The chaotic, joyous, screaming energy from their own victory over Cebu was a distant, hollow memory. That had been a triumph. This... this was a reckoning. The Dasmariñas National High, packed into the cold, air-conditioned bus, were utterly, profoundly silent. The only sound was the rumble of the engine and the faint, tinny thump of the windshield wipers clearing a light Davao drizzle from the glass.
They had just watched the other semi-final. They had just watched Joco Palencia.
They had watched a 6'3" point guard systematically dismantle a 7'0" giant. They had watched him drop 38 points and 14 assists. They had watched him, with his team down by two, with four seconds on the clock, attack a 7-foot, 10-block monster at the rim, hang in the air for an impossible eternity, and sink a buzzer-beating, and-one floater to win the game.
The team was not just impressed. They were terrified. They were broken.
Marco, the hero of their own impossible shot, sat slumped in his seat, his face pale, his usual boundless energy completely vacuumed from his body. "He... he's just... he's not real," he whispered to no one in particular. "We beat a machine. Fine. But that... that's not a machine. That's a force of nature. That's a basketball typhoon. We're... we're just... we're just the town he's about to flatten."
Ian and Cedrick, the team's twin towers, were silent. They had spent their careers being the biggest, strongest men on the court. They had just watched a 7-footer get rendered obsolete by a point guard. Their physical dominance, their entire identity, felt... irrelevant.
Gab Lagman just stared out the window, his face a mask of stone, but his hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
Tristan Herrera sat near the front, his mind a static-filled, roaring void. He was the captain. He was the leader. And he was, for the first time in his life, completely, utterly, and hopelessly outmatched.
Joco Palencia was everything he was... but more.
He was a 6'3" version of Tristan, with a 40-inch vertical, NBA-level court vision, and a pathological, cold-blooded killer instinct. Tristan was a Gold-tier Floor General. Palencia... Palencia was a god.
And Coach Gutierrez had just looked him in the eye and said, "He's your assignment."
It wasn't a game plan. It was a death sentence.
The bus pulled up to the hotel. The players filed out, a somber, defeated procession.
Coach Gutierrez gathered them in the lobby, under the bright, cheerful lights that felt like a mockery.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice low, his face grim. "You're thinking it's impossible. You're thinking he's unbeatable. You're thinking we've hit our limit."
He looked at their hollow, exhausted faces.
"You're probably right," he said.
The team flinched.
"He is, without a doubt, the best high school player I have ever seen. There is no 'plan' to stop him. There is no 'Dog Pound' that can contain him. He's too smart. He's too fast. He's too good."
He let the brutal, cold truth hang in the air.
"So," he continued, "we're not going to 'stop' him. We're just... going to have to beat him. We have one day. Tomorrow. The National Championship game."
He looked at Tristan, a strange, desperate, but total faith in his eyes. "This isn't on the 'Dog Pound.' This isn't on the 'Towers.' This game... is on you, Captain. It's a point-guard battle. It's the General versus the God. You have to find a way. I don't know how. But... you have to."
He clapped his hands, a dull, final sound. "Get to your rooms. Curfew is in effect. Rest. Your lives... our entire season... it all comes down to tomorrow."
Tristan and Daewoo walked into Room 1012. The air was thick with unspoken dread.
"He... he was incredible, wasn't he, Captain?" Daewoo whispered, his voice trembling. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. "That last shot... over the 7-footer... I... I've never seen anything like it. And I have to... I have to guard him? Coach G said..."
"No," Tristan said, his voice hollow as he unlaced his shoes. "I'm guarding him. Coach said. He's... he's my assignment."
Daewoo looked up, his face a mask of terror, not for himself, but for his friend. "Tris... he's... he's 6'3". He'll just... shoot over you. He'll post you up. He'll..."
"I know," Tristan snapped, his own fear finally showing, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "I know, Woo. I just... I need to think."
Daewoo, startled, just nodded. "Yeah. Okay, Captain. Good... goodnight."
He turned off his light and crawled into bed, facing the wall. Within minutes, the sheer, emotional exhaustion of the day pulled him under.
Tristan was alone.
He lay in his bed, the darkness of the hotel room total. He just... stared. He replayed the game, Palencia's impossible highlights. The 42-point, 18-assist game. The buzzer-beater over the giant.
His own skills felt like... a child's toys.
Ball Handle: 80. Palencia's was clearly 90+.
Speed: 75. Palencia's was 90+.
Passing Vision: 80. Palencia's was... it was 100. It was off the charts.
He was 5'9". Palencia was 6'3".
There was no strategy. There was no plan. Coach G was right. He had to outplay him. And he couldn't.
He was a fraud. He had led his team on a miracle run, powered by a secret system and a lot of heart, but he had finally, definitively, hit a wall he could not climb. He was going to fail. He was going to fail his team, his coach, his city...
He was going to fail Aiden.
The promise he had made, "We'll win it all"... it was just... hot air.
He closed his eyes, a cold, sick, hollow feeling in his gut. He had never, in his entire life, felt so completely, totally, and hopelessly outmatched. He was the captain of a ship he had just steered directly into a tidal wave.
He lay there for an hour, drowning in the darkness, the pressure of the final game, the impossible task, crushing the very air from his lungs.
He was done.
DING.
The sound. It was not a sound. It was a feeling. A clear, pure, harmonic chime that vibrated in the center of his skull.
His eyes snapped open.
The dark, oppressive hotel room was suddenly, gloriously, illuminated. A vast, brilliant blue window floated in the air above his bed, its light brighter, clearer, and more powerful than he had ever seen it.
It was the System. And it had a new message.
[FINAL MISSION ACQUIRED]
[Mission 13: Win Palarong Pambansa]
Description: You have walked through the fire. You have survived the piranhas, slain the beast, and broken the machine. Now, one final monster stands in your way: Joco Palencia, the 'God of QC.' He is a one-man army, a force of nature. But you are not alone. You are a General. You are a Captain. You are a team. This is the final battle. There is no tomorrow. Win the war. Keep your promise.
Objective: [WIN THE PALARONG PAMBANSA CHAMPIONSHIP]
Tristan's heart, which had been a cold, dead stone, suddenly kicked, a single, hard, powerful beat.
He scanned down. The penalty. The same as always. The ultimate stake.
[Failure Penalty: Severe reduction in all current player statistics.]
Win. Or lose everything.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, moved to the final, critical section. The reward. The final arsenal.
[MISSION REWARDS]
[+50 Physical Stat Points]
[+100 Attribute Points]
[3x Silver Upgrade Badge]
[2x Gold Upgrade Badge]
Tristan didn't breathe. He just stared.
It was... it was an avalanche. It was a king's ransom. It was more than any other mission, combined.
50 Physical Points.
100 Attribute Points.
Three Silver Upgrades. Two Gold Upgrades.
The despair, the fear, the crushing inadequacy... it didn't just fade. It was incinerated. It was burned away in a single, glorious, millisecond of pure, cold, tactical revelation.
He wasn't outmatched.
He wasn't a 5'9" kid facing a 6'3" god.
He was a player on the verge of his final, ultimate evolution.
He thought of Joco Palencia. He thought of his impossible speed. His flawless handle. His limitless range.
And then he looked at his new, unspent arsenal.
50 Physical Points.
He could pour all of it into his physicals. He could reach 90+ Speed. 90+ Acceleration. He could be faster than Palencia.
100 Attribute Points.
He could max his Three-Point Shot. His Steal. His Perimeter Defense. He could make his Ball Handle and Passing Vision 90+. He could match him. He could surpass him.
Three Silver Upgrade Badges.
He could turn his entire Bronze package—Ankle Breaker, Giant Slayer, Post-Fade, Comeback Kid—into a Silver-tier arsenal of weapons.
And two Gold Upgrade Badges.
His Floor General was already Gold. He could use one... he could use one on Dimer. He could make his passes not just accurate, but game-breaking. He could turn Gab Lagman into a scorer. He could make Ian Veneracion unstoppable.
And the last Gold... he could save it. Or... he could use it on his Ankle Breaker. He could make Palencia, the "unbeatable" god... fall.
Tristan Herrera sat up in his bed, the blue light of the System window painting his face. The fear was gone. The despair was a distant memory. His mind was a supercomputer, running a thousand simulations, a thousand new possibilities.
He was no longer a boy walking to his execution.
He was a general.
And the System had just handed him the nuke.
He looked over at Daewoo's sleeping form. He thought of his team, all of them, in their rooms, sleeping a restless, terrified sleep, believing they were doomed.
A slow, cold, and terrible smile spread across Tristan's face.
You're not a god, Tristan thought, his eyes fixed on the glowing window, his mind already at work, building the perfect warrior. You're just my next mission.
You think you're a force of nature?
I'm about to become a force, because of the System.
And tomorrow... tomorrow, I'm going to show you what a real monster looks like.