The tension in the air was subtle, like a storm brewing behind the clouds.
Friday—the day the exam results would drop. The line between freedom and extra classes.
After that... summer vacation would begin.
But today wasn’t about rest. Not yet.
Once again, the Horizon basketball team gathered in their home court—dust motes swirling in the shafts of afternoon light, the faint squeak of sneakers on the polished floor echoing in the stillness.
At the front stood Sayaka stood in her PE uniform, marker in hand, in front of a dusty blackboard.
She turned, locking eyes with Dirga for a second.
That look—sharp and unreadable—made something twist in his chest.
She knew. Somehow, she always knew.
"Okay, listen up. This summer—it’s not just vacation. It’s war."
She wrote on the board in bold strokes:
2009 National Tournament
"Twelve teams. Eleven from each of the major regions, plus one wild card team. That wild card tournament will be held in Tokyo, from Wednesday to Friday next week."
She underlined it with a snap of her wrist.
Hokkaidō: Sapporo North WolvesTōhoku: Sendai Seiryu HighKantō: Tokyo Kousei AcademyChūbu: Nagoya Raijin HighKansai: Toyonaka Horizon HighChūgoku: Okayama Ironcrest HighShikoku: Takamatsu Wavefront HighKyūshū: Fukuoka Yamabane HighOkinawa: Naha Southern Drakes HighHokuriku: Kanazawa Sekiryuu HighShin’etsu: Nagano Kurotsuki HighWildcard: To be decided
"The format’s different now," she continued, voice steady and clear. "This isn’t like regionals or prefecture play. This is madness."
She clicked again—two group columns appeared on the board.
"Two groups, six teams each.
Top four from each group advance to the knockout rounds."
The air tensed. Someone sucked in a breath.
"We’ll play one or two matches per day, over three to four days. It’s why the nationals are nicknamed the Week of Madness. You’ll be tested—not just skill-wise, but mentally, physically, and emotionally."
Sweat formed on the back of Dirga’s neck.
"Next Saturday," Sayaka continued, "we head to Tokyo. Once we arrive, we’ll participate in a live draw—randomized placement into Group A or B."
She looked up from her clipboard, eyes narrowing.
"And Friday, is when exam results drop."
Her voice dropped a note.
"Anyone who fails," Sayaka said, voice hard as steel, "gets stuck in extra summer classes."
She let the words sink in.
"That means—no nationals. No dream. No madness. Just air conditioning, textbooks, and shame."
The entire gym froze in silence. Only the faint buzzing of cicadas outside broke the stillness.
Sayaka shut her clipboard like a gavel hitting a courtroom bench.
The team roared in unison—sharp, almost military, adrenaline sparking in their throats.
Later after that they gathered again in the court. Not for drills. Not for scrimmages.
Dirga sat on the bleachers, leaning back with his hands behind his head. The lights above cast a soft amber glow over the polished wood floor.
"So..." he said casually, "do you guys think we passed?"
"Of course," Kaito answered without missing a beat, calm and confident.
Rikuya didn’t say a word—but the slight smirk on his face told the story. The guy was unshakable.
Rei and Hiroki shared a look and gave matching bitter smiles. Not quite confident. Not hopeless either. Just... human.
They burst into laughter and hugged each other like they’d already survived the apocalypse.
Dirga smiled. He hoped—God, he hoped.
The school hallway was a storm of noise and nerves. Students were packed wall to wall, crowding the main bulletin board where the exam results would be posted.
The bell hadn’t even rung yet, and already it felt like New Year’s at a shrine. Breathless anticipation. Desperation. Silent prayers whispered into sleeves.
Dirga squeezed through the crowd, heart pounding like a war drum.
He caught a glimpse of Taiga’s orange hoodie struggling through the crowd alongside Rei and Hiroki.
"Wait for me there," Dirga muttered, and shoved forward.
He made it to the front.
The paper was pinned there like fate itself. White. Sharp. Brutal.
He scanned for his name—finger trembling—
"Dirgantara Renji – Passed"
Not top 10. Not bottom 10.
Dirga felt his knees go a little weak. His heart hit his ribs once, hard.
He stepped back from the crowd, breathing like he’d just finished overtime.
He spotted Rei and Hiroki nearby—both of their names, also in black, safely above the fail line.
They caught his eyes and raised a thumb.
Dirga’s gut twisted. He stopped scanning from the top.
Started from the bottom—where the red names bled down like a wound.
Dirga’s chest tightened.
He kept scanning... and then—
"Taiga Okabe – Passed."
The name directly beneath it? Red.
Then his breath rushed out of him like steam from a pressure valve.
Laughter welled up—sharp, almost painful. He nearly cried. He didn’t care.
Right on the edge. One step from disaster.
The hallway was a storm—bodies pressing, students shouting, some crying in relief, others in heartbreak.
Dirga pushed through them like a swimmer in heavy current. The only thing louder than the crowd was the pounding in his ears.
He turned his gaze toward the second-year board—but the wave of students was too thick.
Too many shoulders, too many faces.
No matter how much he leaned or hopped or tried to peek between heads, he couldn’t see it.
Time wasn’t on his side.
He clenched his fist at his side, helpless.
He hadn’t seen the list—but in his heart, he whispered:
Please. Just one more miracle.
Class dragged like wet cement. The clock ticked too slow, then too fast.
Dirga could barely sit still.
And the moment the bell rang for dismissal, he was already moving.
The gym doors swung open.
The Horizon court—sunlight beaming through high windows—was already alive with voices.
Dancing across the court like a man possessed.
His shoes squeaked like they were celebrating too.
Hands up, head tilted back, spinning like a tornado of joy.
"HE PASSED, HE PASSED!" someone shouted.
Dirga smiled, then looked past him.
Aizawa sat slumped on the bench. Elbows on knees. Head down.
Dirga’s heart dropped.
But then, slowly, Aizawa looked up.
Then—without warning—he leapt to his feet, ripped off his jersey, and let out a primal yell.
He flailed into a wild, offbeat dance, the kind of thing that couldn’t be choreographed in a thousand years.
Taiga, of course, joined in, shirt off, doing a half-cartwheel into a fist pump.
He didn’t care how ridiculous it looked.
He didn’t care that the janitor was staring.
He didn’t care if they got detention tomorrow.
Every damn one of them.