The morning sun crept across the cracked asphalt of the Vorpal Basket gym courtyard.

Dust danced in the faint light streaming through the windows.

The air carried the smell of sweat, rubber, and quiet determination, the kind that settles before a storm.

Inside, the entire Vorpal Basket team was gathered.

Some were stretching, others silent, but all eyes eventually turned toward Ethan Albarado, standing in front of the old TV setup, remote in hand, the screen showing flickers of blue and gold uniforms.

On the grainy tape, the words appeared:

EASTGATE COLLEGE — WILDCATS

Boston, Massachusetts.

Ethan clicked play.

The footage started fast.

Crossovers, sharp passes, smooth transitions.

Three names dominated the screen.

Miho Park. Davis Conner. Armi Hassuf.

The Wildcats' holy trinity.

Miho Park, the captain, calm, unreadable, yet burning with cold pride.

A Korean prodigy who played like he was solving equations mid-dribble.

Every step he took looked intentional, as if the game itself bent to his pace.

Davis Conner, power forward broad shoulders, steady rhythm, the kind of player who never forced a shot but never missed an opening either. His presence was like gravity — grounding everything around him.

Armi Hassuf, shooting guard analytical, sharp, sometimes too much for his own good. Every motion calculated. Every pass considered.

He didn't play basketball, he played chess with a ball.

The gym was quiet as the team watched.

Then Ethan spoke.

"These three…" he said, voice low, eyes never leaving the screen.

"…are the pillars of Eastgate."

Lucas folded his arms, leaning on the wall. "So, these are the guys who gave you hell back then?"

Ethan nodded slightly.

The memory came back sharp, vivid, alive.

…

A year ago.

The court had been surrounded by Vorpal Basket team.

Miho Park stood across from him.

Their eyes locked a mirror of ambition and challenge.

The game had been fast, merciless.

The scoreboard then: 1–2.

The 1v1 cut short not because one of them quit, but because the school shut it down before the fire could spread.

Miho's last words still echoed.

"It's not over yet. We settle this in a real game."

The memory snapped.

Back in the present, Ethan hit pause on the video.

The screen froze on Miho's face calm, yet heavy with purpose.

"…He hasn't changed," Ethan murmured.

"Still the same eyes that don't see opponents. Only results."

Louie, scratching his head, blinked. "Wait, wait, so this Miho guy's your rival or something?"

Lucas smirked. "Yeah. The last time they met, Miho got smoked."

Louie's jaw dropped. "For real?!"

Ryan cut in, his tone calm but serious. "Not exactly. The game got cut before it ended."

Ethan didn't respond. He just stared at the screen again.

The tape rolled again but this time, Ethan slowed it down.

Frame by frame.

Miho's form perfect balance.

Davis' positioning, controlled chaos.

Armi's release almost invisible, quick as a blink.

And then…

A flash.

A new player appeared in the footage.

Leaner, sharper, faster.

Ethan's eyes narrowed.

"Jun Seo."

Lucas frowned. "The wild card?"

Ethan nodded.

"Yeah. He wasn't there last year."

On screen, Jun Seo intercepted a pass, spun midair, and hit a reverse layup before his defender even reacted.

His stats didn't need explaining.

"Top-tier reflexes," Ethan muttered.

"He plays like Chronos, predicts flow, not movement."

Ryan crossed his arms. "So, this team's balanced. Smart captain, stable core, unpredictable wildcard."

Aiden exhaled. "Sounds like trouble."

Ethan smirked faintly. "They're not Raptors-level trouble… but they're sharp enough to cut anyone who gets careless."

He clicked the remote again. The tape paused on the Wildcats celebrating after a win.

The sound of sneakers on the gym floor filled the silence.

Ethan turned to his team.

"Listen."

His tone shifted, steady, commanding.

"The Eastgate Wildcats aren't the Gods. They're not the Raptors. But they're what happens when a team believes they're already great."

He looked at each player; Lucas, Ryan, Brandon, Josh, Aiden, Louie.

"We're not fighting their talent. We're fighting their confidence."

Lucas grinned, sharp and knowing. "And confidence breaks faster than bones."

Ryan nodded. "Depends on who hits first."

Ethan smirked. "Exactly."

He turned the TV off. The reflection of the black screen caught his yellow hair, his determined eyes.

Louie's tone turned serious.

"Ethan, you said Miho and you… unfinished business, right?"

Ethan nodded.

"We started something that day. He's the kind of guy who doesn't forget. He's probably been training since that moment too."

A faint memory surfaced, Miho's eyes during that 1v1. Cold. Focused.

No anger.

Just acknowledgment.

"He's not playing to prove anything," Ethan murmured.

"He's playing to test perfection."

Back at Eastgate College, the wind howled faintly outside, brushing against the glass panes of the film room. The hum of the projector filled the silence, flickering light casting shadows over the faces of the Eastgate Wildcats.

Rows of chairs sat empty, except for four figures; Miho Park, Armi Hassuf, Davis Conner, and Jun Seo.

The screen in front of them replayed Vorpal Basket's latest scrimmage, frame by frame, Ethan's footwork, Lucas's passing rhythm, the team's emerging chemistry.

Miho sat in the front row, arms crossed, gaze unblinking.

His sharp Korean features were illuminated by the pale blue light, his expression unreadable calm, detached, yet dangerous.

He watched Ethan Albarado sink another mid-range jumper, pivoting off one foot, the ball whispering through the net.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, a flicker.

A small twitch at the corner of Miho's mouth.

It wasn't irritation. It wasn't even surprise.

It was something deeper.

Excitement.

Armi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing.

"He's gotten better," he murmured.

Davis Conner, the power forward built like a fortress, crossed his arms beside him.

His voice was gravelly, but controlled.

"He's changed."

The screen froze, Ethan mid-dribble, eyes sharp, sweat glinting under the gym lights.

Miho's reflection overlapped Ethan's image.

For a brief second, it looked as if they were staring at each other through the screen.

Miho's tone came quiet, low, yet resonant, a voice that demanded silence.

"No," he said, eyes fixed on Ethan's image.

"He's evolved."

He stood up, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor slicing through the still air.

His teammates glanced at him, feeling the shift, that familiar, heavy presence of their captain when he decided to take things seriously.

He straightened his collar, movements precise and deliberate.

"Then so will I."

The room fell silent again.

Only the faint hum of the projector remained, cycling through frames of Ethan's brilliance

until Miho reached out and turned it off.

Darkness swallowed the room.

But even in that dark, the Wildcats could feel it, the spark of rivalry rekindled.

A storm was coming, and its name was Ethan Albarado.

On the next day

The sun bled gold through the tall glass windows of Vorpal Basket's gym, casting long shadows across the polished court.

The rhythmic thud-thud of basketballs echoed like a heartbeat alive, steady, and relentless.

From the bleachers, Ethan Albarado sat quietly, eyes focused, his mind dissecting every movement on the floor.

Beside him, Ayumi crossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on the team's practice. Her calm presence balanced Ethan's sharp focus.

Below them, Lucas Graves was on fire.

His black hair clung to his forehead, his breathing steady yet fierce. Every movement he made carried intent, a mix of study, imitation, and creativity.

He dribbled low, planted his foot, and rose for a fadeaway jumper, lightning snapping through his form, a mimicry of Zeus's Adaptation Command.

The ball cut through the air like thunder and swished cleanly through the net.

Ayumi tilted her head slightly, impressed.

"He's been doing that for hours," she said softly. "That's the tenth time he's copied Zeus's shot."

Ethan's golden eyes narrowed. "It's not just copying."

He watched Lucas land, sweat glistening, his body already resetting for another move.

"He's testing himself seeing how close he can get to perfection."

Lucas went again, this time, he copied Chronos's quick-step, a flash of time-warped motion that made him blur for half a second before reappearing near the rim.

He dunked it with a sharp bam! that rattled the glass backboard.

The team paused, eyes wide.

But Lucas didn't celebrate.

He just stared at his hands, frowning.

"Tsk… it's not enough," he muttered, voice low but heavy with frustration.

He wiped his sweat with his arm, then glanced toward Ethan and Ayumi.

Even from afar, Ethan could read it, that same fire he once saw in himself.

Ethan stood, walking to the edge of the court.

"Lucas." he called.

The younger boy looked up, panting.

Ethan's tone was calm, steady like a mentor's but edged with challenge.

"You can't just mimic gods. Their power isn't meant to be copied. It's meant to be understood then rewritten."

Lucas blinked, then smirked faintly.

"Yeah… I figured."

He spun the ball on his finger.

"So I'll make something new — something that's mine."

Louie's voice cuts through the heavy air like a pebble in a still pond.

"Show off," he laughs, half-teasing, half-awed, the grin of the team's youngest who thinks the world is a stage and every hoop an invitation.

He bounces his ball once, twice, the rhythm a quick staccato that never leaves him. Louie Davas is streetball incarnate: unpredictable handles, a grin that distracts defenders, and a fearless lean into contact that turns hustle into performance. He's the smallest on the roster, the loudest in the locker room, and somehow the one who always finds the cut nobody saw coming. Today his eyes shine like a kid who just watched his friend learn to fly.

From the floor the others look up, drawn like iron filings to a magnet. One by one they gather around Ethan and Ayumi in the bleachers not out of ceremony, but because this is the moment before a fight, when a team chooses whether to stand or scatter.

Evan Cooper is the first to climb the steps, court-bred composure in every movement. The point guard's shoulders are relaxed but ready; his hands drip with tape and fidelity. "We'll control tempo," he says, voice measured. "We slow them, we set the game."

Coonie Smith pads behind him, quiet as a prayer. The bench's moral point guard, Coonie is smaller, eyes soft with determination and an unshakeable faith that shows in how he claps in the huddles and whispers encouragement (sarcastic remarks) after mistakes. When the chips fall, Coonie is the hand that steadies the wheel.

Aiden White follows, breathing like a metronome. He's the utility player with a stubborn motor and razor focus. "I'll lock the wings," he tells Ethan, fingers flexing around an imagined rebound. "Keep them out." He's not flashy, but he's dependable in the way a foundation is dependable unglamorous and essential.

Josh Turner trails in, shoulders a little hunched, the serious one who reads film in his sleep. His shot is mechanical, reliable the kind you win close games with. "If they try to bait us into chaos, I'll stay steady," he says. His voice betrays no fear; his face barely changes. That stillness is a weapon.

Ryan Taylor arrives next, a quiet grin and the sarcasm that's half-armor, half-warmth. He's the team's calm in storms: veteran by temperament, witty by habit. "We make them play our game," he murmurs, sliding into the seat beside Louie. "And if they don't like it, we change the rules mid-stream."

Brandon Young lumbers in, center-sized and measured. He's the team's rock in the paint: wide shoulders, wide heart. When he speaks it's with a weight everyone trusts. "I'll own the glass." he says simply; no bravado, only promise.

Kai Mendoza edges in with a small, bright energy. He's young, eager, the kind of bench spark coaches dream of. He claps Louie on the shoulder. "Let's show them some kindness they can't handle," he jokes, but his eyes betray hunger.

Jeremy Park trails, Analytics on his tongue, charts in his pockets. He's the quiet mind that will point out the Wildcats' tendencies in twenty seconds flat. "They favor right-side rotations on second-quarter sets. We can trap the weak link," he offers, and even the jokers nod because Jeremy's never wrong about numbers.

They settle around Ethan like a constellation finding its center. Ayumi watches them, the manager's hand tucked into her clipboard, but her smile is broader than the tasks list could earn. She's the tether reminding them of meals, of sleep, of the small human things the gods forget. "You all look like a team," she says softly. "Now act like one."

Ethan stands at the center, the system's glow still whispering in the edges of his vision. "We don't train to mimic the gods," he tells them, voice low and fierce. "We train to break the assumptions they build around themselves. Eastgate is sharp. Miho is precise. Jun Seo is dangerous. But their stars burn alone. We're a constellation." He lets the word sit like a seed. "Training. It's how we win. We improve each other and fix mistakes."

Lucas moves to Ethan's side, wiping sweat from his brow. He's changed since the game, sharper, more determined. He taps his temple and then his heart. "I'll keep carving. I copied, I learned. Now I'll invent." He looks at Louie. "And you, keep doing your chaos. We'll channel it."

Louie bounces his ball and grins. "Chaos, huh? Watch this." He sprints forward, twirls through a phantom defender, leaves the ball in Evan's hands with a cheeky smile, then backpedals into a screen. The move is both showmanship and setup, the exact spirit Ethan wants.

Evan's pass is a scalpel. "We start tight," he says, "cut lanes quick. Trap their wings early. If Miho's tempo collapses, the Wildcats fold."

Tyrese and Jalen's echoes from the Raptors linger in Ethan's mind courage seared in the memory of battle. "We make the rhythm ours," Ethan adds, "not because we out-skill them, but because we out-trust them. Link up. Read the cue, don't force it. If one of you falters, someone else takes the shot." His gaze sweeps each face, steady and certain. "We don't fear gods. We bind as humans."

Aiden nods, focusing the small forwards' drills in his head. "We practice the Link now, pick-and-rolls that rotate on a heartbeat, a passive pass that becomes active in a fraction. I'll run the rebound arcs so Brandon can box out and still roll."

Brandon cracks a rare smile. "Then I'll box and roll like I mean it."

Jeremy unspools a quick diagram in the air with his finger. "Spacing: widen four feet on the wings, compress the lane by one. If Jun Seo overcommits to the fake, he leaves the seam." The team murmurs assent; they can see the image in their heads.

Coonie leans in and says quietly, "And pray dick." It's not a joke. His faith is actual fuel, a reminder of the human heart in the machine. "We ask for focus. Not miracles."

The plan forms like a living thing. It's messy, organic, and thrilling, less a blueprint and more a breathing strategy. They run through it once cut, screen, two-man weave. Louie flares left, Lucas, ghost-steps like Chronos for a blink, then pulls back into his original motion, inventing the move he'd practiced: a hybrid of mimicry and original rhythm that left even the others blinking.

Ayumi stands, clipboard tucked in her arm, watching the synchronization blossom. "It's a new record," she calls, voice clear. "Two minutes. Focus on breath." She's not the coach, but she is the pulse, the quiet that keeps tempo steady.

Ethan breathes with them. He activates the path in small ways, not flashy, but felt: a subtle nod, a shared glance, a phrase that becomes their metronome. "Trust," he says, and the word becomes a drumbeat.

They drill until the light slants amber, until hands ache and tongues run dry of jokes. Sweat maps into patterns on jerseys. Each repetition tightens the link a little more: a pass that anticipates a cut, a screen that becomes a second handler, a defense that is two bodies and one mind.

When the session winds down, they huddle close breaths heavy, laughter thin, grief and hope braided together. "Tomorrow," Ethan says, voice raw with the price of effort, "we practice how to hurt them where talent can't reach."

Louie vaults to the rims like mischief incarnate, still full of grin and youth. "Just leave the drama to me," he jokes, but his eyes glint with the quiet fire of someone who loves the fight.

They walk out of the gym together, shoulders touching, the night swallowing their shapes. The city feels different now not quiet, but waiting. The task ahead is monstrous, but so is the thing that moves with them: team. Their steps are a cadence, a promise.

Ayumi closes the door behind them and breathes, satisfied. In the dark, Ethan's system pulses faintly One for All: Link 13%, a small number, but a number that rises with each heartbeat, each shared pass, each scar of practice.

To be continue

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