The pre-game pleasantries evaporated the instant the referee tossed the ball into the air. The gymnasium, which had echoed with mutual respect moments before, was now a cauldron of focused, competitive silence, broken only by the rhythmic squeak of high-traction sneakers on polished asphalt.
The ball hung at its apex, a sphere of orange leather representing the opening salvo of a battle that felt far more significant than any mere scrimmage. Ian, explosive and powerful, launched himself upwards, his fingers stretching for the tip. But Ibeke Matumba uncoiled with a deceptive, earth-shaking power.
He seemed to rise effortlessly, his massive frame eclipsing Ian's, and with a casual, almost dismissive flick of his wrist, he cleanly tapped the ball back to Tracy Romeo.
The message was sent, a silent, powerful declaration of physical dominance. The paint belonged to Ibeke Matumba.
Tracy Romeo received the tap, and the game began at his pace—calm, controlled, and probing. Tristan immediately picked him up, crouching low, his feet active. He felt a new stability in his stance, a lower center of gravity that felt more connected to the floor.
Strength: 60. It's not a huge number, but I'm not getting pushed around on the perimeter anymore.
Tracy tested him with a quick crossover, but Tristan's lateral movement felt sharper, more fluid.
Agility: 70. I can stay in front of him. He mirrored Tracy's every move, cutting off the initial drive. Tracy, unfazed, used a high screen from Ibeke. Ian was forced to switch, and the mismatch was stark. Tracy blew past him, forcing Cedrick to rotate from the weak side to help.
It was a classic, perfectly executed pick-and-roll. As Cedrick committed, Tracy, with his head up, whipped a no-look pass to a cutting Rain Ocampo. Cedrick, having left his man, was a step too late. Ocampo caught the ball, took one powerful step, and laid it in off the glass before Cedrick could recover.
Score: Dasmariñas 0 — Trece Martires 2
"Good rotation, Rain!" Tracy called out, clapping his hands as they jogged back on defense. Rain Ocampo bumped fists with him, then glanced at Cedrick.
"Gonna be a long day in here," Ocampo said, not as a taunt, but as a simple statement of fact.
Cedrick just grunted in response, his jaw tight.
Ian inbounded the ball to Tristan. The moment the ball touched his hands, he felt it—an undeniable, electrifying difference. He took his first dribble and pushed the ball up the court. It wasn't just his legs that were faster; his entire being felt lighter, more explosive.
Whoa. The thought was sharp and clear in his mind. This is Speed: 70 and Acceleration: 70. This feels… different. Effortless.
He crossed half-court in a blur, catching the TMH defense slightly off-guard. Tracy Romeo, expecting a more methodical pace, had to scramble to get in front of him.
Tristan saw Aiden flaring out to the left wing, his defender a half-step behind.
Without breaking stride, Tristan snapped a one-handed bounce pass that hit Aiden perfectly in his shooting pocket. It was a pass he could have made before, but now it felt more intuitive, the ball an extension of his will.
Passing Vision: 70. I saw that play develop before it even happened.
Aiden caught the ball, took one dribble, and rose for his signature mid-range fadeaway.
The net swished.
Score: Dasmariñas 2 — Trece Martires 2
"That's the pace, Tris! Push it!" Aiden yelled, slapping his hand as they got back on defense.
The next TMH possession was a clear statement of their strategy. They wanted to feed the beast. Tracy dribbled patiently on the wing, waiting. Inside, Ibeke Matumba was establishing post position on Ian. It was like watching a man try to move a boulder.
Ian was strong, but Ibeke was a different class of physical power, backing him down with methodical, unstoppable force.
"Front him, Ian! Don't let him catch it deep!" Cedrick yelled from the help side.
Ian fought, trying to deny the entry pass, but Ibeke sealed him off perfectly. Tracy lobbed a soft pass over the top. Ibeke caught it, gathered himself, and went up for a simple but unstoppable baby hook shot.
Score: Dasmariñas 2 — Trece Martires 4
"Too easy!" Ibeke muttered to himself, jogging back with an impassive expression.
Dasmariñas decided to answer with their own interior strength. Tristan brought the ball up and signaled for a post-up for Cedrick, who had the size advantage on Rain Ocampo. Cedrick caught the entry pass, his back to the basket.
He felt Ocampo leaning on him and made a quick, powerful spin move towards the baseline. For a split second, he was open. He went up for what should have been an easy layup.
Suddenly, the world went dark. Ibeke Matumba, who had seemingly teleported from the other side of the paint, rose up and emphatically swatted the ball out of bounds.
The sound of the block echoed through the silent gym. It wasn't just a block; it was a rejection, a brutal denial of access to the painted area.
Cedrick landed, a look of stunned disbelief on his face.
"My paint," Ibeke said, his voice a low rumble. He wasn't looking at Cedrick; he was looking at the entire Dasmariñas team.
Tristan clapped his hands, trying to shake his team out of the stupor. "Hey! Shake it off, Ced! Good move, he just made a great play.
Let's reset!"
But a seed of doubt had been planted. Their primary advantage against most teams—their twin towers of Ian and Cedrick—had just been completely neutralized by one player.
Okay, Tristan thought, taking the inbound pass. Coach was right. We can't force it inside. We have to make him move.
With the paint effectively a no-fly zone, the game shifted to the perimeter.
And that meant it was time for the gunners to go to work. Tristan ran a play for Marco, a double screen that sent him curling off to the wing. Marco caught the pass, his feet already set. He elevated, and Jace Yap, fighting through the screens, was just a fraction of a second too late to contest. The shot was pure.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 5 — Trece Martires 4
Marco jogged backwards, a confident grin on his face. He caught Jace Yap's eye. "Just warming up the engine!"
Jace didn't reply. On the next TMH possession, he showed his answer. He ran his defender, Marco, ragged, cutting through a labyrinth of screens set by his teammates.
Tracy Romeo found him on the opposite wing. Jace caught the ball and, in one fluid motion without a single dribble, rose and fired. The ball traced a perfect, high arc.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 5 — Trece Martires 7
Jace looked at Marco as he ran past him. "So am I," he said, his voice calm and even.
The pace quickened, turning into a frantic, back-and-forth affair.
On a fast break, Tristan pushed the ball hard. He felt an incredible sense of control, even at full speed. Speed with Ball: 60. I'm not just fast anymore; I'm fast with the rock.
He drew two defenders and shoveled a pass to an open Aiden for an easy layup.
TMH came right back. Tracy Romeo used another screen, drove the lane, and as Ian stepped up to stop him, he dropped a deft bounce pass to a cutting JP Simon for another easy two.
After five minutes of non-stop action, Coach Gutierrez called a quick timeout to make a point. As the players jogged to the bench, gasping for air, Tristan realized something incredible.
He wasn't tired.
Normally, after a five-minute stretch that intense, his lungs would be burning, his legs heavy. He would be bent over, hands on his knees. But now… he felt fine. He was breathing hard, yes, but it was a controlled, rhythmic breathing. The deep well of energy he felt within him was still nearly full.
Stamina: 85, he thought, a sense of awe washing over him. This is what it feels like. This is an absolute game-changer. I can do this all day.
In the huddle, Coach Gutierrez was direct. "They're shutting down the paint. Ian, Cedrick, stop trying to post him up. It's not working. From now on, you are screeners and rollers. We are going to make Matumba defend in space. Tristan, run the high pick-and-roll every time down if you have to. Make him choose: either he steps up to stop you, or he stays back to guard the roll. We exploit whatever he gives us. Got it?"
The team nodded, their expressions grimly focused. The easy confidence from warm-ups was long gone. This was a tactical chess match.
They returned to the court, and the strategy shifted immediately. On their first possession, Tristan called for a high screen from Ian. Ibeke Matumba's coach could be heard from the sideline yelling, "Hedge! Hedge hard!"
Ibeke stepped out, a mountain moving into the open plains of the three-point line, to momentarily cut off Tristan's path. It was the space they needed. Ian immediately rolled hard to the now-vacant paint. Tristan, seeing Ibeke commit, lofted a perfect pass over the top. Ian caught it and went up for a thunderous dunk.
Score: Dasmariñas 9 — Trece Martires 9
"That's it!" Tristan yelled, pointing at Ian. "That's the play!"
They ran it again on the next possession, this time with Cedrick. Ibeke, learning from the last play, didn't hedge as hard, staying closer to the paint to prevent the roll.
It was the second part of the trap. With Ibeke hanging back, Tristan came off the screen and found himself with a wide-open lane to the basket. He accelerated into the space, his first step leaving Tracy Romeo behind.
He drove deep into the paint. The entire gym, including his own teammates, expected him to pull up for a floater or a short jumper to avoid the inevitable challenge from Matumba. The memory of his game-winning fadeaway was fresh in everyone's minds.
But Tristan felt different now. He was stronger, more explosive. And he had a new weapon he was dying to test.
He didn't slow down. He didn't fade away. He drove directly at the heart of the defense, directly at the colossus waiting for him. Ibeke rose to meet him, his long arms creating a solid wall, a total eclipse of the basket.
Here we go, Tristan thought, a thrill of anticipation shooting through him. Let's see what happens.
He leaped, not away, but into the defender. As his body absorbed the contact in mid-air, a notification, unseen by anyone else, flashed in the corner of his mind's eye.
[Giant Slayer] Activated!
Instead of a normal layup, he contorted his body, shielding the ball with his left hand and scooping it up with his right, high off the glass from an almost impossible angle. The ball kissed the top of the square and dropped softly through the net.
Score: Dasmariñas 11 — Trece Martires 9
A stunned silence fell over the court for a beat. Ibeke Matumba landed, a look of genuine surprise on his face. He had expected the fadeaway. He had expected the floater. He had not expected to be challenged so directly, so fearlessly, and so successfully.
He looked at Tristan, who was already jogging back on defense, a small, confident smile on his face.
"Nice move, little man," Ibeke said, a note of newfound respect in his voice.
The first quarter ended a few possessions later, with Jace Yap hitting one more contested jumper at the buzzer. The scoreboard was a testament to the brutal, back-and-forth nature of the fight.
End of First Quarter: Dasmariñas 15 — Trece Martires 16
As the Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team walked to their bench, the mood was electric. They were down by one, but they had figured something out.
They had faced a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in Ibeke Matumba and, through strategy and a flash of individual brilliance from their captain, they had found a way to attack.
Tristan took a seat, grabbing a towel. The physical changes were real and tangible. He felt like a different player, like he had unlocked a new level of his own potential.
The soreness from the past few weeks of training was a distant memory, replaced by a thrumming, powerful energy. He looked at the scoreboard, at the focused faces of his teammates, and at the formidable opponents across the court.
This was exactly what they needed. This was the crucible that would forge them into a team ready for the Nationals. The first ten minutes were over. The test had just begun.