I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 153: Horizon vs. Kurotsuki : The Quarter Composed 1

The buzzer groaned across the gym—deep and distant, like thunder grumbling behind heavy clouds.

End of First Quarter:

Horizon 21 – Kurotsuki 9.

But neither bench celebrated.

Not even Horizon’s.

...

Horizon Bench

No cheers.

No smiles.

Just the rustle of towels.

And breath—measured, heavy, filling the silence like fog.

Dirga hunched forward, arms draped over his knees. His chest rose and fell in even intervals—disciplined.

Eyes unblinking.

Still reading the court.

Still writing the narrative in his mind.

Taiga tilted his head back, chugging water in short, sharp gulps. The bottle crinkled in his grip.

Pacing behind them, Aizawa didn’t speak. He wasn’t angry.

He was mapping possibilities.

At the scorer’s table, Rei leaned with one shoulder pressed firm. His jersey strap slipped—he adjusted it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times in ten seconds.

And then—Kaito.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

One hand rested lightly on his chest, thumb brushing along his sternum in slow, repetitive strokes.

Not nervous.

Not panicked.

Coiled.

His face gave away nothing. But his stare?

Lasered across the court.

Locked onto Taniguchi.

Coach Tsugawa crouched low beside him. Not barking.

Planting a seed.

"They’re not going to press," he murmured.

A breath.

"They’re going to pull."

He let the words hang.

Pull the system.

Pull the spacing.

Pull the instinct.

He looked each player in the eye.

"Don’t give it to them."

...

Across the court – Kurotsuki’s bench

Coach Renji Fujisawa didn’t crouch over a clipboard.

Didn’t sketch plays.

Didn’t raise his voice.

He stood tall—back straight, arms clasped behind him like a commander before battle.

And he spoke softly, like every word was measured on a scale.

"Horizon broke our structure in the first quarter," he said.

"So don’t bring them structure."

The bench didn’t flinch.

Not a blink.

Not a breath wasted.

"Bring them discomfort."

His eyes shifted, laser-focused.

"Toshiro," he called—voice low, but edged with precision.

"Drag their screens. Force two to bite. Then shift—before the third can rotate."

Toshiro nodded once. Crisp. No wasted motion.

"Shō," he said next, without even turning.

"No hard contests. No jump blocks. Just delay their gather. Make them doubt the ground beneath them."

Shō exhaled—one slow, sharpened breath.

All tension, all control.

Then—Renji turned.

To Taniguchi.

And said nothing.

Just stared.

A gaze like weight. Like gravity.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"You know what to do."

Taniguchi didn’t respond at first.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t speak.

He simply existed—utterly still. A statue with a pulse.

Then—just once—he nodded.

A single click of fate.

And in that silent gesture,

the trap began to set.

...

Back to Horizon Bench

Kaito stood.

His face was calm.

But his hand rested over his chest.

Not from pain.

From readiness—the kind you don’t speak out loud.

"Coach," he said—voice low, but unshakably clear.

"Let me play."

Tsugawa turned.

Watched him.

Just a second longer than usual.

Long enough to measure the fire behind his calm.

Then he nodded toward the court.

"Rei. Out."

Rei gave a small nod. No argument. No ego.

Just a quiet bump of fists before jogging back to the bench, sweat still cooling on his skin.

Kaito peeled off the warmup—shoulders tight with focus.

As he stepped toward the scorer’s table, Tsugawa added, without looking:

"But Kaito—don’t forget. We’ve got a second game. Don’t burn out just to prove something."

Kaito paused.

Eyes dropped to the floor. Just a breath.

Then up again—steady.

"I remember."

But deep inside, something stirred.

A flicker.

Of heat.

Of pain.

Of something older than the game itself.

His thoughts drifted.

...

Middle school gym.

Nationals.

Final quarter.

Taniguchi—on the far wing.

Mouthguard clenched.

Rising for the dagger three.

Eyes cold. Form perfect.

And Kaito?

Already falling.

Not from a fake.

Not from a bump.

But from something invisible—

a sharp pull deep in his chest,

the kind no defender can guard against.

The kind that betrays you

before the shot even lands.

That was the last time they faced each other.

And the last time his heart failed him.

...

But today?

Today wasn’t about revenge.

Or pride.

Or the weight of what once was.

Today was about writing something new.

...

Court One – Second Quarter Begins

Kurotsuki stepped on first.

No stomps.

No claps.

No war cries.

Just five silhouettes gliding into place—

smooth, soundless, deliberate.

Composed suspense.

Five players.

Three weapons.

And one plan already unfolding.

Kurotsuki ball.

They flowed into formation—not with speed, but with certainty.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just inevitable.

They weren’t here to steal back momentum.

They were here to take it,

beat by beat—

and bury it in precision.

And the trap?

It didn’t start with the ball.

It started before it moved.

Toshiro moved first.

No flash.

Just a whisper of motion—a ghost screen on the wing.

Subtle. Controlled.

A nudge toward the middle.

Too clean to call. Too real to ignore.

But it wasn’t meant for Eiji.

It was for Kaito.

Kaito had locked eyes on Taniguchi the moment they crossed halfcourt—

Feet light, breath steady, vision narrow.

"You’re not vanishing this time," he muttered under his breath.

But Toshiro’s angle?

Just enough.

Not a foul.

Not a screen.

Just static—

a flicker of interference that tilted the geometry of pursuit.

Kaito couldn’t stay glued to the line.

He had to rotate under.

That was trap layer one.

Taniguchi drifted across the arc—

Not sprinting.

Not calling.

Just moving—like this sequence had played out before,

in some other lifetime,

on some other stage.

Eiji fired the pass.

Taniguchi caught.

Kaito recovered—fast.

Right on his hip, breathing steady, feet loaded.

But Taniguchi?

Didn’t even glance at the rim.

He let the defense watch his hands—

while the rest of Kurotsuki rewrote the floor.

Trap Layer Two Spatial Redirection.

Toshiro rolled into the middle.

Not to post.

Not to score.

Just to pull Taiga—half a step out of help range.

Half a step from safety.

Meanwhile—Sho.

Sho Kurose hovered at the dunker’s spot.

Still. Patient. Almost statue-like.

Until—

Whip.

A skip pass—short corner.

Taniguchi never hesitated.

Not to shoot.

To shift.

Toshiro caught.

Pivoted once.

Dirga rotated—fast. Too fast.

The moment he arrived—

Kick. Inside.

Sho.

No windup.

No flash.

No rim-cracker highlight.

Sho didn’t need the dunk.

He dribbled once.

Gathered.

Waited—

Waited for Rikuya’s contest to fully commit.

Then rose—just slow enough

to make the block feel like a mistake.

And laid it in.

Smooth. Silent. Precise.

21 – 11.

"KUROTSUKI REPLIES—SILENT BUT SHARP!"

"TANIGUCHI NEVER LOOKED AT THE RIM—AND YET THE ENTIRE DEFENSE DANCED TO HIS TEMPO!"

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