"…just a little more," Dirga whispered, eyes glassy, locked somewhere between the real and unreal.
"Maestro state."
"Tempo sight."
A thousand rhythms collided inside him.
Footsteps. Screeches. The crowd.
Every sound became a signal.
Every motion a melody.
If he could find the thread—
The perfect tempo—
He wouldn't just read the court.
He would own it.
Next play.
Dirga waved off the set.
No play. No help.
Isolation.
Silence.
The gym held its breath.
Just him.
And Asahi.
The air between them pulsed.
Two generals.
Two monsters.
Two visions of the game.
Asahi stepped in, close—too close.
Hands low. Shoulders tense.
His stance was perfect.
Too perfect.
Dirga felt it.
The foul wrapped in formality.
The illegal dressed in technique.
The ref swallowed his whistle—
Again.
Dirga didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't care.
His sight changed.
His tempo shattered.
And rebuilt itself—faster, wilder, free.
Step-over.
Hesi.
Shoulder drop.
Crossover.
