I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It-Chapter 154: Horizon vs. Kurotsuki : The Quarter Composed 2

And laid it in.

Smooth. Silent. Precise.

21 – 11.

"KUROTSUKI REPLIES—SILENT BUT SHARP!"

"TANIGUCHI NEVER LOOKED AT THE RIM—AND YET THE ENTIRE DEFENSE DANCED TO HIS TEMPO!"

...

Kaito backpedaled.

Jaw clenched.

He hadn’t been beat.

Not directly.

But he felt it.

That old rhythm.

That subtle gravity.

The way Taniguchi didn’t move bodies—he moved decisions.

"You’re still doing it," Kaito thought.

"Still playing like the court belongs to you."

Horizon possession.

Kaito raised his hand.

Flat. Firm.

Not desperate.

Not angry.

Grounded.

"Ball."

Dirga didn’t hesitate.

He trusted Kaito like he trusted the rim.

Snap pass.

Top arc.

Isolation.

But this wasn’t a grudge play.

This wasn’t ego.

This was a rally flag.

Kaito squared his shoulders.

Taniguchi stepped up. Not pressing.

Just present.

Just waiting.

Behind him, Kurotsuki’s defense shifted like shadow on water.

Not a box.

Not a zone.

A maze.

Toshiro drifted inside the elbow.

Not to help.

To warp space.

Sho hovered in the low post.

Calm. Still.

Like gravity pretending to nap.

And Taniguchi?

Didn’t even blink.

Kaito dribbled.

Once.

Twice.

Then a low cross.

Attack.

Left step—sharp.

Toshiro twitched forward, baited.

Exactly as expected.

Plant. Reverse.

Cut back right.

Slip angle—tight. Narrow. Surgical.

Kaito entered the lane with conviction.

No glance. No pump.

Sho rotated—

Not to swat.

To close.

But Kaito didn’t hesitate.

Float pass—clean—behind the defense.

Aizawa.

Backdoor cut.

Caught.

Gather.

Layup attempt—

Toshiro came late—

Contested.

Clang.

Missed.

Sho secured the rebound.

But the crowd didn’t gasp.

And the bench didn’t sag.

Because that wasn’t a broken play.

That was a message.

"Kaito didn’t score—

But he cracked the perimeter!"

"The Maze bent. That was pressure with purpose!"

...

Taniguchi walked the ball up.

Breathing even.

Controlled.

But his fingers twitched.

Just once.

A flicker.

Kurotsuki possession.

The ball floated into Eiji’s hands like it was returning home.

No urgency.

No fatigue.

Just rhythm—

like he was humming the melody of a song only he remembered.

But this time—

he didn’t orchestrate.

He deferred.

Taniguchi.

Wing. Left side.

And the entire gym felt it.

The subtle shift in the air.

The unspoken alert pulsing beneath the hardwood.

Everyone knew what that meant.

Kaito’s eyes narrowed.

"So you’re finally ready."

Taniguchi didn’t posture.

Didn’t flare out his stance.

Didn’t call for space.

He just held the ball,

like it belonged to him—

like the game did.

Kaito dropped into his stance.

Low. Balanced.

Eyes locked.

Ready for anything—

Except silence.

Because Taniguchi didn’t jab.

Didn’t fake.

Didn’t twitch.

He just stared past Kaito—

past the now—

to the arc.

To a space that hadn’t opened yet.

Then it did.

A ripple in the zone.

Not loud. Not sudden.

Just inevitable.

Toshiro set a brush screen—

Not on Kaito.

On Aizawa.

A hitch. A drag. A wrinkle.

Half a second.

Enough.

Taniguchi exploded left.

One stride.

Pull-up.

Kaito reacted—

Quick. Sharp.

But Taniguchi wasn’t reacting.

He was composing.

The shot left his fingertips

before Kaito’s arm rose.

Before the contest even formed.

A high arc.

No emotion.

No flare.

Just function.

Net. Clean.

21 – 13.

Taniguchi didn’t celebrate.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t even blink.

He just turned.

Jogged back.

Expression flat.

Like the shot had never left his hands.

...

Dirga tapped the ball.

A calm thud as it bounced into his hands.

Clock ticking.

Momentum shifting—

but not leaning.

It bled both ways now.

Dirga scanned.

Reset the tempo.

"We’re not breaking this one-on-one," he snapped, low and tight.

"They’re closing lanes before they even open."

Kaito looked up.

Eyes clear. Voice even.

"I’ll draw."

Dirga blinked.

"What?"

"They want me to shoot? Fine."

"I’ll bait the next trap."

A beat.

Then a nod.

No more questions.

Play called.

Kaito floated to the wing.

Smooth. Controlled.

Taniguchi didn’t flinch.

Didn’t chase.

He just waited.

Anchor-still.

Dirga passed it anyway.

Kaito jabbed—sharp.

Drove baseline.

Sho didn’t commit.

Stayed vertical. Measured.

Toshiro ghosted low—

Appeared from the blindside.

Trap trigger.

Kaito didn’t panic.

Didn’t fight it.

He spun—fluid.

And passed—

behind the back. No look. Early.

Aizawa.

Flash cut.

Catch.

Gather.

Rise.

Bang.

23 – 13.

Crisp. Clinical.

No overplay.

No excess.

Just precision under pressure.

...

Kurotsuki Ball.

Eiji walked it forward—slow.

Measured.

Deliberate.

But this time, it wasn’t Taniguchi sliding into the frame.

It was Toshiro.

Not just a screener.

Not just a shadow.

Now?

A conductor without a baton.

First, a brush screen for Ryōta—casual, harmless.

Then a slip back—like a decoy.

Dirga switched without hesitation.

But that was the bait.

The real sequence was already unwinding.

Suddenly, Sho stepped up.

Not charging.

Not imposing.

Just there—

Big. Silent. Stationary.

A wall with timing instead of arms.

Ryōta curled tight around him,

pivoted,

ducked,

cut back out—

And the pass didn’t go with him.

It went in.

Sho caught it.

But he didn’t rise.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t flex.

He just held it.

Like a monk holding breath.

Rikuya rotated in.

Low stance. Ready. Braced for collision.

But Sho didn’t deliver contact.

He delivered silence.

A pause—

A breath—

Then: reverse pivot.

A ghost step.

Just one.

But enough.

Rikuya flinched.

Just a twitch.

Just enough to shift his center.

Sho lifted—

Soft jumper. Off-glass.

Clean.

23 – 15.

"He doesn’t power through you," Aizawa muttered, eyes still pinned to the paint.

"He waits for your balance to betray you."

Dirga nodded.

Just once. Quiet. Certain.

Sho didn’t block air.

He made you doubt it.

...

Next Horizon Possession

Dirga called for a shift.

A change of tempo.

A crack in the rhythm.

Flare screen—Aizawa.

Catch. Turn. Square.

Pump fake.

Toshiro bit—

No.

He didn’t.

He drifted.

Not off balance.

Just off-angle.

Didn’t jump.

Didn’t even flinch.

He just pulled the drive arc five inches too far.

Like a painter moving the canvas.

Aizawa stepped—

And realized.

Too late.

Sho rotated up.

Not charging.

Not swatting.

Just existing—

Like gravity in a jersey.

Aizawa went up—

Floaty. Twisting.

Awkward.

Clank.

Rebound—Sho.

Outlet—clean as rainfall.

Kurotsuki pushed.

Dirga sprinted back.

But the break?

Not fast.

Measured.

Toshiro jogged middle.

Crossed left.

Then stopped.

Mid-transition.

Eiji slowed.

Held the ball.

Sho sealed—soft.

Not a hammer.

Just a shoulder.

Just enough.

Taniguchi backpedaled to the wing.

Drifted into place.

A triangle formed.

Silent.

Precise.

Like a pressure cooker with no steam.

Then—

Snap.

Eiji drove baseline.

Sho nudged Rikuya—just enough.

Dirga pinched.

Rotated hard.

Too hard.

Toshiro lifted.

Late. Quiet.

Caught it mid-step.

Mid-range.

No gather.

No arc.

Just release.

Like slipping a knife between pages.

Swish.

23 – 17.

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