I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 159: Horizon vs. Kurotsuki : The Forgotten Fang 2

The fog wasn’t gone.

It had just taken on a new shape.

Something was off.

Not broken.

Not shattered.

Just—

Off-axis.

...

Dirga brought it up the sideline.

Jaw set.

Eyes scanning like a codebreaker trying to find a symbol that shouldn’t exist. freewebnσvel.cѳm

He called motion.

Strong-side two-man action.

Kaito cut early.

Rikuya slipped baseline.

Taiga drifted corner.

The geometry was perfect.

They’d run it a dozen times.

Dirga held it center.

Tossed it to Kaito.

Clean handoff.

Kaito caught.

Pump fake—

Sho stayed grounded. Eyes locked.

Toshiro slid low, sealing the drive lane.

Kaito didn’t force it.

No panic.

He kicked it back to Dirga.

Dirga snapped it cross-court—lead pass to Aizawa curling weak-side.

Catch. Turn. Lane open—

Except...

It wasn’t.

Ryōta had shifted.

Not a lunge.

Not a steal attempt.

Just half a body forward—in the wrong place at the worst time.

He didn’t touch anyone.

Didn’t even flinch.

He was just... there.

Aizawa caught it in stride—

And in that half-second, the lane vanished.

He went up.

Angle compromised.

Too late.

Sho rotated.

Aizawa twisted mid-air.

Tried to float it high—

Off-balance. Rushed.

Clank.

Iron.

Sho rebound.

Outlet.

No words.

No signal.

Eiji surged.

Toshiro trailed wide—

But the ball didn’t go to them.

Corner.

Taniguchi.

No pump.

No hesitation.

Just rise and fire—

Swish.

50 – 51.

Kurotsuki led.

Not from force.

Not from fire.

From erosion.

A drip.

A pull.

...

Next Horizon Possession

Dirga brought it up.

Not frustrated.

Not rushed.

But his fingers... tapped.

Too many times.

Dribble. Stop. Dribble again.

Like a pianist second-guessing a solo he used to play blindfolded.

This time—he called delay.

Aizawa held top.

Kaito flared wide to the left.

Rikuya rose mid-post—

Solid timing. Sharp angle.

Dirga zipped the pass low.

Right into the pocket.

But—

Rikuya had to sidestep.

Because Ryōta was there.

Again.

Not close enough to foul.

Not close enough to draw contact.

Just close enough to ruin everything.

A silent detour.

A presence that bent space.

That reshaped the lane by merely existing in it.

Rikuya caught the ball half a step off-rhythm.

Sho collapsed.

Block.

Clean.

The ball ricocheted.

Tipped wide.

Out of bounds.

And Ryōta?

Still hadn’t taken a shot.

Still hadn’t touched the ball on offense.

Still hadn’t said a word.

But the fingerprints were everywhere.

On timing.

On movement.

On rhythm.

Like smudges on sheet music.

Like noise etched into vinyl.

Dirga backed up.

Eyes lowered.

Chest rising slow.

The whistle blew.

Timeout: Horizon.

...

Coach Tsugawa stood with his clipboard.

But didn’t write.

He stared at the court like it was a jigsaw puzzle—

One piece flipped upside down.

Doesn’t look wrong.

Just doesn’t fit.

His players closed in tight.

All five breathing hard.

But no one was panicking.

They weren’t rattled.

They were tilted.

Unbalanced.

Dirga leaned forward, elbows on knees, sweat beading off his hairline.

"Kurotsuki’s not pressuring," he said, voice level.

"They’re just... shifting our weight."

Aizawa rubbed at his chin.

"It’s not Taniguchi. Not Sho. Not even Toshiro."

Kaito nodded. Just once.

"It’s in-between."

He didn’t say the name.

He didn’t need to.

Everyone was already picturing Ryōta.

Tsugawa finally spoke.

Quiet. Measured.

As if volume might crack the floor beneath them.

"They’re not attacking us," he said.

"They’re interrupting us."

He tapped the clipboard.

Didn’t draw.

Crossed out.

"No more motion stack. It’s poisoned."

He turned to Kaito.

"You did what we needed. You’re out."

Kaito didn’t argue.

But his chest rose sharp. Heavy.

Not panic.

Just limit.

He wiped his face with the towel draped around his neck.

Breathed out—tight.

"Five minutes isn’t enough," he said, almost to himself.

Tsugawa met his eyes.

"I’m not asking for fire right now."

"I’m asking for clarity."

Rei stepped forward.

Tapped Kaito’s shoulder with quiet weight.

Solidarity without sound.

Kaito nodded.

One last glance toward the court—

And sat down.

But his fingers stayed clenched in the towel.

Like they didn’t want to let go.

...

Dirga stood.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

He just turned toward the floor.

Back into the current.

Something inside him pulled tight.

A thread. A chord.

He couldn’t trace where the distortion started—

But he knew exactly how to end it.

And that meant one thing.

He tapped the side of his temple.

Once.

Deliberate. Final.

Then inhaled—

Deep.

Slow.

Controlled.

Like stepping into the silence before a downbeat.

Like sinking into cold water on purpose.

Not physically.

Not literally.

But internally.

No Kaito.

No Maestro rhythm.

No familiar patterns to fall back on.

Just a game,

slipping away in near-perfect silence.

Horizon wasn’t out of it.

Not yet.

But they were drifting.

Not outplayed.

Unwritten.

Like their story was being erased line by line—

By someone who didn’t even hold a pen.

Dirga reached the arc.

Paused.

Eyes half-lidded.

Breath anchored.

A single moment of stillness.

One breath.

One blink.

One trigger.

[ TEMPO SIGHT – Active Trigger: GODFRAME – 45 seconds ]

And the world changed.

...

The court fractured—

Not with sound, but with structure.

Lines of rhythm stretched across hardwood like veins in marble.

Pressure rippled in waves—visible now. Tangible.

Blue trails: player motion

Red flares: defensive spikes.

Silver arcs: pass-timing curves.

Green threads: momentum seams—fragile, taut, begging to snap.

Sho burned like a furnace—raw, immovable.

Toshiro shimmered—jagged around the edges, always a half-step late but never out of sync.

Taniguchi flickered at the perimeter—elegant, but predictable.

And then—

Dirga felt it.

Absence.

Something was wrong.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

A hole in the music.

A void in the pulse.

A shadow without source.

Dirga’s breath caught.

His eyes scanned again—

Deeper.

Faster.

There—

Between seams.

Between logic.

A flicker of motion that didn’t glow.

Ryōta.

Not blue. Not red. Not any color.

He didn’t register as threat.

Didn’t spike tempo alerts.

Didn’t trigger hazard zones.

And yet—

Everywhere he moved, the map shifted.

Blue lines dimmed.

Silver arcs collapsed.

Green threads snapped too soon.

Doors closed before they existed.

Dirga blinked hard.

And it clicked.

"He’s not defending a man."

"He’s defending how we move."

Not tracking Kaito.

Not doubling Dirga.

Not chasing Aizawa.

Ryōta was slicing tempo mid-flow.

Like he was inside the music.

Tuning dissonance into structure.

Unseen.

Unscored.

But not unmeasured.

Dirga’s heart ticked once, hard.

Not fear.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

He’d seen tempo.

He’d read pressure.

But this?

This was counter-composition.

And it was winning.

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