The buzzer sounded to end the break. The score: QC 24 — Dasmariñas 15.
On the Dasmariñas bench, the atmosphere was frantic. Coach Gutierrez was drawing up a complex zone defense on his whiteboard, trying to find a way to slow down the avalanche that was Joco Palencia.
"We need to trap him at the hash mark," Coach G was saying, his marker squeaking. "Gab, you flash high. Ian, you protect the rim. Tristan, you have to funnel him left..."
Tristan Herrera wasn't looking at the whiteboard. He wasn't looking at his coach. He was sitting on the edge of the bench, his head bowed, his hands resting on his knees.
Inside his body, a silent, violent reconstruction was taking place.
A raw physical power flooded his muscles. His fast-twitch fibers were being rewired. His perception of time was slowing down.
He felt the Speed settle into his legs like coiled titanium springs.
He felt the Strength tingling in his fingertips, a magnetic connection to the leather.
He felt his Vision recalibrating his depth perception, the rim suddenly feeling miles wide.
And deep in his mind, his skills burned into existence.
He stood up.
The motion was so fluid, so sudden, that Marco flinched.
"Tris?" Marco whispered. "You okay? You look... different."
Tristan turned to his teammates. His eyes, usually warm and calculating, were now devoid of all emotion. They were the eyes of a shark. A cold, flat, predatory deadness.
"No traps," Tristan said, his voice a monotone.
Coach Gutierrez stopped drawing. "What?"
"No traps," Tristan repeated. He walked toward the scorer's table. "Give me the ball. And get out of the way."
Coach G looked at his captain. He saw something he had never seen before. He saw a player who had transcended coaching.
He slowly lowered the whiteboard. "Clear out," the coach whispered to the team. "Let him work."
Tristan took the inbound pass. Joco Palencia (#1) met him at half-court, a smirk on his face. He was chewing his gum, confident, arrogant.
"Back for more, General?" Palencia taunted, slapping the floor. "I'm just getting warmed up."
Tristan didn't respond. He didn't even blink.
He simply... moved.
He hit a crossover. It wasn't the setup crossover he used in the first quarter. It was a blur. A quantum shift of weight from right to left.
Palencia, the best defender in the country, reacted. But he was reacting to a ghost. By the time Palencia shifted his weight, Tristan was already gone.
Tristan blew past him. It looked like Palencia was standing in cement.
The QC center, Marcus Lee, stepped up.
Tristan didn't pass. He didn't float. He attacked the rim with a violence that shocked the crowd.
He rose up. Skill Giant Slayer.
He absorbed the contact from the 6'8" center and laid the ball in high off the glass.
Score: QC 24 — Dasmariñas 17
Palencia turned around, his smirk gone. He's faster, he thought. Much faster.
Palencia demanded the ball. He wanted to answer immediately. He isolated Tristan at the top.
"You got a lucky step," Palencia muttered.
He tried his signature double-crossover. Left. Right.
Tristan didn't bite. His Perimeter Defense had spiked. He mirrored Palencia perfectly, chest-to-chest.
Palencia, frustrated, tried to step back.
Tristan was there. His hand swiped down like a cobra.
Slap.
The ball was loose.
Tristan dove, secured it, rolled, and was up and sprinting before Palencia could even process the turnover.
Fast break. 1-on-0.
Tristan rose and finished with a clean, two-handed dunk.
Score: QC 24 — Dasmariñas 19
The Dasmariñas crowd roared. Four points in 30 seconds.
Palencia was angry now. Good.
He took the ball and drove hard, lowering his shoulder. He bullied his way into the paint and hit a tough, contested fadeaway over Ian.
Swish.
Score: QC 26 — Dasmariñas 19
"I can do this all day!" Palencia yelled.
Tristan brought the ball up. The noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum. The colors of the jerseys blurred. All he saw were vectors. Angles. Weaknesses.
He's playing me tight. He thinks I'm a driver now.
Tristan stopped 28 feet from the basket. The logo.
Palencia sagged off a step to protect the drive.
Tristan rose up.
The release was effortless.
Swish.
Score: QC 26 — Dasmariñas 22
"He... he has range?" Marco whispered from the bench, clutching Gab's arm. "Since when does he have that range?"
The Zone
The Flow State
Tristan wasn't thinking anymore. He wasn't calculating stats. He was simply being. The ball was an extension of his hand. The court was a grid he controlled.
He entered "The Zone."
His heart rate slowed. His vision narrowed. The screaming of the 20,000 fans sounded like they were underwater.
Palencia came back. He hit a nasty step-back three over Tristan.
QC 29 - Dasma 22.
"You can't guard me!"
Tristan brought it down. He called for a screen from Gab, then waved it off.
He looked at Palencia.
Right hand. Heavy foot.
Tristan executed a shamgod. He threw the ball out with his right, pulled it back with his left.
Skill Ankle Breaker.
Palencia bit. Hard. His sneakers screeched against the hardwood as he tried to change direction. His feet got tangled.
The MVP. The King. Joco Palencia... fell.
He crumbled to his knees.
The arena gasped—a sound like all the air being sucked out of the world.
Tristan stood over him for a fraction of a second. He didn't look down. He stepped back behind the line.
He shot.
Swish.
Score: QC 29 — Dasmariñas 25
"OH MY GOD!" The announcer screamed. "PALENCIA IS DOWN! HERRERA JUST PUT HIM ON SKATES!"
Palencia scrambled up, his face burning red with humiliation. He didn't pass. He drove into the teeth of the defense, drew three defenders, and hung in the air, switching hands for an impossible layup.
QC 31 - Dasma 25.
He was unstoppable. But now, so was Tristan.
The next five minutes were basketball nirvana. It was no longer a game; it was a war between two deities.
Tristan hit a pull-up midrange. 31-27.
Palencia answered with a floater. 33-27.
Tristan drove, drew the defense, and hit Marco in the corner with a laser pass. Marco hit the three. 33-30.
Palencia split a double team and dunked. 35-30.
Tristan came down, hit Ian with a lob. 35-32.
"They're trading punches!" Coach G yelled, pacing the sideline. "It's a heavyweight fight!"
Tristan was sweating, but he didn't feel it. He felt light.
He had the ball. The score was QC 40 - Dasma 37.
He saw Palencia breathing hard. The King was tired. The General was just getting started.
Tristan drove left. He stopped on a dime. He spun back right.
He drove into the paint. The QC bigs, terrified of his passing, stayed home on Ian and Gab.
Tristan had a clear lane. He took off.
He cocked the ball back.
He slammed it home with one hand, hanging on the rim for a split second to let the message sink in.
Score: QC 40 — Dasmariñas 39
Palencia walked the ball up. He looked at Tristan. The smirk was gone. In its place was a look of pure, terrified respect.
"Who are you?" Palencia whispered as he dribbled near half-court. "You weren't this fast in the first quarter."
Tristan didn't answer. He just got into his stance. I evolved.
Palencia called for a screen. He used it to get a switch onto Cedrick (who had subbed in).
Palencia danced on the perimeter, hit a step-back three over the big man.
Swish.
QC 43 - Dasma 39.
"I'm still the King!" Palencia roared.
Tristan took the inbound.
He dribbled up. He saw Daewoo cutting. He faked the pass. The defense shifted.
Tristan pulled up from 30 feet.
Swish.
QC 43 - Dasma 42.
Palencia drove. He collided with Gab. No whistle. Loose ball.
Tristan grabbed it.
He pushed the break. He saw Palencia chasing him down for the block.
Tristan knew he was coming. He slowed down slightly, baiting him.
As Palencia leaped for the chase-down, Tristan stopped, let Palencia fly over him, and calmly laid the ball in.
Score: QC 43 — Dasmariñas 44
Dasmariñas lead. The first lead of the game.
Palencia was furious. He took the ball, drove the length of the floor in four seconds, and smashed a dunk over Ian Veneracion.
QC 45 - Dasma 44.
Tristan brought it up. The crowd was on its feet. The noise was deafening, but in the Zone, it was silence.
Tristan signaled for a clear-out.
He went at Palencia again.
Crossover. Hesitation. Drive.
He got into the paint. He faked a pass to the corner. The defense froze.
Tristan hit a short, fadeaway jumper from the block.
Swish.
Score: QC 45 — Dasmariñas 46
QC held for the last shot. Palencia stood at the top of the key, dribbling the clock down.
10... 9...
He looked at Tristan.
"You're good," Palencia said.
"I know," Tristan replied.
5... 4...
Palencia made his move. He drove right, stopped, pivoted, and hit a Dirk-style one-legged fadeaway from the elbow.
It was unguardable.
Swish.
Score: QC 47 — Dasmariñas 46
Ian inbounded quickly to Tristan.
4 seconds.
Tristan sprinted.
3 seconds. He crossed half court.
2 seconds. Palencia picked him up.
Tristan didn't have time to drive. He was 35 feet from the basket.
He saw the rim. It looked as big as the ocean.
He stopped. He planted his feet.
Palencia leaped to contest.
Tristan released the ball. A running, one-handed heave from the logo.
The buzzer sounded.
The red light illuminated the backboard.
The ball tumbled through the air, high and true.
Gravity took hold.
It dropped.
SWISH.
Halftime Score: QC 47 — Dasmariñas 49
The arena exploded.
Tristan stood at half-court, his hand still raised in the follow-through. He blinked.
The Zone faded. The noise rushed back in—a wall of screaming, cheering, and disbelief.
Marco tackled him. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! FROM THE LOGO?! YOU ARE NOT HUMAN!"
Tristan stumbled back, catching his breath. He looked at the scoreboard. They were up by two.
He looked across the court.
Joco Palencia was standing under the basket, staring at the net, his hands on his hips. He slowly turned and looked at Tristan.
He nodded. A slow, grim nod.
Game on.
Tristan walked toward the locker room, his teammates swarming him. His body was humming with the residue of the power he had unleashed.
He had matched the god. He had entered the Zone.
And the second half was just beginning.