CHAPTER 94: HORIZON VS SEIRYUU : MAESTRO’S FINAL SYMPHONY 2

Bang.

73 – 74.

The net barely fluttered, but the sound cracked through the air like a slap.

The scoreboard flipped.

For the first time since the first quarter...

Seiryuu led.

Dirga’s eyes didn’t leave the numbers glowing above him.

This was the risk of small ball.

When the offense ran dry, the defense turned to jelly.

And with Kaito running on fumes—

The cracks were beginning to show.

From the sideline—

"Timeout."

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

Sharp. Immediate. No hesitation.

The teams retreated to their benches.

The buzz in the crowd softened, anxious and low—like thunder rumbling beneath clouds.

Dirga sat, chest rising and falling steadily, towel draped over his shoulders.

Sayaka moved like clockwork, pressing a cold bottle into his hand, wiping sweat from Hiroki’s temple, then refocusing on Coach.

Tsugawa didn’t waste time.

"Kaito, you’re out. Rikuya, back in," he said, his tone calm but iron-clad.

"We’re going back to our standard lineup."

He looked at each player in turn, his gaze landing last on Dirga.

"You’re the conductor now. Full control. Use every set we’ve practiced. Read the tempo. Shift the rhythm. Just keep it close. The opportunity will come—make sure we’re ready for it."

Dirga nodded, eyes sharpening like steel drawn from a sheath.

"Yes, coach."

No panic.

Just clarity.

Resolve.

The air in the gym was thick—sweat, breath, pressure.

The final act had begun.

As the five stepped back onto the court, the arena lights blazed like stage lamps.

Every step felt louder.

Every movement magnified.

Back to the stage.

Dirga took the inbound. The ball felt heavier now. Not physically—but with weight.

Every bounce echoed louder. Every breath felt shorter.

They moved into a half-court set.

Rei slid along the arc. Aizawa cut inside then flared out. Rikuya planted for a hard screen.

Dirga tried to read the flow—tried to breathe into the play.

But Seiryuu was already there.

Like they’d written this script before Horizon even opened the page.

Mikami cut the passing lane.

Seta blitzed the screen before it even set.

Teshima?

He never took his eyes off Dirga. Like a mirror—faster, colder.

Dirga faked left. Crossed right. He pulled up for the midrange.

Clank.

The rim spat it out.

And Seiryuu was gone.

Transition like a programmed attack.

Fujisawa with the rebound.

Jinbo darted down the sideline like a flash of red lightning.

Pass.

Catch.

Elevate.

BOOM.

73 – 76.

Dirga turned—but it was too fast. Too smooth.

The machine wasn’t just learning.

It was evolving. In real time.

They brought it back up. Rei tried to slash, but Seta bodied him mid-air.

Taiga fought in the post but was swarmed.

Rikuya had no room to breathe in the paint.

Forced shot.

Another miss.

Fujisawa again.

Now Seiryuu slowed.

The pace dropped—not because they were tired.

Because they were in control.

The ball swung from Teshima to Seta. Then back. Then into the corner—

Mikami.

Wide open.

Bang.

73 – 79.

Coach Tsugawa didn’t call a timeout this time.

He let them feel it.

Dirga jogged up.

No words.

No panic.

Just internal pressure mounting like a ticking clock against his skull.

They ran the Flex this time. Classic. Tight. Clean.

Rei finally broke free.

Catch.

Three.

Splash.

76 – 79.

But the moment the net snapped—

Teshima was already moving.

Seta hit him on the cut.

No hesitation.

No wasted steps.

Pull-up three.

Bang.

76 – 82.

The bench roared.

The crowd cracked open.

And Horizon?

They staggered.

Dirga tried to slow it down.

Get control back.

But Seiryuu’s rotations were suffocating. Every cut, every read, every pass—they knew.

It wasn’t basketball anymore.

It was calculated collapse.

A steal.

Another fast break.

SLAM.

76 – 84.

Dirga’s lungs burned.

Rei wiped blood from a split lip after a scramble.

Rikuya pounded the floor in frustration after a missed box out.

Coach Tsugawa still didn’t call it.

Not yet.

Dirga brought the ball up.

Eyes on the rim.

He drove.

Fujisawa slid into help.

Dirga twisted midair—dumped it behind his back to Rikuya.

Layup.

78 – 84.

But Seiryuu didn’t blink.

Teshima walked it up.

Used ten seconds.

No panic.

Another high pick.

Fujisawa screened.

Teshima popped.

Splash.

78 – 87.

And still it came.

Dirga’s next shot was swatted.

Fujisawa again.

Another board.

Another outlet.

Jinbo. Corner three.

Bang.

78 – 93.

Another Timeout.

Coach Tsugawa stood now.

Silent.

No clipboard.

Just motioned with his hand—like a conductor calming a shaking orchestra.

2:58 remaining.

Down by 15.

"We’re down by fifteen," Coach Tsugawa said, his voice calm but heavy with urgency.

He was trying to stoke our fire—trying to pull us back from the edge.

But the spark... wasn’t catching.

We sat there, silent.

Heavy. Drained.

The scoreboard loomed in our minds like a death sentence.

Their data still haunted us. Every cut, every screen, every pass—we were being read like a picture book.

Our plays? Predictable.

Our rhythm? Cracked.

Our hearts? Slipping.

Then—

Dirga stood.

He didn’t just stand.

He snapped up, tore the towel from his neck, and threw it hard against the bench.

His voice exploded like lightning across a storm.

"The hell with their data!"

Everyone flinched.

"So what if they know our habits?

So what if they read our plays like they’ve seen the script?

That doesn’t mean they can stop us if we refuse to stop ourselves!"

He stepped into the center of the huddle.

Not waiting for permission.

Just burning.

"Look at me. All of you.

Don’t look at the clock.

Don’t look at the scoreboard.

Look at me."

One by one, we did.

Eyes lifted.

Like we’d forgotten we had the right to still hope.

"We’ve bled too much for this.

We’ve run too far, broken too many walls just to fall here.

Fifteen points?"

He scoffed—not in doubt, but defiance.

His eyes lit up, sharp as a blade drawn from fire.

"If we give up now, Seiryuu didn’t beat us.

We beat ourselves.

We handed them the crown because we forgot who we are."

His voice dropped—low, ragged, but somehow stronger.

"We are Horizon.

Not the tallest.

Not the flashiest.

Not the ones with perfect numbers in some goddamn algorithm."

He clenched his fist.

"But we fight.

We fight with broken lungs.

With screaming knees.

With hearts that won’t shut up."

He grabbed Rikuya by the shoulder, firm, not shaking—but anchoring.

"You’ve been our wall.

Now be our hammer."

To Rei—

"You’re the sharpest edge we’ve got.

Cut until they bleed."

To Aizawa and Taiga—

"You two are the spine.

We stand because of you."

Then—to all of us, like thunder pouring from the clouds:

"Three minutes.

That’s all we need.

Not to be perfect—

Just to be us."

He slammed a fist to his chest.

"They have the code.

But they’ll never understand heart."

He took a step back.

Tears didn’t fall, but they lived in the corners of his fire.

"We don’t need a miracle comeback.

We just need one stop.

One shot.

Then do it again. And again.

Until that buzzer screams our name."

Silence.

The sound of our breaths.

The pounding of our hearts.

And something else—

The fire returning.

Then, one final line.

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."