Asahi’s eyes narrowed. The usual cold calculation flickered with something new—
He looked across the court, then back toward the Horizon bench.
To Coach Tsugawa Masaki.
To the man who changed Europe’s tempo years ago.
Who now stood still, arms crossed, watching like a conductor listening to a symphony reaching crescendo.
Then back to Dirga, now standing just beyond the arc, hands relaxed, but legs twitching with kinetic energy.
"We answer it. We hit the paint. Target the mismatch."
"Got it. They don’t have a center anymore."
"Exactly," Asahi said. "No Rikuya. No rim protection. We punish that. Again and again."
Asahi brought it up, steady and cold.
Their target was clear.
The makeshift center. 175 centimeters of grit, standing in for the 189cm Rikuya.
And right where Rakuzan wanted to go.
Kido slammed into a screen, Tsukasa curled hard to the block.
Tsukasa tried to push through him.
Tsukasa spun off—kick out to Reiji in the corner.
Dirga grabbed the outlet pass on the fly—eyes scanning.
He didn’t dribble yet.
Just ran, waiting to feel the rhythm, watching the floor shape around him.
Tempo Sight may have faded,
but the echoes of it remained.
"Move it!" Dirga barked.
Aizawa set a slip screen on the wing.
The ball snapped through hands like lightning.
Asahi jumped the lane—no!
Kaito at the top of the arc.
Just enough to bait a late contest—
A silence, just for a second—
Then the gym erupted.
They couldn’t believe it.
A small-ball Horizon had cut through their defense like a knife through silk.
And worse—they weren’t cracking.
Kido barreled toward the paint again, fists clenched, shoulders low.
They had one plan now:
175cm of stubborn will—stood tall.
He threw his entire weight into the clash.
Just raw, desperate defense.
The thud echoed as chest met shoulder—
Dirga came flying from the weak side to secure it.
As the players jogged back, sweat dripping like rain from their chins, Rakuzan gathered for a whisper.
"Asahi," Tsukasa hissed, catching his breath. "They’re holding... we can’t break them with the paint alone."
Asahi’s eyes locked onto one man.
"...Then we don’t go through the paint," Asahi said coldly. "We go through him."
He looked up the court, watching Kaito retreat.
The boy was focused, but his movements were tight.
His footwork clean, but—
"We press Kaito. Full court." Asahi ordered.
"Make him run. Make him think."
Tsukasa raised a brow. "Same as before?"
Asahi’s smile was razor thin. "Exactly. He’s got a weak heart. They’ll have to sub him out."
Dirga brought it up, quick but steady.
Subtle nudges just beneath the whistle.
Kaito caught the ball on the wing—
Reiji closed fast. Too fast.
Kaito stumbled—regained control.
Sweat beaded on his brow.
Dirga barked out: "Swing it!"
Kaito passed—then immediately cut.
Two defenders on him now without the ball.
They wanted to wear him down.
He shifted the formation, delayed just half a beat—
Enough time for Hiroki to get open.
But they’d spent energy. Chased shadows.
And though Kaito missed—
He held his chest, steadying his breath, but he didn’t look to the bench.
But with every step forward, the trap moved with him—coiled, coiled...
He called for the switch.
Exactly who they wanted.
Tsukasa dragged him to the wing. Big vs small.
No screen needed. Just speed and space.
Taiga stood his ground.
Coach Tsugawa clenched his jaw from the sideline.
"He’s walking a tightrope," the commentator whispered.
"One wrong move, and Horizon’s paint is done."
Dirga caught the outlet. He scanned—eyes twitching side to side.
Kaito sprinted. Hands up. Caught the pass—
Pressed. Immediately.
Reiji and Kido crashed on him like wolves.
One reached in. The other bumped his hip.
But coughed out a wheeze after the hit.
Still moving. Still upright.
But the press was getting to him.
Asahi again. Slow. Measured.
He was orchestrating like a surgeon.
This time a quick slip pass into the paint.
Taiga jumped with him—
First foul of the quarter.
One more Foul at it ended
Next Horizon Possession
Kaito got the inbound.
The Rakuzan bench yelled, "PRESS!"
"Back! Back!" Dirga shouted, swinging behind to help.
Kaito made the pass but his steps slowed.
Dirga got the ball, reversed to Hiroki.
Rakuzan tried to bait contact again—
But Horizon avoided it like a dance.
Clean movement. Measured rhythm.
Every foul Rakuzan wanted to fish—was a ghost in their hands.
The game is electrifying—Rakuzan’s relentless press is suffocating, while Horizon fights desperately to break through and score. Every possession is a war, with Rakuzan crashing the paint like a storm, determined to dominate.