Break time never felt so short.
The Horizon team huddled around their water bottles, breaths heavy, shirts clinging to their backs with sweat. They had won the first game, but they all knew—Kurama wasn’t going down easily.
Dirga leaned against the bench, staring across the court. His eyes locked on Sota Enami.
"I need to figure him out," he muttered.
As Game 3 was called to start, Dirga activated his Tempo Sight.
A rush of light flooded his senses. The court shifted, warping into a top-down screen view. Time slowed—just a little—and he could see it. Not just the movements, but the pattern.
One. Two. Three. Four—pass.
One. Two. Three. Four—cut.
One. Two. Three. Four—shoot.
It was there. A rhythm. A musical beat underlying everything Sota did. A four-count tempo.
"He’s a metronome," Dirga whispered. "He’s locked to a rhythm."
Now that he saw it, he could break it.
The game tipped off. This time, Dirga led.
No set plays. No formations. No patterns.
He dribbled in place.
Moved—sideways, then stopped.
The timing was jagged. Fractured.
Masaru mistimed a block.
Renjiro missed his first three-pointer of the day.
And Yu? He looked completely lost, unable to adapt to the chaos.
Horizon tore through them like wildfire.
Back on the bench, the Horizon players kept their heads down, breathing hard.
They had cracked something. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
"They’re still adapting," Dirga said between gulps of water. "They’re too good to break that easily."
The Kurama team changed again.
This time—Yu Tamura was running point.
"What?" Taiga blinked. "Why is the power forward holding the ball?"
"They’re trying every configuration," Rei muttered.
Dirga furrowed his brow. "They’re stress-testing their limitations. Figuring out how to bend the rules without breaking them."
Yu moved with confidence. His footwork was grounded, his passes crisp, but something was different.
"He’s not making physical contact," Dirga noted. "Not even when he drives. He avoids defenders entirely."
That was his limitation. But as the playmaker, he could avoid contact entirely and still move the game forward.
Buzz played off-ball, conserving energy. Renjiro continued to float like a ghost around the three-point line. And Masaru? He only jumped once that quarter.
They were conserving their flaws. Timing their weaknesses.
Yu slowed the pace. Deliberate, methodical. Every possession drained seconds. Buzz would only shoot with two seconds left on the clock.
"It’s a coward’s game plan," Aizawa muttered.
"But it works," Kaito admitted, watching the scoreboard tick down.
And when the buzzer sounded...
Dirga slumped onto the bench, towel draped over his head.
"Damn it... even when we know their limitations, it’s still this hard."
Taiga nodded, sweat dripping from his brow. "They’re just... on another level."
"They’re adapting to the limits like it’s second nature," Rei added.
"We can win," Kaito said firmly, "even if it takes seven games."
Dirga looked around. The team was more exhausted than before. Their match with Toyonaka had already drained their stamina. Kurama was just fresher
And the Kurama team started rotating between Buzz, Sota, and Yu to run the offense—every single play.
It was like facing three different teams.
Buzz’s offense was explosive, high-speed, flashy. Sota’s was a synchronized dance. Yu’s was methodical, slow, calculated.
Dirga felt his breath hitch. "Three identities... one team."
Renjiro’s limitations—only threes—didn’t feel like a weakness anymore. His shot percentage was ridiculous. He turned open threes into alley-oops. Even Masaru, stuck on the ground after his jumps, still clogged the paint like a boulder.
Horizon struggled to keep up.
And Kurama wasn’t just adapting anymore—they were comfortable.
Dirga watched them from the sidelines and felt a chill. They weren’t fighting their limits anymore. They were thriving with them.
The precision. The balance. The discipline.
If they looked robotic before, now they looked like a machine made for basketball.
Masaru didn’t waste jumps. Buzz played to his cap. Yu controlled spacing without touching anyone. Sota never missed a timing window. Renjiro was automatic.
Horizon, meanwhile, was cracking.
Not from lack of heart—but lack of gas.
Fatigue set in. Reaction time slowed. Screens got softer. Rotations lagged by a second.
Kurama smelled blood.
Buzz laughed as he jogged off the court.
"Nice hustle, kids. Two points off us? Not bad."
Sota rolled his eyes. "Buzz, stop bullying them."
"Yeah, what kind of adult says that to high schoolers?" Masaru added with a grin.
"Oh sorry, I forgot—we’re the kids now, huh?" Buzz winked.
Dirga ignored the noise.
He didn’t care about the jokes.
He cared about dinner.
Like the past two nights, Takeshi-sensei drove the players back down to the lodge. One trip at a time. The court, the pain, the defeats—it all felt distant.
Only one thing mattered now:
The players soaked in the hot spring, muscles screaming. They didn’t even talk. Just silence. Shared fatigue.
When they returned to the lodge, changed, and trudged into the dining room, it was exactly 7:30 PM.
Dirga stepped forward immediately.
"I’m using my exemption ticket," he said. "No way I’m eating that gray sludge again."
Masaki stood up too. "Me too. I earned this."
Dirga didn’t care if the rest of the team glared at him for ’betraying’ the group. Eating that food two nights in a row? No chance.
He sat at the winning table, picked up his chopsticks, and gave a silent nod to his teammates.
"Please. Win tomorrow."
That was all he could offer.
The Horizon team sat in silence, eyes locked on the gray, bland food trays in front of them.
Even Taiga and Aizawa didn’t crack a joke.
And Toyonaka? They were already used to the taste of vengeance.
But their eyes burned. Fire. Hunger. Rage.
Even food couldn’t kill that.
Kurama ate quietly. For once, no mocking. No gloating.
Just quiet satisfaction.