The morning of the Opening Ceremony began not with a bang, but with a quiet, reverent hush. The entire Palarong Pambansa, a sprawling, chaotic entity of 18,000 souls, was first guided to a massive, open-air field for a Thanksgiving Mass and Ecumenical Prayer.
The Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team sat as a single, awkward unit on the dewy grass, their identical green-and-white travel suits making them a small, distinct patch in a vast quilt of regional colors. The air was cool, the 7 AM sun still a gentle, welcome presence. A Catholic bishop led the Mass, his words echoing over a massive speaker system, followed by an Imam and a Protestant pastor, their combined prayers weaving a message of unity, respect, and sportsmanship. They spoke of the diverse cultures and religions of the Philippines—the Christian, the Muslim, and the indigenous Lumad—all coming together under one banner of peaceful competition.
Tristan sat with his legs crossed, his head bowed, not in prayer, but in thought. He appreciated the sentiment, but the reality of their situation felt jarringly at odds with the message.
Peace. Unity.
Coach Gutierrez's words from the night before, from the brutal film session that had lasted until curfew, were still ringing in his ears. "War. Trap. Piranhas." He listened to the prayers for camaraderie and thought of the single-elimination bracket. He thought of the fact that, in 48 hours, they would be trying to systematically and mercilessly end the season of the Calapan High team.
"This is nice," Marco whispered beside him, his voice a low, restless buzz. "Very spiritual. But I am getting a serious case of 'grass-butt.' And I am 90% sure that guy from the Baguio track team is looking at me. I think he's 'miring my jacket."
"He is not," Gab rumbled from Tristan's other side, his eyes closed. "He's asleep. Which is what you should be. Save your energy."
"How can I sleep?" Marco hissed. "The anticipation is killing me! This is the preamble to the glory! The appetizer before the main course! And the main course... is me."
Tristan just shook his head, a small, tired smile on his face. He looked at his team. Ian and Cedrick were sitting back-to-back, their massive frames like two pillars, stoic and unmoving. Daewoo was watching the ceremony with a wide-eyed, nervous intensity, his leg bouncing. He's a kid, Tristan thought. We all are. He felt the weight of his captaincy, of the promise to Aiden, of the tactical nightmare that awaited them. The peace of the ceremony was a beautiful lie, and the war was the only truth.
The "Parade of Camaraderie and Friendship" was, in a word, chaos.
By 3 PM, the vast marshalling area outside the Davao City Sports and Tourism Complex was a churning, deafening sea of 18,000 athletes. It was a sensory overload. The air was a cacophony of competing drumlines, booming loudspeakers, and the shouts of 17 different regions trying to organize themselves.
The Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team, just twelve players in a delegation of hundreds from Region 4A (CALABARZON), felt impossibly small. They were just one tiny cog in a massive machine.
"My God," Marco said, his head swiveling, his eyes wide with genuine awe. He was filming everything on his phone. "Look at this. This is... this is insane. This is bigger than any concert. This is bigger than... everything!"
He was right. It was a human ocean. They were surrounded by a dizzying variety of athletes. Tiny, nine-year-old gymnasts with fierce, focused eyes. Towering, volleyball players from Western Visayas who looked like they could touch the sky. Wiry, sun-baked track-and-field stars from Ilocos.
"Look at the archers from Region 6," Gab noted, his eyes scanning the crowd. "They are all carrying actual, compound bows. That is... intimidating."
"Pfft, please," Marco scoffed, though his voice was a little less confident. "We are the Dasmariñas National High. We have... green. That's more... metaphorical. It's deeper."
As they began their slow, shuffling march toward the stadium entrance, they fell in line, a river of green and white, behind the rest of their region. And for the first time, the loss of Aiden became a sharp, public pain.
Daewoo, as the new starting small forward, was walking with the other starters—Tristan, Marco, Cedrick and Ian. But he was walking with his head down, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the pavement. He looked like an imposter, a kid who had stolen a jersey and was terrified of being found out. He was walking in Aiden's spot. And everyone knew it.
Tristan slowed his pace, deliberately falling back to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
"You good, Daewoo?" Tristan asked, his voice low.
"I... yeah. Fine. It's just... this is a lot, man," Daewoo said, gesturing to the endless crowd. "I... I shouldn't be here. In the front. This is... this is his spot."
Tristan looked at him, seeing the crushing weight of the expectation on his face. He knew he had to be a captain.
"Coach doesn't make mistakes," Tristan said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You are not Aiden. You're Daewoo. And you're our starter. You earned this spot with two years of being the best defender in our gym. This isn't his spot anymore. This is your spot. So walk. Head up. You belong here."
Daewoo's gaze faltered, then met Tristan's. He saw the unwavering, absolute conviction in his captain's eyes. He took a deep breath, and his shoulders, just slightly, straightened. He gave a single, tight nod. He was still terrified. But now, he was terrified and determined. It was a start.
Their march took them into the stadium, and the roar hit them like a physical blow. The stands were a riot of color and sound, a solid wall of tens of thousands of cheering spectators, families, and officials. A massive banner hung from the grandstand: "SPORTS: BREAKING BORDERS, BUILDING PEACE."
As the CALABARZON delegation snaked its way onto the stadium's infield track, the sheer scale of the competition came into sharp focus.
"Okay, there they are," Ian rumbled, his voice a low vibration.
Tristan looked where he was pointing. Across the field, the Region 7 (Central Visayas) delegation was marching. Their basketball team was easy to spot. They looked like professionals. Their movements were in sync, their faces hard and emotionless. They looked like the tactical, disciplined, "Cebu Machine" they had heard about.
"They don't look like they're here for 'friendship and camaraderie,'" Cedrick noted dryly.
"Good," Gab said. "Neither are we."
Then came the NCR (National Capital Region) team, clad in arrogant, deep red. They were laughing, joking, pointing at the cameras. They walked with a swagger that spoke of a dynasty, of a team that didn't just hope to win, but expected to. Their center, the 6'8" behemoth Marco had spotted at the airport, was walking in the center of their group like a king holding court.
"Look at that guy," Marco said, his voice a mixture of awe and disgust. "He's got his own gravitational pull. I bet he's the one who's been eating all the durian. Smells the same."
The contrast was clear. The Dasmariñas National High were an unknown quantity. They were a small, angry team of grinders, and in this sea of spectacle, they were utterly, completely anonymous.
"Good," Tristan whispered to himself, a cold fire starting to burn in his gut. "Let them forget about us. Let them underestimate us. Let them look right past us."
They were finally herded to their designated spot on the infield, a massive, grassy plain of athletes. The formal program began. The Entrance of Colors, the booming, soulful rendition of the Philippine National Anthem, and then, the speeches.
Tragically, for Marco, they were long.
They stood under the blazing afternoon sun as dignitaries like Education Secretary Armin Luistro and DILG Secretary Manuel Roxas spoke eloquently about the event's theme.
"This Palaro is about more than just medals," Secretary Luistro's voice echoed over the loudspeakers. "It is about breaking down the borders that divide us—borders of culture, of religion, of geography. It is about building peace, one game at a time."
"He's a very good speaker," Marco whispered, his eyes glazed over. "But I think my left leg has fallen asleep. And my right leg is jealous. Is it... is it hot? I'm pretty sure I'm melting. My suit... my beautiful suit... is going to be a puddle."
"Shut up, Marco," Tristan, Gab, and Ian all muttered at the same time.
Tristan tried to listen, but the lofty, idealistic words felt disconnected from his reality. Breaking borders, building peace. He was just trying to figure out how to break Calapan's five-out offense. He was trying to figure out how to find peace with the fact that his best friend was in a hospital bed 500 miles away.
The speeches finally ended, and the sun began to dip, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. The stadium lights flickered on, and the Mass Field Demonstration began.
It was, in a word, breathtaking.
Thousands of local Davao students and teachers, dressed in vibrant, multi-colored costumes, poured onto the field. For thirty minutes, they moved in perfect, flowing synchronization, forming massive, living pictures: the shape of the Philippine Eagle, the bloom of a Waling-Waling orchid, the sun and stars of the national flag. The performance was a stunning display of coordination and local pride.
"Okay," Marco said, his usual cynicism gone, his voice filled with genuine awe as he filmed. "That is... that is actually incredible. We should do that. Can we do that, Gab? You can be the bottom of the pyramid."
"No," Gab said, though even he was watching, impressed.
The demonstration concluded, and the field cleared, leaving a single, symbolic pathway. A hush fell over the stadium. The final event.
A young woman, Kyla Cielo Bernaldez, a 2014 Palaro Table Tennis champion, jogged into the stadium, her face a mask of intense focus. She was holding the Palarong Pambansa torch. It was a beautiful, intricate thing, a gleaming metal sculpture that, as the announcer explained, incorporated symbolic motifs from the three core cultures of the region: the indigenous Lumad, the Muslim, and the Christian.
She ran to the base of the massive cauldron, her small frame silhouetted against the darkening sky. She touched the torch to the base. A line of fire shot up the track, and with a whoosh that seemed to suck the air out of the stadium, the "friendship flame" ignited, exploding into a massive, brilliant fireball that lit up the entire complex.
The crowd roared. The games were officially open.
Tristan watched the fire burn, its light reflecting in his eyes. It was a friendship flame, a symbol of peace and unity. But as he looked at it, he saw something else. He saw a crucible. He saw the fire he and his team had been through, and the fire that was yet to come.
He felt the weight of the promise. He felt the absence of his friend. He looked at his teammates—at Ian and Cedrick, staring at the flame like it was an opponent, at Gab, stoic and ready, at Marco, already buzzing with nervous energy, and at Daewoo, who was watching the flame with a new, hard-set jaw.
The circus was over. The parade was finished. This was a colosseum now, and the first battle was just 36 hours away.
The bus ride back to the hotel was a silent, somber affair. The adrenaline of the ceremony had faded, leaving behind a deep, collective exhaustion and the heavy, impending weight of their first game. The team filed into the conference room for a final, brief meeting.
"Alright," Coach Gutierrez said, standing in front of his whiteboard, which was already covered in X's and O's, detailing Calapan's offense. "The party is over. You saw the fireworks. You waved to the crowd. It's done. From this second on, your world shrinks. It is this hotel, the gym, and this room. The only thing that exists in your head is Calapan. Calapan. Calapan."
He picked up a red marker. "They're a five-out team. They are piranhas. They will try to pick us apart from the perimeter. They're betting that our bigs, Ian and Cedrick, are too slow to guard them. They're betting we're just a 'dumb jock' team from Cavite."
He looked up, his eyes burning with a cold fire.
"Tomorrow, we are going to make them regret that bet. Get to your rooms. Hydrate. T-minus 36 hours. Get your heads right. Dismissed."
The team stood and filed out, the nervous energy replaced by a cold, grim focus.
Tristan was the last to leave. He paused at the door and looked back at the whiteboard, at the complex, spider-web-like diagrams of Calapan's plays.
Breaking borders, building peace, he thought, a bitter, ironic smile on his face.
No. This was about enforcing borders. Their border. The paint. And it was about breaking the peace. It was about turning a game of basketball into 40 minutes of organized, relentless, grinding war.
He flicked off the light and followed his team.