"And that’s the end of the third quarter! The North Wolves... have bared their fangs."
"Led by their Shepherd, they’ve controlled the tempo, dismantled Horizon’s rhythm, and built an eight-point lead. Is this just experience? Or the difference between hunters... and prey?"
"Maybe. But Horizon clawed back late. They’re still breathing. The fourth quarter... is a battlefield."
The gym dimmed just a fraction.
Dirga dropped onto the bench, sweat soaking through his jersey. His jaw tight. His fingers clenched around Ayaka’s wristband.
Sayaka approached with a towel and water bottle. Silent. Visit NovelHub for more amazing novels and chapters.
Aizawa sat beside him—shoulders sagging, hands trembling.
He stared at nothing.
But not from exhaustion.
He couldn’t breathe. Not because he was tired. But because every time he jumped... it felt like the past dragged him down.
He wasn’t losing a game.
He was losing a life.
Why can’t I beat him?
Why can’t I even exist when he’s here?
His fingers curled tighter.
Minato didn’t just outplay him.
A layup danced over his fingertips like mockery.
Aizawa wanted to scream. Or vanish. Or both.
Coach Tsugawa scanned the bench. His eyes met Dirga’s.
Dirga gave the smallest shake of his head.
Tsugawa turned toward the team.
"Alright," he said, voice calm, clipped. "We’re still in this. Eight points down. That’s three plays. That’s nothing."
"We’ll rotate. Rei back in. Kaito, you get some air."
Kaito nodded, chest rising, lips pressed tight.
"Everyone else—lock in. We run flow. No isolation unless it’s clean. Keep the ball moving. Don’t stop. Don’t freeze. Create lanes. Open space."
His eyes landed on Aizawa.
"Let the game find you," Tsugawa said. "Don’t force. Just play."
He expected to be pulled.
Expected to be scolded.
Not through words. But through action.
Taiga fist-bumped him without a word.
Dirga didn’t even look away—he just handed him a towel and said:
"Fourth quarter’s yours."
Aizawa closed his eyes for a moment.
Maybe he couldn’t surpass Minato by chasing from behind.
Maybe... he had to stop chasing at all.
The scoreboard flashed
But Minato didn’t feel it.
He drank slowly from his water bottle, eyes locked on the opposite bench.
Where Aizawa sat. Slumped. Shoulders trembling.
Minato didn’t smirk this time.
Why do you keep doing this to yourself...?
Across the court, Aizawa looked like he’d been carved hollow. Every missed shot, every block, every stripped drive — it wasn’t just points lost.
It was pieces of him.
Minato exhaled slowly.
You’re not weak. But you keep playing like you’re trying to prove you exist.
And it’s killing you.
Rain lashed the windows.
Aizawa, twelve, sat curled in the corner of the couch—baseball bat across his lap.
His eyes were fixed on the TV.
On Minato’s highlight reel.
Another regional MVP.
Their mother clapped, smiling wide.
"That’s my boy," she said, eyes shining.
Aizawa didn’t say anything.
He just looked down. Tightened his grip on the bat.
Later that night, Minato found him in the backyard. Swinging at nothing.
"You don’t have to do this," Minato said gently. "Baseball’s not you."
Aizawa didn’t stop swinging.
"If I beat you... maybe she’ll see me."
Minato’s chest ached.
That was the night he quit baseball.
Not because he didn’t love it.
But because he hoped Aizawa would stop chasing him.
Right out of baseball...
And straight into basketball.
Minato wiped sweat from his brow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the court.
I’m not playing hard to beat you.
I’m playing hard to save you.
Because if Aizawa kept chasing his silhouette—
If he kept imitating instead of becoming—
He would never be seen.
So I’ll keep crushing you...
Until there’s nothing left to copy.
Until you finally stop being my reflection... and become your own fire.
The gym echoed with footsteps.
Minato looked up as the ref raised the ball.
Break the chain, Aizawa.
I’ll break you as many times as it takes... if it means setting you free.
Toyonaka Horizon High 41 – Sapporo North Wolves 49
"The final Chapter begins!" the announcer’s voice rang out, barely heard over the rising tide of the crowd. "Horizon trails by eight—but they’ve shown life."
"The North Wolves are still circling," the second voice cut in, calm but sharp. "Their Shepherd, Gaito Fujimori, has controlled the tempo all game. But Horizon? They aren’t done yet—not by a long shot."
The whistle pierced the noise.
The fourth quarter had begun.
Minato took the inbound pass himself.
He walked it up like a silent storm gathering weight.
Aizawa met him just past half court.
Shoulders twitching with restraint.
Minato didn’t look at him.
Through baseline traffic like a blade skimming under the surface.
The Wolves moved around him like wind. Screens closed in. Footsteps thundered.
Minato curved around the top—catching the ball at the arc.
Rikuya called it out. "Switch it!"
Aizawa had already clawed through both screens.
Right in Minato’s face.
Minato jabbed—hard right.
Fadeaway jumper—his signature.
Aizawa jumped with him—timed it clean.
The ball smashed off Aizawa’s fingertips.
It flew sideways, bouncing violently off the hardwood.
The stadium cracked open—gasps, cheers, flashes.
Outlet pass—instantly.
Dirga caught it in full sprint at midcourt.
Rei filled the right wing.
Aizawa sprinted wide left—wind howling in his chest.
Dirga curved past the arc.
The Wolves collapsed.
Tomoya shaded the paint.
Dirga kicked it left.
"Aizawa drains it from the corner—his first clean one since the first half!"
"And Horizon draws first blood in the fourth! This isn’t panic—this is precision!"
Minato glanced at him from across the court.
Just the smallest nod.
Something between recognition... and warning.