The morning sun, a warm, golden presence in the sky, streamed through Tristan's window, painting a stripe of light across his bedroom floor. This was no ordinary Sunday. The usual weekend quiet felt different today, charged with a silent, humming energy. This was the day of the Intercolor Basketball League Championship. The final battle. A day that would decide the fate of their hard-fought season, and for Tristan, a day that held the weight of his entire existence.
He got out of bed, the motion stiff, his muscles already coiled with a grim determination. The words from his system were a cold, permanent fixture in his mind, echoing in the quiet spaces between his thoughts: FAILURE: SYSTEM DELETION AND ALL YOUR STATS AND SKILL WILL BE REMOVED . The threat was no longer an abstract concept; it was a visceral reality. Losing meant being stripped of everything he had become. The skills, the confidence, the very identity he had forged would be erased, leaving only the quiet, unassuming boy he used to be. The thought was a shard of ice in his gut. He had a mission to win. He had a team to lead. And he had to find a new kind of courage to see it through.
He pulled on his black jersey, the fabric feeling like a second skin, an armor for the battle to come. He packed his bag with methodical precision—shoes, towel, water bottle—and walked out the front door into the bright Dasmariñas morning. His core teammates—Marco, Gab, and Felix—were already there, a silent tableau on the sidewalk. Their faces were a collage of emotions: sleepy exhaustion from a restless night, nervous energy twitching at the corners of their eyes, and a deep, simmering focus. They were a family, and they were facing this together.
"Hey, guys," Tristan said, his voice managing to sound steady. "Ready for one last run-through?"
Marco broke into a wide, almost manic grin, clapping his hands together. "Ready? Tris, I was born ready! I dreamt I scored fifty points last night. Woke up and my arms were sore from all the fist-pumping."
Gab, leaning against the compound wall, let out a long, weary sigh that was half-yawn. "I'm too nervous to sleep. My stomach isn't just in knots; it's playing a full-contact sport of its own. I think the butterflies have butterflies."
Felix, the team's stoic center, just gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Just tell me who to screen. The rest is noise."
Tristan couldn't help but laugh, the sound cutting through some of the tension. "Come on. Let's go."
They began their familiar walk to the Barangay Burol II basketball court. The Sunday streets were quiet, bathed in the soft morning light. The low hum of a city just waking up was punctuated by the distant crowing of a rooster and the cheerful chirping of birds. The air was thick with the comforting smells of garlic rice and brewing coffee wafting from open windows. It was a peaceful scene, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within them.
As they pushed open the metal gate to the court, a collective gasp escaped them. The court, their sanctuary, was empty and silent, the morning sun casting long shadows across the painted lines. In this quiet moment, it felt less like a battleground and more like a cathedral. The atmosphere was sacred, electric, waiting.
They started with a light practice, a gentle warm-up to shake the nerves out of their limbs. Their movements were a symphony of practiced ease, a testament to months of relentless work. The drills were punctuated by camaraderie and lighthearted banter.
"Hey, if you're gonna set a screen, Felix, at least try to look like a wall and not a slightly annoyed door," Marco joked as he zipped past.
"And if you're gonna shoot, try to make it go in," Felix retorted without missing a beat.
"Alright, guys, 'Serpent's Fangs' on three!" Tristan's voice, low and focused, cut through the noise.
The team snapped into formation. Felix moved to set a high screen. Gab faked a cut, drawing his defender away and creating space. Marco sliced through the lane, a blur of pure black. Tristan, seeing the play develop a half-second before it happened, delivered a sharp, perfect bounce pass. It hit Marco in stride, and with a wide grin, he laid the ball up. It kissed the glass and dropped cleanly through the net.
After their practice, they gathered at Tristan's house for a final team meeting. Sprawled across the living room floor, they dissected their game plan.
"Okay, listen up," Tristan said, his voice commanding their full attention. "The Grey Wolves are bigger and stronger, especially with Aiden dominating the midrange and the paint. We can't win by playing their game. Our advantage is speed. We run. From the first whistle to the last."
"So, a track meet?" Marco said, his eyes gleaming. "I like it. Aiden's a beast down low, but he can't guard me on the three-point line."
"Exactly," Tristan confirmed. "Felix, your main job today isn't to outscore Aiden. It's to exhaust him. Fight for every rebound, box him out on every shot, make him work for every single step he takes on that court. Gab, you're glued to their shooter, number seven. He can't touch the ball without you being in his jersey. We live or die by our defense today. We play our game, with our fire. We win this thing."
The rest of the team chimed in, their voices a symphony of agreement and shared determination.
At 5 PM, they had their team meal—a feast of chicken, pasta, and rice, food high in the carbohydrates and protein they would need. At 5:30 PM, they made their way back to the court.
The transformation was breathtaking. The quiet sanctuary from the morning was now a roaring cauldron of noise and energy. The stands were packed, a vibrant sea of cheering spectators. The air was electric, thick with the smell of popcorn and anticipation. On the other side of the court, the Grey Wolves were already warming up. They moved with a disciplined, intimidating confidence, their grey jerseys a stark contrast to the Mambas' black.
Tristan locked eyes with Marco, and with a shared nod, they walked toward the opposing team's side. Aiden, their rival and the Grey Wolves' formidable leader, was in the middle of a stretching routine.
"Hey, Aiden," Tristan said, his voice calm amidst the din. "It all comes down to this. Good luck today. May the best team win."
Marco clapped Aiden on the shoulder, his trademark grin firmly in place. "He's right. Good luck. But don't expect us to make it easy on you. It's going to be a battle."
Aiden rose to his full height, a quiet, reassuring smile on his face that held no malice, only competitive fire. "You too, guys. I wouldn't want it any other way. It's definitely going to be a battle." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the roaring crowd. "I'll see you on the court."
The three rivals parted ways, their mutual respect a silent, unwavering presence in the loud, boisterous arena. The referee walked to the center circle, holding the game ball. The lights of the gymnasium seemed to shine brighter, hotter. Tristan took his place, the faces of his teammates reflected in the polished floor. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. There was only the court, his team, the opponent, and the cold, singular command echoing in the depths of his soul.
The Black Mambas were ready. The Grey Wolves were ready. The championship was about to begin.