I Died on the Court, Now I'm Back to Rule It
Chapter 69: Horizon VS Rakuzan : No Place for the Weak 2

Chapter 69: Horizon VS Rakuzan : No Place for the Weak 2

Dirga come and stop Taiga

" Remember our strategy"

Dirga was furious—boiling inside. Every part of him screamed to lash out, to bark at the refs, to shove Reiji through a wall. His fists clenched, breath sharp, vision narrowing.

But he didn’t move.

Because he knew the truth.

Anger is a trap.

And Rakuzan had laid it perfectly.

They didn’t just play basketball. They played emotions, timing, pride. And if Horizon cracked—even for a second—it was over.

Dirga exhaled, slow and hard.

We’re not here to lose control.

We’re here to win.

The scoreboard ticked.

Rakuzan 6 – Horizon 4.

Asahi’s first free throw arced high—then dropped through without touching the rim.

7 – 4.

The crowd was feeding now—roaring, licking their lips at every call. This wasn’t just momentum.

This was control.

Possession resumed. Rakuzan didn’t slow down. They accelerated.

Tsukasa brought it up again, but this time, he didn’t even call a play. He glanced once at Reiji, and that was enough.

It was already in motion.

Reiji broke wide to the left wing. Horizon adjusted.

But as the pass came, Reiji did something small—barely noticeable.

He reached back, like the ball was mistimed.

And just as Taiga stepped up to intercept the passing lane, Reiji clipped his leg into Taiga’s stride.

Taiga tripped—half a second of imbalance.

Whistle.

Second foul.

Taiga.

"WHAT?!"

He was already spinning toward the ref—but Dirga was there in an instant.

Eyes locked. Calm. Steel.

"Taiga." His voice was sharp.

"Don’t. Let. Them. Win. In. Here." Dirga tapped his temple.

Taiga swallowed hard. Nodded. Backed away, jaw tight.

The Rakuzan bench?

They were laughing.

Reiji didn’t just bait fouls—he choreographed them.

Every stumble, every lean, every whisper—it was a weapon.

And now, Horizon’s power forward had two fouls in five minutes.

Coach Tsugawa had no choice.

Timeout.

The buzzer echoed like a slap.

As Horizon huddled, the camera panned across the court, catching every sweat-drenched expression.

This wasn’t just physical dominance.

It was psychological dismantling.

In the huddle, Coach Tsugawa’s voice was low but dangerous.

"We knew they’d pull this. This is Rakuzan’s signature. This isn’t new."

He looked straight at Dirga.

"We need you to flip it. Use their own game against them."

Dirga nodded once. Quiet. Eyes focused.

"Understood."

As the timeout ended, Dirga looked each of them in the eye—Taiga, Aizawa, Rikuya. Even Rei, quiet but focused, nodded back.

Taiga still bounced on his toes, coiled like a spring. Coach Tsugawa had trusted him to stay in the game, even with one foul. That faith meant something.

Dirga’s voice dropped, low and sharp. "Listen up. They’re not just playing the game—they’re controlling the tempo, the emotion. So we flip the script."

He turned to Rei.

"Set the double screen for Aizawa. Wait for the trap. We bait it, then slip behind it."

He motioned to Taiga.

"You play high and wide. Sell the screen, no contact. Just movement. Let them reach. We want the foul, not the fight."

Then to Rikuya—who was still smoldering but listening.

"They expect force. Don’t give it. You drop-step soft. You take that moment of balance, that crack in their wall—and break through."

Dirga stepped back. Voice iron.

"They want dirty?

We give them a clean kill."

The buzzer sounded.

Play resumed.

Dirga brought the ball up, Rakuzan’s Tsukasa already pressing, light on his feet, hands twitching. But Dirga wasn’t rattled.

He dribbled left—then cut back hard. Tsukasa shadowed him, fast, invasive.

But Dirga wasn’t looking to score.

He waited. Calculated.

Rei slipped to the wing, dragging Reiji with him. Aizawa curled wide, then dove—double screen from Rei and Taiga at the top of the arc.

It worked—Rakuzan hesitated.

Asahi darted in, expecting contact—but Taiga slipped away just as he reached. The trap missed.

Aizawa broke loose.

Dirga fired the pass—bullet clean.

Aizawa caught it mid-stride, rose, mid-range pull-up.

But...

Clang.

It hit back iron.

A beat of silence.

The play had worked—but the hesitation was still there.

Rakuzan didn’t wait.

The rebound barely touched the floor before Tsukasa launched the fast break. A full-court pass—laser straight—to Asahi.

Asahi didn’t even glance.

He caught and rose in one motion—Aizawa recovering, reaching—

Pump fake. Jump.

Contact.

Whistle.

First foul on Aizawa.

Horizon’s rhythm cracked again.

Coach Tsugawa’s head dropped.

Dirga called for the next possession. Slower now. More careful.

But the moment Taiga moved, Rakuzan sent two defenders at him—forcing the pass. Forcing the stall.

Every Horizon player was thinking now.

Not flowing.

Not reacting.

Thinking.

And that was the problem.

You could see it—

Not in mistakes, but in the microseconds that gave them away.

A cut that came half a beat late.

A screen held just a fraction too long.

A shot released with the faintest twitch of second-guessing in the wrist.

Their instincts—once sharp, natural, fluid—were now wrapped in doubt.

Like they didn’t trust the floor beneath their shoes anymore.

Would this pass get stolen?

Would this drive get blocked—or bait a flop?

Would the whistle even come when they needed it?

They weren’t just playing Rakuzan.

They were playing the shadows of Rakuzan—ghosts of contact that may or may not happen, fouls that might or might not be called.

The worst part?

Rakuzan wanted that.

They weren’t just pushing Horizon physically.

They were rewiring their timing. Poisoning their rhythm.

Little by little, Horizon’s players weren’t sure if they were in a basketball game...

or a trap with a hardwood floor.

And every second of hesitation...

Was another step closer to collapse.

Rikuya got the ball in the post again.

But instead of drop-stepping...

He paused. Waited for the double.

Too late.

Kido collapsed on him, ripped the ball loose—transition again.

Asahi flew.

Dirga sprinted to cover, made the switch—met Asahi midair.

They collided.

Whistle.

Blocking foul.

First foul on Dirga.

The first quarter bled away, possession by possession, Rakuzan taking every hesitation and weaponizing it.

By the end of the quarter, Horizon had executed three good plays.

But scored only once.

Rakuzan?

They scored off every mistake.

Scoreboard:

Rakuzan 21 – Horizon 11.

Dirga bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping down his jaw.

He didn’t look frustrated.

He looked like someone processing data.

Calculating.

Plotting.

Because despite the fouls, despite the chaos, despite the score—

Horizon hadn’t broken.

They were just... baited.