It wasn’t the twenty-point cushion from earlier.
But a lead... was a lead.
Still, the pressure inside Horizon’s huddle felt heavier than the scoreboard.
Because the truth was simple—and dangerous:
They still hadn’t cracked Seiryuu’s code.
And now, they were out of time.
Coach Tsugawa crouched in front of the players, his voice calm but edged with urgency.
"This is our final quarter," he began. "And the only way we’re winning this... is by throwing something Seiryuu hasn’t fully prepared for."
Eyes turned toward him. Even the tired ones sharpened.
"We’ll open with Small Ball," Tsugawa continued. "They’ve seen glimpses of it before. But not enough to map it. Not enough to predict it."
He turned to Kaito, who’d just rejoined the team after a short rest.
Kaito nodded, still winded, but eyes focused.
"I’m good. Believe in me, Coach."
"I do," Tsugawa said. Then pointed.
"Our lineup: Kaito at point guard. Dirga at shooting guard. Hiroki on the wing. Aizawa at the four. Taiga down low at center. Rikuya, you’ll sit for now."
Dirga nodded, already visualizing the play.
Tsugawa’s voice dropped a little—lower, steadier.
"Dirga, I want you to move like we’ve done before in this formation. But this time—look for Rei. Work the screens. Get open. Get him open. Whatever it takes. Everyone else—scramble their reads. Make their data useless."
"I believe in all of you. Play smart. Play free."
A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" echoed back.
As Horizon broke the huddle, Dirga glanced toward Seiryuu’s bench.
Focused like snipers.
Seta and Teshima didn’t say a word. Their eyes were locked on the floor, their fingers twitching as if running invisible plays.
They weren’t just ready.
They were in the zone.
Dirga stepped onto the court. The polished wood beneath his sneakers felt warmer now, the crowd a muted roar behind his heartbeat. He could feel the weight of it—
Just one more match to reach the finals.
Just one quarter left to survive.
It doesn’t matter if Seiryuu reads us.
It doesn’t matter if they know our habits.
Our cuts. Our spacing. Our plays.
As long as we keep scoring.
As long as we stay one step ahead—
Even by one point... we win.
So don’t overthink it.
And the final battle began.
The air in the gym thickened—heavy, electric, like a storm was about to break. Every squeak of sneakers echoed louder. Every breath was drawn sharper. Sweat ran like raindrops down foreheads, but no one wiped it away. Eyes locked. Muscles clenched.
Teshima brought the ball up slowly, but his mind moved faster than light. His pupils shrank, scanning, calculating—like a processor absorbing raw input. His steps were calm, but his presence radiated pressure.
Looking for the gap. The fracture. The flaw.
But Horizon didn’t break.
Their legs burned. Their lungs clawed for oxygen. But their eyes—
Their eyes were burning.
This was the end. And if they were going down, they’d do it dragging Seiryuu into the abyss with them.
The court turned into a kaleidoscope of motion.
Not brute force. Not sheer speed.
Just rhythm. Timing. Instinct.
Quicker. Cleaner. Sharper.
Switches snapped like whip cracks.
Rotations twisted mid-breath.
The defense played like a jazz band deep in improvisation—chaotic on the surface, but perfectly in tune underneath.
Teshima moved like a machine.
But even machines ran on human rules.
And humans could bleed.
Taiga sagged—just enough to clog the channel.
And then, like jaws closing—
Teshima pivoted, eyes flaring.
Outlet to Seta on the wing.
The ball ricocheted like a loose bolt.
Taiga leapt. Snatched.
No commands. No signals.
Kaito pushed the ball up, but Dirga was already moving—blurring past the corner of vision like a shadow slipping between realities.
Rei curved off Aizawa’s off-ball screen like silk on glass.
Dirga wrapped low under the baseline, dragging both Mikami and Teshima into hesitation.
Split-second confusion.
That was all they needed.
Rei burst out of the arc.
The net snapped like a gunshot.
The crowd erupted—thunder behind it, echoing through the rafters.
But before the cheers could settle,
Seta’s inbound pass cut through the air like a shotgun blast.
No hesitation. No breath. Just execution.
They knew Horizon was using their last burst of stamina on offense.
They knew the press defense came at a cost.
They knew the court was exposed—just for a moment.
And they were waiting.
Teshima was already downcourt.
Already loading the shot.
Like a ghost slipping through blind spots.
Catch. Plant. Pull-up.
The release was quick. Smooth.
Like it had already happened in his mind five seconds ago.
The ball didn’t even brush the rim.
Just like that, the lead that felt earned with blood and sweat...
He just nodded once—like someone acknowledging a worthy move.
Ball in. Kaito pushed.
Taiga trailed, bruising through the middle. Hiroki dragged Mikami wide.
But this play wasn’t drawn on paper.
A jazz beat, off-rhythm and improvisational.
Dirga slid to the wing.
Rei looped again, curling like vapor through screens.
Kaito faked the drive—dumped it to Dirga. One bounce, quick release.
The crowd erupted again—but softer now.
A storm under tension.
Because everyone could feel it:
Seiryuu wasn’t shaken.
They weren’t rattled.
They were calculating.
Seta brought it up—calm, like a surgeon entering a familiar operating room.
The ball moved like clockwork.
Kaito drove hard, kicked out to Hiroki—
Pump fake. Step-through. Floater—
But his landing wasn’t as light this time. His legs—heavier.
His chest—rising just a little faster.
He could feel the end of his second wind approaching.
Seta to Fujisawa on the roll.
Taiga rotated too late—slam.
Next trip: Horizon rushed it.
Dirga tried to improvise again—slipped past one, two defenders—but Seta was already there.
And for the first time since the first quarter... Seiryuu moved for the kill.
Teshima didn’t dribble like a guard now.
He moved like a predator.
Dirga stayed with him, but just a half-step late.
The silence between the sounds grew heavier.
Like everyone in the arena had started holding their breath.
Horizon tried to answer.
Dirga came off a stagger screen. Hiroki set a hard one—Rei delivered the pass.
Rebound—Fujisawa again.
Dirga chased, heart hammering, steps burning.
Seta passed early—Teshima, wide open on the wing.
The net barely fluttered, but the sound cracked through the air like a slap.
The scoreboard flipped.
For the first time since the first quarter...