Lucas rose.

Pulled up.

Three in rhythm, smooth as silk.

Splash.

The net hissed as the ball dropped through. The crowd detonated.

Vorpal 129 – Harbor 85.

The storm was suffocating.

Timeout Harbor.

Their huddle was broken. Players slumped, towels draped over their heads. Jet slammed his towel to the floor, face twisted in fury, but no one lifted their eyes to follow his rage. Dante's jaw was clenched so tight veins bulged in his neck. Skyline leaned over, hands on knees, sucking wind like he'd just run a marathon. Even Brick—Harbor's wall—sat hunched, shoulders sagging.

They weren't Harbor anymore.

They were wreckage.

Across the court, Vorpal's huddle burned like a second sun.

Ethan stood at the center, sweat dripping down his chin, but his eyes didn't waver. They burned sharper than fire, clearer than glass. Every word he spoke sliced through the noise, etched into the bones of his teammates.

"Listen. They're cracked. This is the final push. Don't just beat them, bury them."

He didn't even use the clipboard. He didn't need it. His palm became the court, fingers the lanes, lines drawn invisible but vivid in everyone's mind.

"Lucas, Brandon inside-out punch. Force them to collapse, then kick wide. Louie, you're the release valve. Make them chase you. Evan, you hold the rhythm. We don't give them a second of air."

His gaze swept the circle, locking eyes one by one.

"This isn't just about winning. It's about sending a message to the whole league. We don't survive. We dominate."

Ayumi's throat tightened. She'd seen Ethan scheme before, seen him guide his team through storms. But this wasn't just leadership anymore.

This was prophecy.

The horn blared.

Three minutes to destiny.

Vorpal wasn't walking back onto the court.

They were marching to execution.

Another Ethan strat.

Before the players stepped back onto hardwood, Ethan's voice dropped into a low, deliberate whisper, sharp enough for only his five to hear:

"They'll try to fight back through Jet. Pride won't let him quit. That's our bait. We use his fire against him."

He raised a finger.

"First step: overplay Jet's lane. Lucas mirrors him, Brandon shadows inside. Let him think he's free until we close the jaws."

Another finger.

"Second step: transition dagger. As soon as we strip or block, no hesitation. We run. I'll drag defenders with me, Louie, you're the ghost. Slip behind the chaos. Evan, find him."

A final finger.

"Third step: silence. After the kill, slow it down. Half-court strangulation. We run the triangle through Brandon. Inside kick, outside slash. We bleed them. Every possession takes their lungs, their hope, their pride."

He clenched his fist, holding it before their eyes.

"This is the end. Let's write it clean."

The teams returned.

Harbor ball. Jet stormed up the court, dribble snapping like gunfire. His eyes burned—not with hope, but rage. The crowd booed, cheered, screamed, but Jet only saw Lucas in front of him.

"You think you can mirror me forever?" Jet snarled.

Lucas's golden eyes glowed, grin wide.

"Forever's all I need."

Jet exploded left. Lucas slid left.

Jet spun. Lucas spun.

Jet snapped back for a jumper, Ethan and Brandon collapsed, jaws snapping shut.

SWAT. Brandon's hand met the ball mid-air. It ricocheted like a gunshot.

Louie was already gone, streaking down the right sideline, screaming, arms wide.

Ethan scooped the ball and charged upcourt, Harbor scrambling in panic. He crossed half, pulled two defenders with him then whipped it cross-court.

Evan didn't even dribble. He slung it forward, a perfect laser.

Louie caught it in stride, wide open, crowd roaring his name. He leapt high, wild, legs kicking then slammed it home with two hands, hanging on the rim as his voice tore through the rafters.

"VORPAL!"

The arena shook like an earthquake.

131 – 85.

The dagger twisted deeper.

Next possession.

Dante tried to free himself, but Louie was relentless. Every cut, every curl, Louie's body was there, buzzing, bumping, slapping at his arms. Dante's patience snapped—he shoved off,

rose for a long three.

Brick's screen gave him just enough space. The shot flew

But Ethan was already there, flying across from the weak side.

Smack. He tipped the shot, ball skittering loose. Lucas dove, scooped it, and in one fluid motion flung it ahead to Brandon.

Brandon rumbled down, Malik on his hip. He powered once, twice then rose and hammered a dunk over Malik's desperate reach.

The roar doubled, fans on their feet. Harbor's bench sank deeper.

133 – 85.

The bleeding didn't stop.

Ethan slowed the pace, signaling with a calm hand. The crowd hushed slightly, sensing something different. Vorpal flowed into formation.

Triangle set. Brandon at the block, Ethan on the wing, Lucas circling baseline.

Ethan fed Brandon. Malik leaned in, desperate, but Brandon was immovable. He pivoted, shoulders wide, waiting.

Lucas darted corner defense shifted.

Brandon's eyes flicked once. Then kick-out.

Ethan caught, jab-stepped, drew Skyline leaning. A bounce pass slipped under his arm, right into Evan's hands.

Wide-open midrange.

Swish.

135 – 85.

Each possession wasn't just a score anymore. It was suffocation.

Harbor's bench sat silent. Fans began trickling out, the storm too much to bear.

Final minute.

Ethan called for one last set. Not for glory. For closure.

He pointed at Lucas.

"Take it. End it your way."

Lucas blinked, then grinned. "Say less."

The ball swung around, Vorpal's offense fluid as water. Lucas caught at the top. Jet faced him, pride still flaring despite exhaustion.

Lucas dribbled once. Twice. A step-back perfectly mimicked, pure rhythm, golden eyes locked on the rim.

He rose.

Released.

Splash.

The buzzer sounded seconds later, though no one heard it through the roar.

Vorpal 138 – Harbor 87.

It wasn't a win.

It was an execution.

And Ethan's prophecy was complete.

The scoreboard still burned in memory:

Vorpal 138 – Harbor Kings 87.

A thirty-point massacre.

The arena had long since emptied, but whispers lingered in the air, echoes clinging to the rafters like smoke after a fire.

Harbor's locker room was grave-silent. Jet sat with his head buried in his hands, sweat and tears indistinguishable. His pride his identity had been shattered. Dante stared at the floor, fists clenched so tight his knuckles bled. Malik leaned against the wall, chest heaving like he hadn't found air since the second quarter. Brick didn't move at all, just sat still, a broken statue, staring into nothing.

And Skyline… Skyline muttered the same word again and again under his breath.

"Monsters… they're monsters…"

Even Coach Sora Nakamura, usually stone-faced, looked pale. For the first time, she couldn't offer words. She simply stood, eyes shadowed, knowing Harbor's pride wasn't just dented, it was obliterated.

Across town, the league buzzed.

Journalists flooded social media, headlines screaming:

"Vorpal Basket Destroys Kings, Is This The Rise of a New Dynasty?"

"Ethan Albarado & Lucas Graves: The Twin Suns of Mouth of Wilson."

"Harbor Kings Humiliated: Can Anyone Stop Vorpal?"

Clips spread like wildfire, Ethan's Kobe fadeaway, Lucas's step-back threes, Louie's rim-rattling dunk. Commentators replayed every highlight, calling it not just a win, but a statement.

ESPN-style analysis boomed through TV screens:

"Harbor was supposed to crush them. And instead? Vorpal looked untouchable. Ethan's vision, Lucas's evolution, even their bench players they played like one body, one mind. This isn't luck. This is system, power, and hunger."

Fans roared online. Some cheered, others doubted, but no one ignored.

Back in Vorpal's locker room, the air was the opposite of Harbor's silence.

Louie danced around, waving his jersey like a flag.

"WE COOKED 'EM! BOILED, FRIED, STEAMED, COOKED 'EM!"

Ryan leaned against the lockers, smirking as he scrolled through fan messages already flooding his socials.

"Thirty-point win, and the DMs are already on fire. Love you too, ladies."

Brandon gave him a sharp flick to the forehead.

"Focus, idiot."

Evan sat with his hands folded, calm but smiling, a quiet pride in his eyes. Josh and Aiden traded jabs, but even their bickering carried a glow of victory. Coonie leaned back, towel over his head, sassy as ever.

"Y'all better remember, this sass was fuel. Don't forget my contribution when the documentaries drop."

Kai and Jeremy clapped shoulders, voices overlapping with hype, every word dripping loyalty.

And in the middle, Ethan and Lucas.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Twin suns.

They didn't speak loudly. They didn't need to. Their eyes said it all:

The job's not finished.

But outside their bubble, the noise was deafening.

In gyms across the league, other semifinal teams watched in silence, knowing the storm they'd just witnessed wasn't a fluke, it was destiny coming.

The Venganza squad, now formally recognized after their redemption, stood huddled around a screen. Vin Cruz's jaw tightened. Zeke Monroe crossed his arms, expression unreadable. Kaia Volt paced, restless, electric energy sparking. And Dante Cruz, usually calm, finally muttered aloud:

"They're different now. Ethan… Lucas… they're not just players. They're inevitabilities."

Romanov Graves, Lucas's mother watched from the stands above. Her lips curved, not into a smile, but into something sharper, something colder.

The world finally sees what I always knew. My son… and the one beside him… are storms waiting to reshape everything.

The bracket shifted. The National were set.

Vorpal's destruction of Harbor wasn't just a win, it was a declaration. The league, the fans, even their enemies knew:

This wasn't the same underdog team anymore.

This was Vorpal Basket, reborn in fire, marching toward destiny.

And as they walked out of the tunnel, bathed in lights and chants, Ethan whispered under his breath words only Lucas caught.

"National next. No mercy. No hesitation."

Lucas grinned, eyes gleaming gold.

"Then let's burn the whole court down."

To be continue

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