Fourth Quarter – 10:00 Remaining
The sound in the arena shifted.
It wasn't cheering anymore.
It wasn't noise.
It was something deeper.
A hum. A pulse.
A rumble—low and slow, as if the earth itself was murmuring beneath their shoes.
A living, breathing heartbeat of thousands.
And beneath that thunder, there was something else.
Respect.
Not the kind you earned from popularity.
Not applause.
This was the kind of reverence saved for the final act. The last breath.
The moment just before something eternal is born.
No mascots. No drums.
No flashing lights.
Just silence disguised as sound.
…
The scoreboard blinked: 65 – 65
Fourth quarter. Ten minutes.
On one side of the court—Forest.
Five players dressed in black and silver, standing with a poise that felt less like confidence and more like fate.
On the other side—Vorpal.
Hands on knees. Glistening with sweat. Breathing hard.
Alive.
No benches.
No words.
