Chapter 144: Chapter 144

Minato glanced at him from across the court.

Just the smallest nod.

Something between recognition... and warning.

Gaito brought the ball up—fingers tight on the seams.

His dribble wasn’t loose anymore. It was loaded.

Dirga shadowed him just past the arc. Calm. Calculating.

Gaito passed to Haru. Swing to Minato—top of the key.

Minato caught, squared, and attacked—

But Aizawa was glued to him.

No bite. No overstep.

Minato released anyway—

The rebound arced high.

Rikuya boxed out clean, elbows wide.

Caught it. Secured. Flipped it to Dirga.

Dirga crossed halfcourt and slowed.

He raised one hand. No words. Only signal.

Taiga responded—slipped screen high.

Rei cut baseline, pulling Haru with him.

The Wolves tried to rotate.

Then whipped it right.

Aizawa burst into the seam—catching it mid-stride.

One controlled dribble.

"Back-to-back buckets for Aizawa!"

"He’s not chasing Minato anymore—he’s owning his lane!"

"This is Aizawa’s rhythm now. And it’s beautiful."

Minato took it in stride.

Drove straight into Aizawa’s chest.

But Aizawa slid with him—shoulder low, eyes fixed.

Minato stopped short—fadeaway—

He passed out to Gaito.

Dirga rotated instantly.

Gaito called for a screen—but Horizon read it before he even planted.

Taiga hedged high. Rei rotated out.

Gaito forced a bullet pass—left corner.

Too sharp. Too early.

Dirga jumped it like he had magnetism in his ribs.

Dirga didn’t break into a show.

No flashy behind-the-back.

He felt the defenders behind.

He felt Aizawa—sprinting alongside like a shadow reborn.

At the free-throw line, Dirga stopped short.

Dropped the ball behind him like a surgeon setting a blade on the tray.

Aizawa caught it full-speed.

High kiss off the glass.

"This is no longer a comeback—

It’s a resurrection!"

"Horizon’s not clinging on. They’re taking control. They’re punching back!"

Aizawa landed on the baseline and turned.

He didn’t look at Minato.

Because for the first time...

Minato brought the ball up slowly. Deliberate. Grounded.

Passed to Haru, then ghosted to the top of the arc.

Gaito looped through the baseline—screens flickering like a carousel—but didn’t get the ball.

The Wolves were adapting. Trying to flex.

Minato raised a single finger.

No help. No switch. Just him.

Minato jab-stepped hard—testing balance.

Aizawa didn’t twitch.

Minato spun on his heel—quick, sharp.

Aizawa rose with him—but the release was clean.

48 – 51. Wolves back in front.

Minato landed, chest heaving.

But he didn’t celebrate.

Dirga brought it up—slower than before.

Like a conductor returning for the final stanza.

The tempo dropped, but the precision sharpened.

Rei flared out right, dragging Haru with him.

Dirga drove hard—hips low, footwork perfect.

Rei caught it on the move.

"Horizon ties it again!"

"Rei steps in like a ghost behind the stars—and cashes in!"

Next Wolves possession.

Gaito tapped his chest. Called a zipper cut.

Riku stepped in for the screen.

But Taiga stepped out early—cutting the passing lane.

The angle disappeared.

Gaito stuttered. Tried to pivot.

But the rhythm was gone.

Already reading the misfire.

He exploded from the wing.

The Wolves scrambled back.

Up the court in three strides.

At the free-throw line, he stopped.

Dirga dumped it back—blind.

Step through the middle.

53 – 51. Horizon leads.

Scouts in the rafters leaned in.

Even the broadcast team fell silent for a breath.

Minato stood beneath the rim, hands on his hips, watching.

"Finally..." he said under his breath.

"You stopped chasing."

His voice didn’t carry.

But Aizawa heard it anyway.

"And now..." Minato added, softer still.

The court didn’t feel like a gym anymore.

It felt like something older.

A battlefield shaped by breath and silence and blood-pounding instinct.

Just two sides locked in a rhythm war.

And the crowd, caught in the heartbeat between every pass.

Minato inbounded to Gaito.

The ball slapped his palms.

Gaito caught it, but not like before.

No storm in his step.

Only steel—and fatigue.

The Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. Still focused. Still reading.

But the rhythm of his dribble?

Dirga saw it instantly.

Gaito had set the tempo for thirty minutes—sacrificed stamina to orchestrate destruction.

Now the tempo was Dirga’s.

Dirga didn’t press full court.

He just shadowed—subtle steps, off-angle positioning.

Gaito passed to Minato—right wing.

And like magnets, Aizawa was already there.

This time—he didn’t jab.

Low. Shoulders square.

He stayed low, chest locked.

Aizawa didn’t guess—he reacted.

Aizawa went with him.

Minato twisted and flipped it high.

The ball kissed the glass and dropped in.

Minato jogged back, chest rising with slow control.

Their eyes met briefly at halfcourt.

Aizawa didn’t flinch.