wing.

Kaito passed to Rei on the catch.

Rei went baseline—

Cut off. Instantly.

Mikami was already there, a half-second ahead.

Not guessed.

Known.

Rei reset the ball. Kaito tried again. This time, an inside dump to Rikuya in the post.

He spun—

Double-team collapsed. Clean. Immediate.

Pass out. Intercepted.

Turnover.

Seta on the break.

To Teshima.

To Mikami.

Layup. Clean. Controlled.

47 – 29.

No celebration. No roar from the bench. Just the sound of sneakers turning and retreating. A soft exhale from Seiryuu.

But Kaito... he felt it.

Something’s wrong.

He wasn’t sure what triggered it—maybe the precision of the pass, the timing of the cut, or how Seiryuu didn’t even look at each other after the score. They weren’t reacting. They were executing.

Like they’d already seen it play out.

They knew our rotation before we rotated...

The hairs on the back of his neck stood.

Seiryuu had downloaded the game.

This wasn’t basketball anymore.

It was code.

Not basketball. Not instinct.

Code.

Executable. Predictable. Controlled.

The next play wasn’t a steal. It didn’t have to be.

Seiryuu didn’t hunt the ball anymore.

They hunted outcomes.

Horizon set up their offense again, but it was already too late.

The choices they made weren’t choices. They were traps.

Kaito initiated from the top, trying to shift the floor with a high screen from Rikuya. Aizawa curled off it, looking for an open shot at the elbow. It was there.

But only for a breath.

He pulled the trigger.

A smooth jumper.

Clank.

Miss.

It wasn’t luck.

It was design.

Seiryuu hadn’t tried to stop the shot—they’d invited it. Seta and Fujiwasa had already doubled down under the rim, reading the action like lines of script in an old operating system.

And when the ball bounced off the rim?

Teshima was already moving.

He didn’t jump reactively.

He arrived at the board.

Perfect timing. Perfect angle. No contest.

The rebound snapped into his hands with robotic assurance.

But that wasn’t the frightening part.

The frightening part was what followed.

Before Teshima even looked upcourt, Jinbo and Mikami were already sprinting.

Not breaking into a fast break. No.

They were already there.

Already halfway down the court like perfectly timed subroutines in a cascading command.

Teshima launched a pinpoint fast-break pass, his fingers flicking the ball into open space—not to a man, but to a destination.

Jinbo caught it in stride. Never even had to look back.

Aizawa and Rei chased—but they were chasing ghosts.

Two-on-none.

Jinbo lobbed it.

Mikami rose.

Slam.

47 – 33.

The sound of the dunk still echoed when the whistle pierced through the growing roar of the crowd.

"Timeout!"

Coach Tsugawa’s voice cut through the air like a blade.