I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It
Chapter 60: Horizon VS Hyōgo Iron Giants : In the Paint 1

Chapter 60: Horizon VS Hyōgo Iron Giants : In the Paint 1

Score: Horizon 19 – Hyōgo 16

Every possession is a war.

They’re bruising us in the paint.

Not just physically. Psychologically.

Every dribble, every post entry, every pivot feels like we’re moving through sludge—thick, dragging, relentless.

It’s like trying to breathe underwater.

Their defense isn’t just pressure. It’s erosion.

They don’t need steals or blocks to win the mental battle.

They lean. They bump. They wait.

Every possession feels longer than the last.

And it’s not just the contact—it’s the weight of the game slowing down.

They’re dragging the tempo into their gravity.

Slower. Heavier.

Like wrestling in molasses, where every pass feels a second late and every decision feels rushed—because nothing’s clean anymore.

Coach Tsugawa claps calmly as we walk to the bench.

But his eyes are locked in. Scanning like sonar.

Not for what’s happening—but for what’s about to.

He sees the pressure building. So does Dirga.

Especially in Rikuya.

The signs are small, but real.

His jaw is tight. His shoulders sag just a little more with every trip down the floor.

He’s been battling double-teams like he’s in a foxhole, swinging elbows just to carve out a sliver of space.

Even with his size, even with his skill—

One-versus-two in the paint isn’t basketball.

It’s survival.

And the bruises?

They’re starting to show in ways that don’t show up on the scoreboard.

The bench is still hot from the first quarter.

But now?

Now it simmers with frustration.

The second quarter won’t be about adjustments or pretty sets.

It’ll be about fire.

It’s going to burn.

"Start the second quarter, Kaito," Coach Tsugawa says, voice steady.

"Okay," Kaito nods, standing up without hesitation.

Focused. Sharp. Ready.

The whistle blows.

The horn sounds.

The game restarts.

And the pain begins.

...

The second quarter begins with bruises and breath.

We knew the paint would be a war zone. We just didn’t know how deep the trenches went.

Renji doesn’t hesitate.

He catches the ball on the low block, bodying Taiga with two dribbles and a shoulder slam.

Pivot.

Jump hook.

Net.

19 – 18.

Kenta clears out Rikuya completely—boxes him out like he’s removing furniture.

It’s surgical.

Hyōgo isn’t just attacking the paint.

They’re living in it. Owning it.

They’re making us pay for every inch with skin.

Their message is clear: the Iron Giants are going to live in the paint—and make us bleed for every inch.

Rikuya takes the ball at the top of the key. Spins baseline on Kenta, trying to use finesse over force.

But Kenta holds his ground like concrete.

The shot clanks off iron.

Renji gobbles up the board.

Another transition. Another inside feed.

This time, it’s Kenta. Drop step. One bounce.

He buries an elbow into Aizawa’s chest.

Boom.

Bucket.

19 – 20.

Their first lead—and it lands like a punch to the gut.

We can feel the arena shift. It’s subtle. Not a roar. But a hush. The kind of quiet that comes when something inevitable begins.

Hyōgo’s post rhythm is like a boa constrictor.

Slow. Methodical.

And suffocating.

They don’t rush, They don’t panic They lean. Don’t force. They grind you down. Make you inhale their tempo. Choke on it.

Every entry pass, every backdown—it’s like watching a boa constrict.

Coach Tsugawa doesn’t call timeout.

Not yet.

We grind back.

Kaito regathers, slowing the game.

We run a curl set—Kenta is forced out.

Rikuya slips under, catches low, power gathers, and bang—gets hit mid-air.

And-one.

21 – 20.

Rikuya lands hard, grits his teeth, jaw tight.

No limping.

That’s the quarter in a sentence:

Grit your teeth.

Hold your ground.

Survive.

The lead swings back and forth, not on flashy plays, but on tip-ins, contested putbacks, drawn charges, blocked floaters. The highlight reel is gone. This is basketball with dirt under its nails.

Rei dives for a loose ball and gets kneed in the ribs.

Aizawa gets elbowed on a drive—no call.

Even Kaito, calm as ever, throws a rare grimace after Renji bulldozes through a hedge screen.

It’s not just the Takasugi brothers.

Their whole team is crashing.

Their shooting guard boxes out like a power forward.

Even Takeru’s fighting for tip-ins.

They don’t just want to win this quarter.

They want to break us here.

And as the quarter ticks past the three-minute mark, our breathing starts to stutter.

Dirga sits quietly, towel around his shoulders, eyes sharp.

Coach Tsugawa watches him from the corner of his eye.

"You realize something?" he asks.

Dirga nods.

"Yeah."

Tsugawa doesn’t hesitate.

"Go in."

He stands and signals the substitution.

Kaito comes out. Dirga checks in.

...

As soon as Dirga steps onto the court, the noise seems to dim—not because the crowd is quiet, but because his mind enters that strange zone again.

Tempo Sight.

Everything slows down, every motion sharper, more exaggerated. The shuffle of sneakers on polished wood. The pulse of tension running through each player’s frame. The way sweat traces down foreheads like ticking clocks. And the prespective change like a TV

Where time stretches. Where seconds feel like minutes. Where every detail sharpens:

The squeak of sneakers on polished wood.

The glisten of sweat trailing down temples like ticking clocks.

The twitch of fingers. The coil of tension in calves. The sway of defensive hips.

The Giants are daring them to play physical again. To muscle up. To grind.

But that’s not Horizon’s way.

They don’t need to crash bodies to break defenses.

They have space. They have rhythm.

And they have shooters.

Dirga doesn’t shout. He doesn’t wave.

He simply slides into position. Reads the angles. Watches the seams between defenders like he’s tracing threads in a web.

Then—he moves.

He dribbles up with calm command. Doesn’t over-dribble. Doesn’t rush.

Just enough bounce to bring gravity toward him.

Then—he looks at Rikuya. Gives a quick sign.

A flick of the eyes. A twitch of the fingers. playing together For severel month packed into one signal.

Rikuya sees it. Understands immediately.

He shifts—moving from the low post to the high arc.

A center turned point.

Kenta trails him. Surprised. Not sure if he should switch or follow.

But he follows.

Man-to-man.

Exactly what they wanted.

Rikuya catches the ball from Dirga and pivots.

Now he’s the hub.

Rei curls in from the wing, tight around Rikuya’s shoulder.

Perfect timing.

The handoff comes clean—Rikuya to Rei—right as Kenta hesitates, thinking screen or switch.

But it’s both.

Rikuya hands the ball off and sets a hard shoulder screen in one motion.

Kenta is caught.

Rei bursts free. Top of the key. One dribble. He gathers. Elevates.

Pull-up jumper. Smooth. Balanced.

Bang.

28 – 26.

Takeru feeds Kenta deep in the block. Rikuya leans in.

Too much.

Kenta lobs it over—Renji skies in.

Slam.

28 – 28.

The scream shakes the gym.

And the score is tie

That scream doesn’t shake Dirga. It focuses him.