The world was a deafening, brilliant, shrieking blur.
The swish of Marco's shot was not a sound. It was a detonation. It was a spark that ignited the 10,000-seat arena, and the small, fiercely loyal contingent of CALABARZON supporters erupted in a way that drowned out the entire, stunned Cebuano crowd.
Before the ball had even finished its journey through the net, Marco was at half-court, his jersey already pulled over his head, screaming at the rafters. In the next instant, he was gone, buried under a 700-pound pile of ecstatic, weeping, screaming teammates. Ian and Cedrick had tackled him first, their combined weight driving him to the floor, their roars of triumph more animal than human. Daewoo, Gab, Felix, Mark, Joseph, John, Joshua—the entire roster, the 'Dog Pound,' the 'Bench Mob,' all of it—piled on, a single, writhing, joyous mass of green and white.
Tristan Herrera stood where he had thrown the pass, by the sideline, his body frozen, his hands still in the follow-through position. He was paralyzed, not by shock, but by a sudden, total, and profound absence of pressure. The 1000-ton weight of the game, of the comeback, of Aiden's promise, of his coach's mistake—it had all just... evaporated. He just stood there, his chest heaving, gasping, as the noise of the arena washed over him.
Aiden, in the stands, had vaulted over the railing on his crutches, his mother trying to pull him back, his face a mask of pure, streaming, joyous tears as he screamed his teammates' names.
Coach Gutierrez was on his knees by the bench, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. He wasn't coaching. He was just... a man, released from a tension so profound it had nearly broken him. He had been saved. His boys had saved him.
Tristan was the first to move. He saw Daewoo Kim on the fringes of the dogpile, his face buried in his hands, his entire body convulsing with sobs of pure, unadulterated relief. Tristan walked over and pulled him into a fierce hug.
"You did this!" Tristan yelled over the din, shaking him. "Your defense! Your heart! You did this, Woo! You hear me?!"
Daewoo just nodded, unable to speak.
Tristan turned. The celebration was still raging. He saw Coach G finally get to his feet, a look of dazed, profound pride on his face. He saw Marco finally emerge from the pile, his face red, his hair a mess, being held aloft on Ian Veneracion's shoulders like a king.
But Tristan's eyes sought out one person.
Across the court, Emon Jacob stood alone, his hands on his hips, his face a mask of cold, stunning, and utter disbelief. His teammates, the "passengers," were scattered, weeping or staring blankly at the scoreboard. The Machine was broken.
Tristan, as the captain, broke away from his team and walked across the court. The cameras, the reporters, they all followed him.
He stopped in front of the 6'6" superstar. Jacob looked at him, his eyes dead.
"You're a god, man," Tristan said, his voice hoarse, and he extended his hand. "That was... that was the hardest game I've ever played. You are... you are the best player I have ever seen."
Emon Jacob looked at Tristan. He saw the genuine, hard-won respect. He saw the captain who had just out-generaled him. The coldness in his eyes cracked, just for a moment, and was replaced by a look of weary, profound respect. He took Tristan's hand, his grip firm.
"You... your team," Jacob said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "That plan... that... disrespect... was... brilliant." He looked at Daewoo, who was now being hugged by Gab. "Your... your #10. He's... he has the heart of a lion."
"He's a dog," Tristan said, a small, proud smile on his face.
"He's a dog," Jacob agreed, nodding. "Go win it all, Herrera. Don't... don't let this be for nothing. Go win the whole damn thing."
"We will," Tristan said. "We promise."
He turned to walk back, and the media descended. A wall of microphones, cameras, and shouting voices, all pressing in, all desperate to get a piece of the team that had just slain the god.
"TRISTAN! MARCO! OVER HERE!"
A reporter from the Palaro network, the same one from their CDO victory, snagged them, pulling them into the harsh glare of a spotlight.
"Gentlemen!" the reporter yelled, his own voice high with adrenaline. "I... I don't even know what to say! Down by 16 at the half! A 28-to-4 run in the third quarter! And then... that! Tristan, as the captain, what was said in that huddle? What was the plan?"
Tristan, his mind still a blur, his Gold Floor General skill finally receding, just shook his head. He was exhausted.
"There was no plan," he said, his voice raspy, every word tasting of salt and victory. "We were broken. We were... we were done. Coach... Coach G tried to take the blame, but... we knew. We let them down. We let Aiden down."
He took a deep breath. "I just... I just looked at my team. I looked at my brothers. And I knew we weren't going to go home like that. I knew we weren't going to quit. It wasn't a strategy. It was just... it was just heart. It was just... heart. Daewoo, Gab, Ian, Cedrick... they went out there and they just fought. They decided they weren't going to lose. It was all them."
"But that last play, Tristan!" the reporter pressed. "You were trapped! Double-teamed! Six seconds left! Did you even see Marco?"
Tristan laughed, a short, sharp, breathless sound. "No. I didn't see anything. The whole Cebu team was in my face. I just... I just knew he'd be there. He's Marco. He's a shooter. Shooters find the open spot. I just... I threw it to where I knew a shooter should be. I threw it and I prayed."
The reporter, his eyes gleaming, turned and shoved the microphone in front of Marco's face. Marco, who had been vibrating, his face a mask of pure, unhinged ecstasy, looked like he was about to explode.
"MARCO! 'THE DAGGER'!" the reporter yelled. "You just hit the shot of the Palarong Pambansa! You just took down the 'Cebu Machine' at the buzzer! Take us through it! What was going through your mind when you caught that pass?!"
Marco looked at the camera. He looked at Tristan. He looked at his teammates, who were now watching, a mix of awe and terror at what he was about to say. He took a deep, theatrical breath.
"What was going through my mind?" he screamed, grabbing the microphone. "WHAT WAS GOING THROUGH MY MIND?! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! PURE, BEAUTIFUL, EMPTY-HEADED ZEN! YOU THINK, YOU MISS! YOU FEEL, YOU SWISH! THAT'S THE MOTTO!"
He was pacing, a wild animal in a cage. "I saw my captain... my fearless captain, who, by the way, has the best vision in the country, get trapped. And I thought, 'Oh no, he's in trouble.' And then I thought... 'Wait. I'm the trouble!'"
He pointed to the corner of the court. "That's my office! That's my home! That's where I pay the rent! I sprinted. I ran so fast I think I broke the sound barrier! I saw the ball... it was a... it was a prayer! It was a beautiful, soaring, divine intervention of a pass! It hit my hands, and I just... I just let it fly! I didn't even... I didn't even aim! The basket aimed for me!"
He was roaring, his voice cracking. "I felt it! The second it left my fingers! SWISH! GAME! OVER! MACHINE? BROKEN! DASMARIÑAS? CHAMPIONSHIP-BOUND! WHERE'S BIANCA?! DID SHE SEE THAT?!"
The reporter was laughing, overwhelmed. "She saw it, Marco! The whole country saw it!"
Just then, the other reporter, Bianca, the one Marco had flirted with after the CDO game, pushed her way through the crowd, her face flushed with excitement.
"Marco! Tristan!" she said, her voice breathless. "That was... that was history. You're the first team from Group A to punch your ticket to the Grand Final!"
Marco, seeing her, immediately transformed. The screaming madman was gone. The smooth, "artist" persona was back.
"Bianca," he said, his voice dropping, though he was still shaking with adrenaline. "You saw it? It was... it was art, wasn't it? A masterpiece of pure, chaotic, beautiful art."
"It was... something," she laughed, her eyes shining. "But now... you're not done. You're in the Grand Final. Your opponent will be the winner of tomorrow's Group B Final: Quezon City or General Santos City. Joco Palencia or Josh Manio."
The festive atmosphere on the court suddenly went cold. The next game. The final monster.
The first reporter picked up the thread. "Tristan, you've just been through an emotional, physical war. How do you even begin to prepare for what's next? You're either going to face Joco Palencia, the 42-point, 18-assist point guard... or Josh Manio, the 7-foot, 10-block center. How do you prepare for that?"
The team, which had been celebrating behind them, went quiet. The reality of their next, and final, challenge settled in.
Marco, for once, was silent. He just looked at Tristan. The weight of the team was back on his shoulders.
Tristan took a deep breath. He was exhausted. He was sore. He was emotionally shattered. But he was also... a Gold-tier Floor General. And he was a winner.
He looked directly into the camera. He wasn't talking to the reporter. He wasn't talking to the fans. He was talking to Palencia and Manio, wherever they were.
"How do we prepare?" he said, his voice a low, cold, and steady hum. "We... we don't. We're done preparing. We're done being the underdog. We're done being the 'Cinderella story.' We're done being 'the team of dogs.'"
He stepped closer to the camera, his eyes burning with a new, terrifying, and ultimate confidence.
"We're not the ambush anymore. We're not the trap. We're the nightmare. We just beat the 'Janitor' by 38 points. We just came back from a 16-point deficit to break the 'Machine.' We have beaten a Mythical Five center, and we have just beaten a Mythical Five guard. We are the best team in this tournament. And we don't care who we play."
He gestured to his team, who were standing behind him, their posture straightening, their eyes finding his.
"You can bring your 7-foot 'Giant.' You can bring your 40-point 'God.' It doesn't matter. They're just one guy. We are a team. We are a family. We are Dasmariñas. And we have a promise to keep."
He pointed to the #7 jersey that Coach G was holding on the sideline. "We're going to win one more. For him. So, our preparation? We're going to go back to the hotel. We're going to rest. And we're going to let them... let them worry about us."
He didn't say another word. He just tapped Marco on the chest, and the two of them, the General and the Dagger, turned and walked away from the stunned reporters, rejoining their team.
The bus ride back to the hotel was not the chaotic, loud party of the day before. It was something deeper. It was a quiet, profound, and almost holy joy. The players were silent, not from fear, but from a shared, unspoken understanding. They had done the impossible. They had faced the gods of this tournament and had torn them down from their mountain.
Tristan sat by the window, his phone in his hand, a new message on the screen.
Aiden #12: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY MOM IS YELLING AT ME TO STOP SCREAMING I THINK I BROKE MY OTHER LEG JUMPING I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH YOU DID IT YOU DID IT YOU DID IT YOU'RE A LEGEND MARCO YOU'RE A GOD TRISTAN ONE MORE. ONE. MORE.
Tristan smiled, a true, weary, and victorious smile. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, the lights of Davao blurring past.
One more, he thought, his eyes sliding shut, the exhaustion of a lifetime settling into his bones. One more monster.
One more game.