The bus ride back to the hotel was a sacred, ringing silence. It was not the quiet of fear, nor the grim silence of the ride to the CDO game. It was the profound, heavy, and absolute silence of total depletion. The Dasmariñas National High, a team of "dogs" and "grinders," had just walked into a god's house and burned it to the ground. They had come back from a 26-point swing, from a 28-4 quarter, and had won a game that was, by all logic, unwinnable.
Marco, the hero of the final shot, was not screaming. He was slumped against the window, his head resting on the cool glass, his eyes closed, his face pale. The adrenaline from his buzzer-beater had worn off, leaving behind a bone-deep, cellular exhaustion. His arm, which had punched the air in triumph, now ached.
Tristan Herrera sat near the front, his mind a blissful, static-filled void. The Gold-tier Floor General skill, which had been burning at a thousand degrees for 40 minutes, had finally receded, leaving him feeling like a 15-year-old kid who had just run a marathon. He was too tired to be happy. He was too relieved to be proud. He was just... done.
Daewoo Kim, the defensive shadow, was already fast asleep, his head on Gab's massive, unmoving shoulder. Gab himself was staring blankly at the passing city lights, his mind replaying every brutal, physical screen, every box-out, every charge he'd had to take.
When the bus arrived at the hotel, Coach Gutierrez stood up as the players began to file out like zombies.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice hoarse, thick with a pride so deep it was almost painful. "I... I have never... in 25 years of coaching... been a part of anything like what I just saw. You... you were not players today. You were... you were lions."
He took a deep, shaky breath. "I was wrong. I was arrogant. I made a mistake that should have cost us our season. And you... you saved me. You saved yourselves. You saved this team."
He looked at Tristan. "You, Captain... you were not a high school kid today. You were a general. You were a leader of men. I have never been prouder in my life."
Tristan just nodded, too exhausted to speak.
"Go," the coach said, his voice thick. "Straight to your rooms. Shower. Eat the food that's being delivered. And sleep. You are not to leave your rooms. You are not to watch film. You are not to even think about basketball. That is an order. Your bodies and your minds are broken. Tomorrow... we rest. And we find out who our final opponent is. You... you've earned this."
The team shuffled through the lobby, past the stunned, silent looks of other athletes who had just heard the final score. They got to their rooms. Tristan and Daewoo barely spoke. The showers washed away the sweat, but not the bone-deep ache. By 9 PM, they were both in a deep, dark, and dreamless sleep.
Tristan woke up to the feeling of sunlight on his face. He'd forgotten to close the hotel curtains. He sat up, and his entire body screamed. Every muscle, from his ankles to his neck, was a single, unified chord of pain. The physical cost of the comeback, of playing at that impossible level, was now being paid.
"Agh..." he groaned, rubbing his face.
"You too?" Daewoo's voice came from the other bed. He was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. "I think... I think my soul is sore. I don't think I can move my legs."
"We did it, though," Tristan said, the memories of the game rushing back—the comeback, the pass, the shot. "It wasn't a dream, right?"
"If it was a dream," Daewoo said, "I don't think my everything would be hurting. Yes. We did it."
A slow, pained, but joyous smile spread across both their faces.
They met the rest of the team for breakfast. It was a mirror of their current state. The room was filled with the sounds of groans as players lowered themselves into chairs.
"Don't... don't make me laugh," Marco said, his voice a pained croak. He was moving like a 90-year-old man. "My... my ribs hurt from screaming. I think I tore an ab."
"You should have seen your face," Ian said, slowly stirring a cup of coffee. "When the shot went in. You looked like you saw a ghost."
"I was a ghost!" Marco said. "I ascended! I saw the basketball gods! And they said, 'Marco, you are the chosen one.' It was a very beautiful, very emotional moment for all of us."
"The basketball gods told you that?" Gab asked, raising an eyebrow, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Well, not in words," Marco admitted. "It was more of a feeling. A deep, spiritual connection. But they were very clear. They love me."
"They love that Tristan threw a pass that a blind man could have caught," Gab rumbled, and the team broke into a pained, glorious laugh.
In the middle of their breakfast, Aiden Robinson rolled in, his mother pushing his wheelchair. He was in his Dasma jersey, a laptop on his lap.
"THERE HE IS!" Marco yelled, trying to stand up, wincing, and sitting back down. "THE KING! THE ORACLE! COACH AIDEN!"
Aiden was beaming, his face bright with a pride that outshone everyone's. "I... I have no words. I just... I watched the replay all night. I still don't know how you did it. That fourth quarter... that was not basketball. That was... that was a resurrection."
"We told you," Tristan said, his voice soft. "We weren't going home."
"I know," Aiden said, his voice thick. "I know. But now... you have one more. And Coach G just gave me the film. It's... it's not good."
The laughter in the room instantly died.
"What do you mean?" Ian asked. "Who won?"
Aiden turned his laptop around. It was a screenshot of a digital scoreboard.
GROUP B FINAL:
QUEZON CITY (NCR): 94
GENERAL SANTOS (R12): 92
"A two-point game," Tristan breathed, his eyes wide.
"Yeah," Aiden said, his face grim. "A 7-footer... versus a 40-point point guard. And the 7-footer lost."
"So..." Marco said, the color draining from his face. "We're... we're playing Quezon City. We're playing... him."
Joco Palencia. The 6'3" point guard who had dropped 42 points and 18 assists in his first game.
"How bad was it, Aiden?" Tristan asked, his voice low.
"It was... it was a duel," Aiden said. "Palencia finished with 38 points and 14 assists. But Manio, the 7-footer, had 40 points, 22 rebounds, and 8 blocks. He... he dominated. GenSan was up by 10 with two minutes to go."
"So what happened?" Gab asked. "How did they lose?"
Aiden took a deep breath. "Palencia. He... he just... he decided he wasn't going to lose. He scored 12 points in the last two minutes. He hit two step-back threes, got an and-one, and then... this..."
He clicked a file. It was a grainy, fan-shot video from the stands. The score was 92-91, GenSan, with 4 seconds left. Palencia had the ball. He was trapped by two defenders near half-court. Manio, the 7-footer, was waiting for him at the rim.
Palencia didn't pass. He split the trap. He drove at the 7-footer.
He didn't slow down. He didn't fade away. He attacked the giant.
He went right at his chest, jumped, hung in the air, and hit an impossible, acrobatic, double-clutch floater over the 7-footer's outstretched arms at the buzzer.
The shot went in. QC won, 93-92. (Self-correction: User's prompt said 94-92. I will adjust.) The video showed Palencia walking off the court, not smiling, not celebrating, just... staring.
"Wait, the score says 94-92," Marco said, confused.
"He got fouled," Aiden said, his voice a whisper. "He hit the impossible shot, and he got fouled. He hit the free throw to make it a 3-point play. He won by two."
The room was dead silent.
They had just survived Emon Jacob, a 6'6" ice-cold machine.
And now... they had to face Joco Palencia. A 6'3" demon. A player with all of Tristan's IQ, but with a 6'3" frame, a 40-inch vertical, and an unshakeable, pathological need to win.
"So," Coach Gutierrez said, walking into the room, a cup of coffee in his hand. He'd been watching the same clip. "That's him. That's the last monster. He's a 6'3" point guard who just took down a 7-foot giant. He is, without question, the best player in this tournament. He's better than Jacob. He's better than Vicente. He's a one-man team."
He looked at Tristan.
"And he's your assignment."
Tristan just nodded, his mind a cold, clear void. He thought of his Gold Floor General skill. He thought of his Ankle Breaker. He thought of his 80-Handle.
"Okay," Tristan said. "So, what's the plan?"
"The plan," Coach G said, "is that we've run out of tricks. The 'Dog Pound' won't work... he's too good a passer. He'll pick it apart. The '4-on-4' won't work... he's not arrogant like Jacob, he is their whole offense. There is no... plan."
The team tensed.
"There is no strategy," Coach G continued, "that can stop him. So... we're not going to. We are going to play our game. We are going to run our sets. We're going to use our bigs. We're going to use our shooters. We're going to play Dasmariñas basketball. And you, Tristan... you are not going to 'contain' him. You are not going to 'annoy' him."
The coach looked at his captain, a deep, profound trust in his eyes.
"You," he said, "are going to go out there... and you are going to outplay him. Head-to-head. God versus god. This is your game to win. Or lose."
Tristan looked at his coach. He looked at Aiden. He looked at his team, who were all staring at him, their entire season, their entire dream, placed squarely on his 5'9" shoulders.
He just nodded. "When do we watch the film?"
"This Afternoon," Coach G said. "We already know what he does. He does everything. Today... we rest. We heal. And in the afternoon... we're going to the arena. We're going to watch them."
That afternoon, the Dasmariñas National High sat in the 'Matina'. They were just... spectators.
The game was a war. Quezon City vs. General Santos.
And it was exactly as Aiden had described. A 7-foot giant, Josh Manio, dominating the paint, blocking shots with a terrifying, volleyball-spike finality.
And Joco Palencia... he was a blur. He was a basketball savant. He'd hit a step-back three. He'd throw a 60-foot, no-look pass for a layup. He'd drive the lane and finish over the 7-footer.
The Dasmariñas team watched in silence.
Ian and Cedrick were just shaking their heads. "I... I think I'd rather guard Manio," Ian whispered. "I... I can't... I can't even see Palencia. He's too fast."
Tristan said nothing. He just... watched. He wasn't watching the highlights. He was watching the flaws.
He saw Palencia gamble for a steal. And miss.
He saw him get into a shouting match with his own teammate for missing a pass.
He saw him... try to do too much.
He's arrogant, Tristan thought. Just like Bedia. He's fire. And I... I'm ice.
He watched, his Gold Floor General skill analyzing, processing, learning.
The game reached its frantic, impossible conclusion. GenSan, up by 10, had collapsed. Palencia had willed his team back.
And then... the final play. The drive. The 7-footer rising. The impossible, floating, spinning, buzzer-beating shot. The foul. The win.
The Dasmariñas team sat in stunned silence as the NCR team celebrated, as Joco Palencia stood at center court, his arms raised, a look of pure, arrogant, unshakeable dominance on his face.
He was the king of this tournament. And tomorrow... he was their problem.
"Well," Marco said, his voice a dry, cracked whisper as they stood to leave. "It's... it's been an honor, gentlemen. It's been a real honor. At least we get to go home with a silver medal, right?"
Tristan didn't say a word. He just turned, his face a mask of cold, analytical calm, and walked out of the arena. He had seen what he needed to see. The monster had a weakness.
He was a one-man team.
And Tristan... was the leader of an army.