The morning sun over Davao City was a brilliant, blinding gold, casting long shadows across the hotel room floor. But for Tristan Herrera, the light felt distant, filtered through a lens of hyper-focus that bordered on dissociation.
He sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed in his team tracksuit, his shoes laced tight. He hadn't slept well—not because of fear, but because of the hum. The vibration of the System in his mind was constant, a low-frequency energy source waiting to be tapped.
Across the room, Daewoo Kim was still asleep, though it was a restless sleep. The "Dog," the defensive hero of the Cebu game, was twitching, his brow furrowed, likely chasing Emon Jacob through a dreamscape of endless screens.
Tristan looked at his hands. They looked the same. They were the hands of a 15-year-old boy. But he knew that beneath the skin, the wiring had changed. The massive influx of stats and badges from the "Final Mission" sat in his inventory like a nuclear warhead waiting for the launch key. He hadn't applied them yet. He was saving the transformation for the moment he stepped onto the court, a psychological trigger to shift him from "Captain" to "Monster."
"Time to go," he whispered to the empty room.
He stood up, shook Daewoo's shoulder gently, and watched his teammate jolt awake with a gasp.
"I'm up! I'm up!" Daewoo stammered, eyes wide. "Did... did Palencia score?"
Tristan offered a small, calm smile. "Not yet, Woo. Breakfast first."
The hotel's dining hall was bustling with the chaotic energy of hundreds of athletes preparing for their final events or their flights home. But the table reserved for the Dasmariñas High was an island of quiet.
The twelve players sat around the long table, plates of garlic rice, tocino, and scrambled eggs largely untouched in front of them. Marco, usually the conductor of the morning's laughter, was staring into his coffee cup as if it contained the secrets of the universe, or perhaps his own doom.
Gab Lagman was eating methodically, chewing with a mechanical precision, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Ian and Cedrick, the twin towers who had survived the "Janitor," looked smaller today, their shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of the scouting report they knew was coming.
Coach Gutierrez arrived last. He carried no clipboard, no whistle. He grabbed a plate, filled it with fruit, and sat at the head of the table. He didn't speak for a long time. He just ate a slice of papaya, chewed slowly, and looked at his team.
"You look like you're attending your own funeral," the coach said finally, his voice calm and conversational.
Marco let out a short, humorless laugh. "Feels like it, Coach. I saw a picture of Joco Palencia on Twitter this morning. He was dunking. In warmups. A windmill. He's a point guard, Coach. Point guards shouldn't windmill. It's against the laws of physics."
"He is an exceptional athlete," Coach G agreed, not dismissing the fear but acknowledging it. "He is a generational talent. And tonight, he is going to try to embarrass you."
The team flinched. Usually, the coach offered platitudes or fiery speeches. This brutal honesty was jarring.
"He is going to try to run you off the court," Coach G continued, buttering a piece of toast. "He is going to try to score 50 points. He is going to talk trash. He is going to look at you, a team from Cavite with no big names, and he is going to see a meal."
He took a bite of toast, the crunch echoing in the silence.
"And that," he said, pointing the knife at them, "is exactly why we have a chance."
Tristan looked up, his eyes locking with his coach's.
"He is bored," Coach G said. "I watched him play GenSan. Even when he hit the game-winner... he looked bored. He thinks he has already won. He thinks the championship is just a formality. He thinks he is a god playing amongst mortals."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl.
"But gods bleed. And gods... gods get arrogant. He is a one-man army. And history tells us that one-man armies eventually run out of bullets. Or they run into a wall."
He looked at Gab, then Ian, then Cedrick.
"We are the wall."
He looked at Marco and Daewoo.
"We are the bullets."
He looked at Tristan.
"And you... you are the General who directs the fire."
"This afternoon," Coach G announced, pushing his plate away. "At 2:00 PM. We have our final team meeting in the 'Matina' room. We are not going to watch hours of film. We are not going to over-analyze. We are going to look at Joco Palencia. We are going to look him in the eye. And we are going to decide, as a group, if we are ready to take his crown. Now eat to your heart's content. For tonight we dine in hell."
The hours between breakfast and the afternoon meeting were an agonizing purgatory. Tristan spent the time in the hotel lobby, sitting with Aiden Robinson.
Aiden was in his wheelchair, his casted leg propped up, his laptop open. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. He had been up all night, scouring the internet for every clip, every grainy video of Quezon City High.
"He's... he's perfect, Tris," Aiden whispered, turning the laptop screen so Tristan could see. "Look at this. This is against a collegiate practice squad. He splits the double team, behind the back, and finishes with a floater from the free-throw line. Who shoots a floater from 15 feet?"
"Palencia does," Tristan said, watching the clip. The fluidity of the movement was terrifying. It was water flowing downhill.
"And his defense," Aiden continued, clicking another file. "He gambles. A lot. He jumps passing lanes. He leaves his man to go for the steal. He gets burned sometimes, but his recovery speed is so insane he usually blocks the shot from behind."
"So he gambles," Tristan said, his mind latching onto the flaw. "That means he's impatient. He wants the ball."
"Yes," Aiden said. "He treats defense like a break between offense. He wants to get the steal and run."
Tristan nodded slowly. "If he wants to steal... we use that. We bait him. We make him think the pass is lazy, then we cut backdoor."
"It's risky," Aiden warned. "If he tips it, it's a dunk on the other end."
"Everything is risky today, Aiden," Tristan said, standing up and patting his friend on the shoulder. "We're playing for the title. Safe doesn't win gold."
2:00 PM. The 'Matina' Conference Room.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The air conditioning was humming its low, constant note. The twelve players sat in their chairs, the silence heavy and thick.
Coach Gutierrez stood at the front, the remote in his hand. On the screen was a freeze-frame of Joco Palencia's face, zoomed in from the broadcast. He was chewing gum, his expression one of supreme, bored confidence.
"Joco Palencia," Coach G said. "Height: 6'3". Weight: 190 pounds. Position: Point Guard. Average stats in this tournament: 38 points, 12 assists, 6 rebounds, 4 steals. He accounts for 70% of his team's offense."
He clicked the remote. The video played. It was a montage of devastation. Palencia crossing over a defender so hard the kid fell down. Palencia hitting a step-back three from 30 feet. Palencia rising up and dunking on a center.
"You see a highlight reel," Coach G said. "I see a burden."
He paused the video on a shot of Palencia screaming at a teammate who had fumbled a pass.
"Look at his face," Coach G said. "That is not leadership. That is contempt. He hates his teammates. He thinks they are in his way. He thinks he has to do it all because they are incompetent. And because of that... he tries to do everything."
He turned to the whiteboard. He drew a single, large circle with "JP" in the middle. Then he drew four smaller circles around it, far away.
"This is their offense. 'The Solar System.' Palencia is the sun. Everyone else is a planet, orbiting, watching, waiting for his gravity."
He uncapped a red marker.
"We are going to blot out the sun."
He looked at Daewoo. "Daewoo. You did an incredible job on Emon Jacob. Jacob was a machine. Palencia is an animal. He is faster, stronger, and meaner. You are going to start on him."
Daewoo swallowed hard, but nodded. "Yes, Coach."
"But you won't be alone," Coach G said. "Jacob was dangerous off the ball. Palencia needs the ball. So, we are going to trap him. Every time he crosses half-court... if he drifts to the sideline... we trap. Tristan, Marco... you are the second man. You leave your man and you come hard. We force the ball out of his hands."
"But Coach," Marco said, raising a hand. "If we trap him... that leaves someone open. Someone is going to be 4-on-3."
"Exactly," Coach G smiled, a cold, dangerous expression. "We are betting that Joco Palencia's ego is bigger than his basketball IQ. We are betting that he would rather try to split a double-team and be the hero than pass the ball to a teammate he doesn't respect. And even if he passes... we are betting that his teammates, who haven't touched the ball in three games, will be cold. They will be scared. They will miss."
He looked at Tristan.
"Tristan. You are the free safety. When the trap happens, you are reading his eyes. If he passes, you intercept. If he splits the trap... you are the last line of defense. You have to take the charge. You have to strip the ball. You have to stop him."
Tristan nodded. "I got him, Coach."
"Offensively," Coach G said, switching gears. "We run. We run until our lungs burn. Palencia plays 40 minutes. He plays offense, he plays defense, he rebounds. He is human. He has a battery. We are going to drain it. We are going to attack him on defense. We are going to make him work through screens. We are going to make him guard Marco running off three curls. We are going to make him guard Tristan on the drive. We are going to make him tired."
He walked to the center of the room.
"Tonight," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Is not about basketball. It is about will. It is about who breaks first. Joco Palencia has never been broken. He has never been told 'no.' Tonight... we tell him 'no.' Tonight, we break the god."
He looked at the clock. "It is 3:00 PM. The game is at 7:00 PM. We leave for the arena in two hours. Go to your rooms. Visualise. Pray. Do whatever you have to do. But when you get on that bus... you bring your heart. Because you're going to need it."
Tristan walked back to the room, his mind a whirlwind. The plan was risky. It was insane. Trapping the best ball-handler in the country was a recipe for disaster. But it was the only way.
He sat on his bed. Daewoo was in the shower, trying to wash away the nerves.
Tristan took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
It's time.
Daewoo came out of the bathroom. "You ready, Cap? Bus leaves in ten."
Tristan turned. His eyes were terrifyingly calm.
"I'm ready, Woo."
He grabbed his bag.
"Let's go meet the god."