The buzzer had long since died.

But the silence that followed wasn't rest, it was weight.

The scoreboard still glared in cruel honesty:

GODS — 92 | RAPTORS — 55.

The crowd didn't cheer. They stood, caught between awe and heartbreak, cameras trembling in hands that couldn't decide whether to capture or pray.

Bodies glistened under the pale light. The floor smelled of sweat and ozone — Zeus's aura had left the air ionized, metallic, almost holy.

Jalen's team stood in a thin line, heads bowed, eyes red.

They were beaten.

But not broken.

Coach Jenkins was the first to speak, voice hoarse.

"Line up."

No grand speech now. Just duty.

The Raptors moved, slow but deliberate, forming a line at half-court.

Across from them, the Gods waited, not standing so much as existing, motionless, their shadows taller than their forms.

Zeus stood in the center.

Ares crossed his arms, jaw loose with boredom.

Poseidon's gaze never wavered.

Hades smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Chronos… just watched the seconds crawl.

As the Raptors approached, the crowd went silent again no chants, no applause. Just the sound of sneakers squeaking and hearts beating.

Tyrese was first.

He stepped forward, extended his hand toward Poseidon.

Kai's eyes flicked down, then up, the faintest nod. He shook it, cool and unbothered.

Malik followed, meeting Hades.

Dante's handshake lingered a second too long firm, almost possessive, like he was testing pulse and will. Malik didn't flinch.

Zion met Ares next.

The air between them buzzed.

Ares tilted his head, grin half there. "Still standing?"

Zion's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Still human."

They shook once. The sound cracked like leather.

Kobe Morales came to Chronos.

Chronos didn't offer his hand at first only after a pause, like the act required recalculating the value of respect. Their palms met; time itself seemed to skip a beat.

Then it was Jalen's turn.

He stepped toward Zeus.

Every camera in the arena tilted. Every breath in the crowd halted.

Zeus didn't move.

Didn't raise a hand.

Didn't blink.

Only when Jalen was a step away did Zeus finally extend his palm slow, deliberate, as though allowing the mortal world a gesture it hadn't earned.

Their hands met.

No words.

Only the hum of tension that made the backboards tremble.

Jalen's grip was firm not angry, not desperate. Just steady.

But Zeus's touch felt colder than the rim metal.

Their eyes locked.

Zeus's voice was barely audible but it slid into Jalen's ear like a blade wrapped in silk.

"You burned bright. But only fire dies this fast."

Jalen didn't respond.

He held the gaze, then released the hand.

Walked back to his teammates.

His silence was louder than any speech.

From the bleachers, Ethan Albarado watched everything motionless, eyes narrowed behind the railing.

His teammates beside him didn't speak.

Even Lucas, usually quick with remarks, just stared at Zeus.

Louie's voice finally broke the quiet, a whisper laced with disbelief.

"…They didn't even… celebrate."

Ryan exhaled. "They don't need to. Winning's just their nature."

Ethan's jaw tightened. His pulse drummed steady.

He could feel the difference not in skill, not in strength, but in presence.

The way the Gods walked.

The way they existed.

"They think the world's already written," he murmured.

Lucas leaned forward. "And?"

Ethan's fingers curled against his knee. His voice came out quiet but sharp enough to cut air.

"Then we'll be the ones to rewrite it."

The camera panned across the court, the Raptors heading toward the tunnel, heads high despite the loss, the Gods walking the opposite direction, untouched, untouchable.

The stadium's lights dimmed slightly, catching on the sweat, the footprints, the lingering heat of divine battle.

The commentators, trembling, found their voices only now.

"…What we just witnessed… isn't basketball. It's mythology painted in motion."

"…And yet the humans—they didn't bow."

In the tunnel, Zeus paused for a moment.

He didn't look back but his words reached his team like a decree.

"Remember this game. Because next time, they won't stand."

Poseidon smirked. "You sound almost… impressed."

Zeus's tone didn't change.

"I'm acknowledging variables. Not worth."

Ares laughed, draping an arm over his neck. "Let them dream. The crash'll sound sweeter."

Chronos checked his watch. "Time favors us, as always."

Hades tilted his head, eyes glinting. "And yet… I liked that kid. Jalen. He fought like he didn't know what 'impossible' meant."

Zeus's eyes, faintly glowing, narrowed as he finally glanced back toward the tunnel the Raptors disappeared into.

His voice lowered, almost a whisper.

"Impossible is only a word until someone defines it again."

Then he walked off.

No cheers followed.

Only the echo of supremacy.

In the Raptors' tunnel, Jalen walked slowly, his jersey half undone, hair damp and eyes bloodshot.

The noise of the crowd faded into a hum.

Coach Jenkins followed behind, saying nothing, there were no right words after a storm like that.

Ethan's voice came faintly from behind the curtain as the Vorpal players stood near the exit — still watching.

"...You held the line, Jalen."

The exhausted captain looked up, and for a heartbeat, smiled tired but proud.

"And you're next."

Ethan nodded. "Yeah."

"And we're not backing down."

Their eyes met —one team fallen, one about to rise.

The air felt different now.

The arena still buzzed with divine residue, but somewhere beneath it, another current began to stir raw, human, stubbornly alive.

As the Raptors disappeared into the tunnel and the Gods vanished down the opposite hall, the final image burned into every fan's memory:

The scoreboard still shining, GODS 92 | RAPTORS 55.

But for the first time all night…

the crowd didn't look at the numbers.

They looked at the humans who refused to bow.

And up in the stands, Ethan Albarado whispered the promise that would shake the throne itself:

"We're coming."

Meanwhile The crowd was still murmuring about the match that had just ended.

The Gods had walked off the court, their divine calm unbroken, their arrogance intact.

Even after the Raptors fell, even after Jalen's tear-stained collapse, there was still something that lingered a pulse of resistance, faint but real.

But far away from the noise and lights, in a smoke-filled room hidden beneath the city's grand coliseum another game was being discussed.

The room was dim.

Only the red glow of the holographic scoreboard lit the faces of six people sitting around a circular table.

Each face carried weight, the kind of presence that whispered of power, influence, and danger.

To be continue

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