CHAPTER 91: HORIZON VS SEIRYUU : DOWNLOAD COMPLETE 2

"Timeout!"

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

It wasn’t panic.

It wasn’t anger.

But it was serious.

War-time serious.

The players gathered. Horizon jogged to the bench, sweat trailing like steam off their shoulders, breath tight in their chests.

Dirga sat down last—his face set, jaw clenched, legs bouncing.

He was fuming. Not from ego, but from the instinct to fight. His muscles were hot, twitching to return. But he looked at Coach Tsugawa... and held back.

Not yet.

Coach Tsugawa stood over the clipboard, marker in hand, eyes sharp like a general scanning a battlefield.

"Okay. It’s confirmed."

"They’ve finished the download."

"They’re reading us now, play by play. They know our routes. They know our triggers. It’s not a guess anymore. It’s code."

The room tensed.

No denial. Just truth.

"This is where the real game begins."

He drew a single star in the middle of the diagram. Then five circles around it. Then arrows. Spirals. Loops. It looked less like a play—more like a constellation.

"Titan Star Formation."

"We practiced it, and now we deploy it."

"This isn’t about surprise—it’s about the tempo. Control. Breaking their rhythm with something they haven’t seen live."

He turned to Rikuya.

"You’re the center of the formation. Literally and figuratively. Pick and pop. Dive and dish. They’ll be watching our wings. Let them. You are the second heartbeat of this team."

Then to Kaito.

"You’re the brain now. I’m trusting you with the keys. Read the floor like Dirga would. Control the pace."

"Yes, Coach," Kaito and Rikuya answered in unison—one calm, one cold.

Dirga, still sweating, raised his hand slightly—just a gesture. His eyes said: Put me in.

But Coach Tsugawa gave him a look, and a small nod.

Not yet.

Trust.

Rest.

Believe.

...

Back on the court.

The crowd sensed the shift—even if they didn’t understand it.

Horizon lined up again.

Titan Star Formation.

Hoping seriyuu still don’t adapt to the formation

To the untrained eye, it started simple: Kaito brought up the ball slowly, reading Seiryuu’s halfcourt press. Rei slid off a down screen, and Aizawa flashed to the weak side.

But the key wasn’t the wings.

It was Rikuya.

He set the first screen—big, hard, unmovable.

Kaito used it.

But then Rikuya popped, flaring to the top of the arc.

Seiryuu’s defense, conditioned to expect a roll, hesitated.

That half-second?

All Rikuya needed.

Pass.

Catch.

Shoot.

A smooth, high-arcing jumper.

Swish.

49 – 33.

The crowd buzzed. Not in confusion—but in awe.

This wasn’t streetball.

This wasn’t instinct.

This was design.

Titan Star, on its second execution, felt even smoother. Like a well-rehearsed orchestra running through a crescendo.

Kaito once again brought it up with poise. The entire Seiryuu defense hovered high, eyes locked on Horizon’s wings—ready to trap.

But this time, Kaito changed the entry.

No screen first.

Just a fake—head nod, shoulder dip, and Rikuya slipped behind the press.

Quick bounce pass. Catch. One dribble.

Layup.

51 – 33.

The lead grew again, and the crowd rose to their feet.

You could feel it:

Momentum.

Energy.

Control.

Seiryuu’s algorithm seemed... a step behind.

And then—

One more time.

Third execution of Titan Star.

Kaito to Rei, Rei reversed to Aizawa, Aizawa darted baseline to drag the defenders—

Then Rikuya popped out, caught the pass, jabbed left, pulled up—

Bang.

53 – 33.

Twenty points again.

Coach Renjiro didn’t flinch. His eyes never left the court. His laptop now closed. He didn’t need it anymore.

He had already memorized the flow.

And then—

Something changed.

It was small at first.

On the fourth Titan Star run, Seiryuu’s switch was instant.

Seta didn’t trail Rei—he jumped the screen early.

Teshima shadowed Kaito closer—pressured the pass angle before it even developed.

Rikuya’s pop-out? Denied. Mikami stuck to him like glue.

Suddenly, the formation hit static.

No pass available.

Kaito looked—left, right, hesitation—

Shot clock: 6... 5... 4...

Forced shot.

Miss.

Rebound: Seiryuu.

A blur in white and blue.

Seta on the break. To Teshima. Touch pass to Mikami.

Layup. 53 – 35.

No cheer. No celebration. Just clinical execution.

The code had updated.

Titan Star was no longer a mystery.

It had become... a formula.

And Seiryuu had solved it.

Now the pressure began to hiss under Horizon’s feet. Every pass was contested. Every cut shadowed. The algorithm wasn’t just awake.

It was locked in.

Next possession—trap on the sideline.

Kaito got forced into the corner. No passing lane. No bailout.

Jump ball.

Seiryuu gained possession.

And from there?

They pounced.

Teshima muscled through Taiga at the post—shoulder, pivot, spin.

Bucket.

53 – 37.

Then Mikami off the curl—one dribble pull-up.

Swish.

53 – 39.

Timeout?

No.

Coach Tsugawa held steady, arms crossed, eyes watching.

"Let them feel it," he murmured.

And feel it they did.

Horizon’s flow cracked.

Rikuya’s next screen came too slow.

Kaito’s rhythm broke.

Aizawa’s cut got bumped off-line.

Nothing looked wrong on paper.

But on the court?

Seiryuu was eating their timing alive.

Possession after possession, the lead started bleeding.

Slowly.

Relentlessly.

Halftime lead: 47 – 27.

Now?

54 – 45.

The twenty-point cushion had vanished.

The illusion of control was gone.

Even the double-digit lead was gone—devoured by code and calculation.

On the bench, Dirga stood.

His breathing was calm.

His eyes weren’t.

They burned—locked onto Coach Tsugawa like crosshairs, not seeking permission,

but waiting for the signal.

The court buzzed with momentum. Horizon was slipping. The tempo was cracking.

Kaito staggered to the bench, bent over, lungs dragging air like sandpaper. Sweat poured down his temple.

His heart—delicate but brave—had run its course.

Coach Tsugawa finally exhaled. The kind of breath that carried more than air—it carried command.

He glanced toward Dirga.

Just one word.

No clipboard. No speech. No dramatic pause.

Only—

"Maestro."

Dirga nodded. No grin. No swagger.

Just fire.

He peeled off his warm-up, and the entire gym seemed to shift.

A ripple through space. A breath caught in the lungs of the crowd.

Coach Tsugawa added, voice low but firm—

"Time to conduct."