Chapter 116: Chapter 116

The Horizon bench gathered like a weathered army regrouping before the final charge.

Legs ached like rusted metal.

Sayaka, ever reliable, moved between them like a medic in the trenches—

Handing out bottles, slinging towels over shoulders, her voice soft but steady.

"Here. Water. Breathe, okay? You’re not machines."

But they were damn close to becoming one.

Coach Tsugawa’s voice cut through the fog.

"You need to slow down. Stop letting them bait you."

The players raised their heads—exhausted, wired, blood still pumping too fast.

"When you play at their speed, your focus slips. And when focus slips—

Dirga wiped his face, breathing through clenched teeth.

His vision still buzzing from Godframe.

His fingers twitched like they hadn’t left the court yet.

Coach’s eyes locked with his.

Not angry. Not panicked.

Just heavy—like someone trusting him with everything.

You control the tempo.

Don’t let them dictate the rhythm.

Dirga nodded, jaw tightening.

His mind screamed to answer the chaos head-on.

His body burned to match the storm with fire.

But that wasn’t what the team needed.

"Last quarter." Coach’s voice grew firmer. Sharper. A command.

"We play our game. Slow, focused, precise. If the shot isn’t clean—don’t force it. Reset. Breathe. Control."

"Kaito comes in at SG.

Dirga, you stay at point.

Rikuya holds the paint."

His voice lowered—but the weight behind it only grew heavier.

Remember why we’re here."

The word hit like a match to dry wood.

"Yessh, Coach!" they shouted, almost in unison.

Tired voices, but voices still filled with fight.

As the buzzer for the final quarter echoed across the gym, Dirga stepped toward the scorer’s table.

The lights glared down like spotlights on a stage.

And in the sea of noise, one sound rose above the rest—

Standing in the front row of the Horizon crowd, arms raised high.

Leading the students in rhythm and fire.

Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap.

Dirga exhaled, deeper this time.

His fingers curled around the ball.

As if gripping the pulse of the game itself.

The fourth quarter had begun.

Horizon wouldn’t be dancing to Toyonaka’s music.

They would write their own.

No one in the gym knew how this would end.

Only one thing was certain—

Something was about to break.

Toyonaka opened the quarter.

Yuto inbounded, a quick flick to Masaki.

No hesitation. No wasted motion.

And from the moment the ball touched his hands—

Something in Masaki clicked.

His body moved the same,

but his presence was different.

Like a predator who had finally stopped playing.

Taiga stepped up—ready.

But even he could sense it.

That weight. That surge.

That silent pressure radiating off Masaki’s frame.

A cold battlefield drawn on the hardwood.

Taiga stayed grounded.

No reaction. Taiga didn’t bite.

A sudden step-back, followed by an explosive first step forward.

Masaki turned his back, shifting into a post-up, body low, elbows wide.

He began bullying his way in.

But Masaki was 190 cm (six-foot-three) of raw power, fluid muscle, and controlled violence.

Every push came with a grind of sneakers.

Every pivot was a slam of shoulder into chest.

Taiga was tough—but Masaki was heavy.

One flash of movement.

Rikuya rotated to contest.

Masaki leaned into the contact, body absorbing the blow mid-air—

Then released a fading, off-balance shot over the reach of the big man.

Just the ball through net and the dull thump of landing feet.

Taiga grimaced, chest rising and falling like a piston.

From the top of the key, he saw it in Masaki’s eyes.

That wasn’t just a play.

That was a statement.

Because he’d seen it before.

Masaki wasn’t just trying to win.

A monster in the making.

What Dirga remembered about Masaki—

From a past life, once as a teammate, once as a rival—

was more than just his power or his speed.

Masaki King—a Japanese-African American hybrid with the fire of two worlds—

had played in the U.S., trained under Division I intensity.

He’d once told the team:

"I’ll only stay in Japan for a year.

Then I’m heading back. NBA’s the real goal."

But in Dirga’s past life, he’d stayed.

Even into his second year.

And after Horizon’s rough first season, he returned with fury—

Brought them to the Inter-High Final.

Then left for the States.

It felt like Masaki was chasing something more than just a win.

He can’t go back to the States empty-handed,

He can’t call himself NBA-bound if he can’t even take Japan’s crown.

Like a hero climbing through stages—

Masaki was leveling up.

It wasn’t just a game anymore.

It was his trial by fire.

He tightened the laces in his mind.

This wasn’t third-quarter chaos anymore.

He wouldn’t let that pace happen again.

Everyone’s gas tank was sputtering.

If they hit that same tempo again—

[Active Skill 1 – Maestro State]

"Usable once per half – 60 seconds."

It hit him like stepping into clear water.

His vision didn’t blur—

Everyone moved, but their actions felt traceable—predictable.

His instincts hummed in harmony with the rhythm of ten players.

The ball was an instrument.

And he was the conductor.

Dirga gave a subtle hand signal.

Nothing big. Just enough.

A brush of his wrist, a slight nod.

And Horizon responded—

Rikuya sprinted in to screen—

But Dirga rejected it, veering opposite.

He exploded toward the paint, low and tight,

Daichi rotating in panic.

But Haruto was waiting.

—Scan. Fast. Decision. Faster.

His eyes darted once—corner of the wing.

Toyonaka rotated—Masaki shifted to intercept.

Kaito flicked the ball across the arc—

Masaki lunged, footsteps thundering.

Masaki slammed into it, staggered just a second—