Chapter 114: Chapter 114

Third Quarter Begins.

The stadium buzzed. A low hum of tension ran through the bleachers—nerves, cheers, hope—flickering like static before the storm broke again.

Horizon’s five stepped out: Kaito at the helm—eyes sharp, breath calm. Rei, ready at the wing. Aizawa, flexing his wrists, shaking loose the cold. Taiga, silent and square-shouldered. Rikuya, patrolling the paint like a sentinel.

Kaito received the inbound.

No slow build-up. No setup.

Like a slingshot had let loose.

As soon as he crossed the half-court line—

Set like a wall. An early screen. Tight. Precise.

A glitch in their rhythm.

Kaito burst off the screen—

Acceleration. Like a gear kicked into overdrive.

Defenders scrambled, unsure whether to switch or fight through.

Kaito reached the elbow.

A clean mid-range jumper.

The net snapped back like a whip.

Masaki wiped his palms on his shorts.

He stepped toward Yuto for the inbound.

"Give it," he said, low and steady.

Yuto didn’t speak. He just nodded—

Because they both felt it.

Kaito’s jumper wasn’t just two points—

A fissure in the tempo Toyonaka had crafted, possession by possession, like a layered symphony.

Masaki caught the ball.

Every angle. Every shadow.

Cross. Left. Hezi. Snap.

But Taiga didn’t bite.

He slid with him, sharp, deliberate—

Because before the quarter began, Dirga whispered something.

"Masaki loves the pause. Don’t bite it—mirror it."

Still, Masaki was Masaki.

A storm doesn’t stop. It breaks through.

A shoulder dip and torque of speed—

He surged past Taiga.

But Rikuya was waiting.

Towering. Silent. Steady.

Masaki stepped—fake shot.

Rikuya didn’t flinch.

Because Dirga told him, too.

"Don’t jump first. Let Masaki show you his hand."

Turn. Pivot. Shoulder fake.

Rikuya remained planted, arms wide, presence like a wall that refused to crack.

Trying to go low, into a post-up move.

But that was Rikuya’s world.

You don’t win using his weapon.

Masaki glanced—first time this game—

And saw Yuto slipping behind.

The crowd murmured. That was rare.

The black thunder—passing?

Rei reached. Slid. Missed.

Masaki reversed direction—

Air beneath his feet.

Eyes locked on the rim.

A beautiful sequence.

A rare collaboration.

It exposed something.

Masaki had to pass to score.

Still on the bench, towel over his head, chest heaving,

Eyes sharp despite the fatigue.

That subtle hesitation. That pass.

A crack in the thunder.

Kaito caught the inbound pass and flowed forward like water under pressure—

Wide open in the corner.

The pass shot through the air like a sniper bullet.

Catch. Gather. Rise. Shoot—

Like a shadow erupting from the ground, his palm smacked the ball mid-air.

The ball scattered loose.

Taiga was already there.

Snatching it from the scramble like a lion pouncing on prey.

Masaki lunged in—of course he would—

Trying to wrench it away.

But Rikuya set a fast screen—blunt and solid.

The pass threaded through the defense like a blade.

Yuto came flying from behind.

Haruto scooped the rebound.

Black Thunder returned.

Sprinting down the court with only one thing in his eyes: the rim.

But Taiga wouldn’t let it happen again.

But Taiga had learned.

Masaki clicked into a floater—

Mid-air finesse, his signature—

But Taiga had already launched—

Another shift. Another roar.

In just thirty seconds—

Possession changed three times.

The game wasn’t just fast.

It was violent. Brilliant. Blazing.

The court was on fire.

From the Horizon bench, Dirga’s fingers curled into his towel.

He smiled through the breathlessness.

"Let’s keep setting it ablaze."

At least a pause to breathe.

A moment to recalibrate.

But the game didn’t allow it.

The third quarter had just begun—

And already it was a blur of motion, heat, and adrenaline.

Shunpei tossed the ball to Yuto, who immediately scanned the floor.

But Yuto rejected it.

Slashed into the paint himself.

A wall of muscle and timing.

Yuto bailed mid-step—

Quick swing to Daichi.

Hiroki hammered a screen for Masaki, who darted around it like lightning.

Masaki. Elbow. Rise. Fire.

The ball hit the rim—

Taiga and Rikuya locked into the paint.

Haruto wedged in like a tank from the weak side.

Crowd holding their breath.

And the paint exploded.

Bodies crashed. Elbows flew. Shoes screeched.

Rose like a mountain through the chaos.

Snatched the ball with two hands, ripped it down, and turned—

And then it was a sprint.

Aizawa took off like he was shot from a cannon.

No defenders behind him.

Whether it was fatigue, hesitation, or just the overwhelming pace—

Toyonaka couldn’t catch him.

One step. Two. Layup.

The game’s intensity kept climbing.

Like a fever without a ceiling.

Every possession stretched—

Drawn-out battles of footwork, grit, and timing.

In the next three minutes, only four more baskets fell.

Sweat dripping like rain.

Breathing turning into growls.

Kaito start to breath heavily hand gripping his chest.

His shoulders rose and fell in shallow bursts.

The General had run through his own limits.