The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the ten-minute break. The score, Dasmariñas 57 - CDO 26, hung on the scoreboard like a massive, glaring typo. The CDO High, or what was left of them, trudged back onto the court. Their star, LA Morales, remained on the bench, a towel draped over his head, a 6'9" monument to frustration and defeat. Their coach, having accepted his fate, was giving his reserves the chance to soak in the atmosphere of a Palaro game.
In the Dasmariñas huddle, the mood was one of supreme, controlled satisfaction.
"Tristan, Marco, Ian, Cedrick. You're done," Coach Gutierrez said. "You did your job. You broke them. Get some rest. Start hydrating for tomorrow."
The four starters nodded, a wave of profound relief washing over them. They had faced their first monster and come out unscathed.
"Herras, Manalo, Rubio, Velasquez, Tan," the coach barked, turning to his bench. "You're in. All five of you. You're closing this game."
The five players—Mark, John, Joseph, Joshua, and Felix—snapped to attention, their eyes wide. This wasn't just "garbage time" to them. This was their Palarong Pambansa debut. This was their chance to show they belonged on this stage.
"I want to be clear," Coach G said, his voice low and intense, drilling the five reserves with his gaze. "The game is won. But the game is not over. We are a team of dogs, from the first man to the twelfth. There is no mercy. There is no 'easy.' You will run our sets. You will execute our defense. You will play with the same fire that got us this lead. Every team in this tournament is watching this feed. You show them nothing. You show them no weakness. You show them that our bench could start for any other team here. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Coach!" the five of them chimed, their voices a sharp, unified bark.
"Good. Now go make them remember who we are."
Start of the Fourth Quarter: Dasmariñas 57 — CDO 26
The Dasmariñas "Third Unit" took the floor. The crowd, sensing the game was over, began to file out, but a large contingent of scouts and other teams remained, their notebooks out, watching.
"Alright, let's see what the 'Cavite Bench' looks like," a scout from NCR murmured to his colleague.
Mark Herras, Tristan's backup, brought the ball up. He was visibly nervous, his dribble a little too high. But he was steady. He called the play, "Horns," just as Tristan had done.
Felix Tan and Joshua Velasquez, the backup bigs, set the screens. Mark drove, but the CDO reserve guard cut him off. Mark didn't panic. He made the simple, correct pass to John Manalo on the wing.
John, the 3&D specialist, caught the ball. He had a look, but it was contested. He pump-faked, took one hard dribble to his right, and pulled up for a clean, 15-foot jumper.
Clang. It hit the back iron.
But the play wasn't over. Felix Tan, who had been watching the shot, moved with a cat-like quickness, slipping past the slower CDO backup center. He skied for the offensive rebound, snatching it at its peak, and laid it back in before he even touched the floor.
Score: Dasmariñas 59 — CDO 26
The Dasmariñas bench—Tristan, Marco, Ian, Gab, and the rest—leapt to their feet.
"THAT'S THE HUSTLE, FELIX!" Marco screamed, his voice raw.
Felix just nodded, stone-faced, and sprinted back on defense. He had done his job.
The CDO reserves, playing for sheer pride, tried to run an offense. Their backup guard drove hard into the paint, a wild, out-of-control move.
He was met by Joshua Velasquez. Joshua, at 6'2", was giving up four inches and twenty pounds to the CDO forward, but he was a block of granite, just like his mentor, Gab. He planted his feet, absorbed the massive collision, and the whistle blew.
Offensive foul. Charge.
Joshua hit the floor with a thud, a huge smile on his face. He'd sacrificed his body, up by 33 points.
"THAT," Coach Gutierrez yelled from the sideline, pointing, "IS DASMARIÑAS BASKETBALL! GOOD WORK, VELASQUEZ!"
Joshua's teammates hauled him to his feet, patting him on the back.
The team was energized. Mark Herras brought the ball up, his nerves gone, replaced by a cool confidence. He saw Joseph Rubio leaking out. Joseph was a pure energy player, all fast-twitch muscles and chaotic speed.
Mark fired a long, one-handed outlet pass. Joseph caught it in stride, a 2-on-1 break. He drove at the lone defender, pump-faked, and then, with a surprising flash of finesse, hit his trailing teammate, John Manalo, who had sprinted the floor.
John caught it, laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 61 — CDO 26
"Beautiful!" Tristan said from the bench. "Unselfish! That's the way to play!"
The next five minutes were a clinic. It was a showcase of the culture Coach Gutierrez had built. The Dasmariñas bench was not playing "garbage time." They were playing with a fury and precision that was almost terrifying.
John Manalo, getting into his rhythm, hit a corner three-pointer off a perfect kick-out from Mark.
Score: 64-28.
Felix Tan, protecting the rim, had a monstrous block, sending a CDO layup attempt flying into the third row of seats. The Dasma bench exploded.
Score: 64-30.
And Joseph Rubio, the energy guy, was a terror. He was everywhere. He got a steal at half-court, dove on the floor to save it from going out of bounds, and from his knees, managed to flip the ball to Mark Herras. Mark took it, drove, and was fouled, hitting both free throws.
Score: 66-30
The CDO coach just stared, his face ashen. His reserves were being humiliated by their reserves.
Tristan, watching from the sideline, felt a profound, deep pride. He looked at Gab. "They're us, man. They're a mirror."
Gab just nodded, the closest he ever came to a full-blown smile. "They're dogs."
The final few minutes ticked away. The Dasma bench mob had won their quarter, 13-6. They had extended the lead.
The final buzzer sounded. The game was over.
Final Score: Dasmariñas 70 — CDO 32
The Dasmariñas National High had just announced their arrival at the Palarong Pambansa not with a whisper, but with a 38-point, earth-shaking, system-wide demolition of a favored opponent.
They shook hands with the devastated CDO team. LA Morales, the towel still over his head, gave a limp, obligatory handshake, his eyes staring at the floor, his pride in tatters.
The Dasma team huddled at center court, their celebration joyous but controlled. They had survived. They were in the Group A Final Four. Their promise to Aiden was one step closer.
As the triumphant, sweaty team walked off the court, a small cluster of media hurried to intercept them. A tall, serious-looking man with a "Palaro Press" badge held a microphone out to Coach Gutierrez.
"Coach, a stunning 38-point victory. You held LA Morales, the 'Janitor,' to just 13 points and forced 6 turnovers. What was your game plan?"
"My game plan was simple," Coach G said, his voice flat. "I have a team of twelve dogs. Not one. Twelve. We knew he was their heart, so we went right at him. Gab Lagman and Cedrick Estrella sacrificed their bodies. They set the tone. This win... this win belongs to them. And it belongs to our player back home, Aiden Robinson. We're playing for him."
The reporter nodded, satisfied. "Tristan, as the captain, you controlled the pace beautifully, but it was your teammate, Marco Gumaba, who blew the game open in the second quarter. Can you talk about his performance?"
Tristan, wiping his face with a towel, stepped forward. "Marco's a special player. He's a born scorer. But he doesn't get those shots without the stops we get on the other end, and the screens from our bigs. Today, he was the dagger. But the whole team built the platform for him to..."
"TRISTAN IS 100% CORRECT!" a new, loud voice boomed.
Marco, his hair plastered to his head with sweat, his jersey untucked, muscled his way into the shot, throwing a possessive arm over Tristan's shoulder.
"The team was amazing!" Marco beamed into the camera. "They set the table... but I'm the one who ate the feast! Did you see that? Thirteen points in one quarter! I was unconscious! I was in the zone!"
Tristan just closed his eyes, mortified. "Marco..."
"No, no, let me finish!" Marco said, waving off his captain. "That first three? That was to let 'em know I was here. The mid-range? That was just poetry. The fadeaway? That was the dagger that... that... well, it was the dagger before the other dagger! I was hitting everything! They couldn't stop me! I think at one point, LA Morales actually whispered 'please stop,' but I couldn't, you know? The artist has to paint!"
The reporter, trying to keep a straight face, scribbled in his notebook. "It was... an incredible performance. You'll be facing the winner of the San Fernando-Cebu game next. Any thoughts on those two Mythical Five players, Bedia and Jacob?"
"Bedia? Jacob?" Marco scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Mythical? Please. I'm legendary. You let them worry about me. They just watched this game. They just watched me drop 13 in a quarter. I bet they're in their hotel room right now, shaking. Shaking! They're not worried about Tristan's passes or Ian's dunks. They're worried about 'The Dagger,' Marco de-stroyer Gumaba!"
Tristan and Gab, who had walked up behind him, were in a state of shared agony.
"I'm disowning him," Gab muttered to Tristan. "Right now. He is no longer my friend."
"Can we just... can we just leave him here?" Tristan whispered back.
Just then, a second reporter stepped into the light. She was young, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and holding a microphone with a "Palaro TV" logo. Marco, in the middle of a rant about his shooting form, stopped mid-sentence. His jaw went slack.
She was beautiful.
"Marco," the female reporter said, her voice smooth and professional, "that's a lot of confidence. You call yourself 'The Dagger.' Can you walk us through that one-legged fadeaway? It seemed... highly unorthodox."
Marco's entire demeanor shifted. The boisterous, obnoxious clown vanished. He was replaced by a smooth, deep-voiced... suitor.
He puffed out his chest, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and gave her a smile that he clearly thought was devastating.
"Unorthodox? I like to think of it as... inspired," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You see, a lot of players... they just play the game. They're stuck in the fundamentals. Me? I see the game as a... as a canvas. And that fadeaway? That was my art. It was a stroke of genius. It was just... flow."
The reporter, Bianca, stifled a small laugh. "So, your 13-point run. It was art?"
"It was a masterpiece," Marco corrected her, leaning in just a fraction. "A symphony. And I was the conductor. A lot of people... they just see the points. But someone like you... I bet you see the art behind it, don't you?"
Tristan literally put his face in his hands. Gab had turned his back to them, his shoulders shaking in what Tristan hoped was laughter, but was more likely profound, secondhand embarrassment.
"I... I see a very confident player," Bianca said, her professionalism admirable. "But what about that next game? You'll be facing Emon Jacob or Carlo Bedia. Those are two of the best scorers in the country. Are you, the 'artist,' worried?"
"Worried?" Marco laughed, a low, charming sound. "An artist is never worried. An artist just creates. You let them worry about me. I'm not afraid of a 'machine' or a 'myth.' I'm an artist. And artists... we thrive in the spotlight."
He gave her his best, 1000-watt smile. "Speaking of which... all this talking about art is making me think. They say Davao has a pretty incredible art scene. I'm... uh... I'm free tonight. If you wanted a personal... you know... tour guide?"
Bianca, the reporter, finally broke. She let out a short, surprised laugh, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink.
"I... uh... I think I have to file this report," she said, pulling the mic back. "But thank you for the... colorful interview, Marco. And congratulations on the win."
"Hey, wait!" Marco called, as she started to turn away. "You didn't say no! And you didn't tell me your name! I can dedicate my first bucket tomorrow to you!"
"Okay, 'artist,' show's over!" Tristan said, finally intervening. He grabbed the back of Marco's jersey and physically hauled him toward the locker room tunnel.
"But she liked me!" Marco yelled, walking backward, trying to keep his eyes on the reporter. "I saw it! We had a connection! She thinks I'm an artist! Tristan, you're ruining my future!"
The team, who had been watching the entire, horrifying, hilarious exchange, was in hysterics. They were howling, clutching their stomachs.
"A 'canvas'!" Ian roared, wiping a tear from his eye. "He said he was 'swimming in a beautiful ocean' last time! He's getting worse!"
"He has no shame," Gab said, shaking his head, a huge, rare grin on his face. "Absolutely zero."
In the locker room, the mood was euphoric. They had won. They had dominated. And they had a new, legendary Marco story.
Coach Gutierrez let them celebrate for a full five minutes. Then, he stepped into the center of the room.
"Alright! Shut it down!" he yelled, and the room instantly quieted.
"That," he said, "was a win. A total win. From the starters to the bench. You did your job. You executed the game plan. You," he pointed to the third unit, "closed the door. You played with professionalism. I'm proud of you."
He paused, letting the praise sink in. "Enjoy this. For one hour. Get showered, get fed. Because our job is not done. The main event is starting in thirty minutes. San Fernando versus Cebu. Bedia versus Jacob."
His face turned to stone. "Our real test... starts now. We're going to go back to the hotel, and we are going to watch them tear each other apart."
The laughter in the room died. The joy of their win was already being packed away. They had slayed one beast, but the shark tank was still full. And the next two monsters were about to show them what real, national-level basketball looked like.