The chartered bus carrying the Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team was a different world from the one that had carried them to the arena that morning. The grim, suffocating silence of the pre-game ride had been replaced by a loud, joyous, and utterly chaotic cacophony.
"SEVENTY TO THIRTY-TWO!" Marco was yelling into his phone, FaceTiming his parents, his voice cracking with pure, undiluted adrenaline. "Did you see it? Did you see the fadeaway? I told you! I told them! They were scared of me! Their star, their 6'9" 'Janitor,' was scared of me!"
In the back, Ian and Cedrick, who had been nervous about their assignments, were now reliving the "Dog Pound" defense with a new, savage pride.
"Did you see Gab's face when Morales charged him?" Ian was laughing, a deep, booming sound that shook the bus. "He just... smiled! He's not human, man. He's a block of cement with legs."
"And Felix!" Cedrick added. "That block he had! He sent that ball into the stands! Our bench is deeper than their starting five!"
Tristan sat near the front, a quiet, deep smile on his face. He was listening to his team celebrate, to the pure, unadulterated joy of a plan perfectly executed. He had his phone in his hand, looking at the text he'd just sent.
Tristan: We're one step closer. 70-32. We dominated.
Aiden: I SAW IT!!! I SAW THE WHOLE THING! GAB IS MY NEW HERO! AND WOO'S PUMP FAKE?! YOU GUYS LOOKED LIKE A PRO TEAM! I'M SO PROUD OF YOU GUYS I'M LITERALLY CRYING! GO WIN THE NEXT ONE!!!
Tristan smiled and pocketed his phone. He looked at Daewoo, who was sitting across from him, quietly staring out the window, a small, permanent smile on his face. He'd done it. He'd proven he belonged. The team wasn't just a team. It was a fully-functional, twelve-deep weapon.
They arrived at the hotel, a conquering army. The other athletes in the lobby, the ones from other sports and other regions, stopped and stared. The anonymous team from 4A was now the team. They were the "giant-killers," the team that had just put a 38-point beatdown on a Mythical Five candidate's squad. The respect was palpable.
Coach Gutierrez let them have their moment.
"Alright," he called out as they gathered in the lobby, his voice cutting through their excitement. "That was a victory. A good one. You earned your celebration. You've got 90 minutes. Get to your rooms. Shower. Eat. Refuel. But at 3:30 PM, you are in the 'Matina' conference room. No exceptions."
His face, which had been relaxed, hardened.
"Your celebration is over. Your next challenge is about to begin. Don't be late."
At 3:28 PM, the conference room was full. The mood was electric. The fear that had defined their last film session was gone, replaced by a sharp, analytical confidence. They weren't here as terrified students. They were here as scouts. They were here as the ambush predators, waiting in the weeds to see which of the two remaining alpha-predators would emerge from their bloody duel.
The TV was on, the pre-game show for the Group A "Final Four" (the bracket semi-final) already in high gear.
"This is it," the announcer's voice boomed, "the game that will decide who moves on to the Group A Championship. The Pampanga 'Predator,' Carlo Bedia, versus the 'Cebu Machine,' Emon Jacob. A battle of Mythical Five members. A battle of styles. A battle for survival."
"Alright," Tristan said, uncapping his pen, his notebook open. "Who do we want?"
"Want?" Marco scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "After today? It doesn't matter. Bedia, Jacob... they're just names. We're the team that beat the 'Janitor.' They should be scared of us."
"Don't get cocky, Marco," Coach G said from the back of the room, his voice a low warning. "Your arrogance is what gets you in trouble. You just beat a one-man team. These," he pointed to the screen, "are two different monsters. San Fernando is a disciplined, iso-heavy team built around a walking bucket. Cebu is a high-IQ, motion-offense team built around a basketball robot. They are both, in every way, better than the team we just beat. Now, shut up and watch."
The lights dimmed. The starting lineups were announced.
"For the San Fernando High!" the announcer yelled, "At Small Forward, the 6-foot-8 Mythical Five superstar... CARLO BEDIA!"
"And for the Cebu City High!" the announcer countered, "At Shooting Guard, the 6-foot-6 Mythical Five phenom... EMMANUEL 'EMON' JACOB!"
The two stars met at center court, their eyes locked, a silent, cold war already beginning. The rest of the arena, the crowd, their teammates... they were all just background noise. This was a duel.
The whistle blew. The game began.
Cebu won the tip. And they came out with a statement. This wasn't the slow, probing start from their last game. They were sending a message.
Their point guard, J. Abella, brought the ball up. Emon Jacob didn't wait. He ran a lightning-fast 'Iverson cut' over the top of the key, caught the pass in full stride, and with his defender, the 6'3" San Fernando guard, trailing him, he took one hard dribble and elevated from the free-throw line.
A high-arcing, perfect pull-up jumper.
Swish.
Score: San Fernando 0 — Cebu 2
"He's not... he's not wasting any time," Daewoo said, his pen already moving. "No 'Floppy' set. No 'Elevator.' Just a simple cut and a bucket. He's being aggressive."
"He's testing them," Tristan said. "He's seeing if they can handle his pace."
San Fernando, in contrast, was all business. They walked the ball up. Their offense was simple: Get the ball to Carlo Bedia.
Bedia caught the ball on the low block, isolated against Cebu's 6'4" small forward.
"Here it is," Gab said, leaning in. "His post-game."
Bedia backed his man down. One dribble. Two dribbles. He felt the defender leaning. He spun, a lightning-quick move to the baseline, and rose for a short, 8-foot fadeaway. It was beautiful. It was unguardable.
Swish.
Score: San Fernando 2 — Cebu 2
"Okay," Marco said, his eyes wide. "So... they're just... they're just going to trade impossible shots for 40 minutes? Is that what this is?"
Emon Jacob came right back. He saw Bedia's isolation and decided to answer. He waved his teammates away. He was now one-on-one with his defender.
He used a slow, hypnotic, in-and-out dribble. The defender flinched. Jacob exploded past him. The San Fernando center, a big 6'7" kid, rotated over to stop the drive.
Jacob saw him coming. In mid-air, he didn't pass. He absorbed the contact from the center, his body twisting, and finished with a high-glass, acrobatic layup.
And-one.
Score: San Fernando 2 — Cebu 4
He stepped to the line, the crowd screaming, and calmly sank the free throw.
Score: San Fernando 2 — Cebu 5
"He's so strong," Ian noted. "He doesn't look as strong as Morales, but he just... he just bounced off that 6'7" kid like he was nothing. His core strength is insane."
Bedia, not to be outdone. He got the ball at the three-point line. He didn't post up. He didn't drive. He just... shot it. A deep, contested, "heat-check" three-pointer, with a hand right in his face.
Swish.
Score: San Fernando 5 — Cebu 5
"That's a bad shot," Coach G said, his voice a low growl. "He's an emotional player. He just got shown up, so he had to show up. He's arrogant. That's his flaw."
"But Coach," Marco countered, "it went in."
"For now," Coach G said. "Wait."
Cebu, recognizing the duel, went back to their system. They wanted to show Bedia that they were the smarter team. They ran a complex weave on the perimeter, forcing the San Fernando defense to switch. It resulted in a mismatch—Bedia himself, the 6'8" star, was suddenly guarding Cebu's 5'11" point guard, Abella.
Abella, seeing the mismatch, immediately drove. Bedia, too slow laterally, was beaten. The defense collapsed. Abella threw a perfect lob to his center. Easy dunk.
Score: San Fernando 5 — Cebu 7
"That's... that's our play," Tristan said, his eyes widening. "They're just... better at it. They used their system to create a mismatch and then exploited it. That's high-IQ basketball."
Carlo Bedia was furious. His team's defense had been exposed. He demanded the ball. He got it at the top of the key. He was being guarded by Emon Jacob.
This was it. Mythical Five versus Mythical Five. The entire arena was on its feet.
Bedia sized him up. He drove hard right. Jacob, with his 6'6" frame and impossible lateral quickness, stayed right in his jersey. Bedia tried to spin. Jacob was still there, his hand not reaching, his body just... mirroring.
Bedia, with no other option, was forced to throw up a wild, falling, contested shot as the shot clock wound down. It was an airball.
A stop.
Emon Jacob had just, single-handedly, locked up Carlo Bedia.
"Oh, my God," Daewoo whispered, his respect absolute. "Jacob... he's not just a shooter. He's... he's a lockdown defender. He just... put Bedia in a cage."
"That's the 6'6" frame," Coach G said, his voice grim. "He's as skilled as Bedia, but he's longer. He can contest Bedia's shot in a way no one else can. He's a two-way monster."
Cebu, sensing blood, pushed the ball. Jacob, after getting the stop, was now on the fast break. He caught the pass on the wing. He didn't even look at the rim. He fired a one-handed, behind-the-back pass to his trailing shooter, who was wide open.
Clang. The shooter missed.
But Emon Jacob, who had passed the ball from the three-point line, had followed his pass. He crashed the offensive glass, skying over two San Fernando players, and tipped the rebound in.
Score: San Fernando 5 — Cebu 9
The Dasmariñas players were silent. This was a different level.
"He got..." Ian started, his voice shaking. "He got the offensive rebound... on his own pass. From the three-point line. He's... he's just... he's playing a different game."
"His motor," Tristan said. "We thought Jacob was just a machine. He's got a motor just like Morales. But he's... he's smart about it."
Carlo Bedia was in a full-blown rage. His team was down, and he had just been embarrassed on both ends of the floor by his rival.
He got the ball. He didn't even look at his teammates. He drove. Hard. He barreled into the paint, into three Cebu defenders. He threw himself into the air, screaming, and forced a shot.
The whistle blew. Offensive foul. Charge.
It was a terrible, forced, emotional play.
Cebu walked the ball up. Calm. Disciplined. Jacob ran his man off a screen. Catch. Shoot. Mid-range.
Swish.
Score: San Fernando 5 — Cebu 11
A 6-0 run. The "Cebu Machine" was now fully operational.
The San Fernando coach was laying into Bedia. Even from the TV, they could see the frustration.
"He's broken him," Gab said, his voice low. "Jacob just... he just broke Bedia. Mentally. He's taken him out of his game by being better on both ends."
"Bedia is emotional," Coach G said. "He's fire. Jacob is ice. And ice just put the fire out. Bedia is trying to win the game by himself. Jacob is letting his team win it, and then taking the shots when he has to. That's the difference."
The game resumed, and it was a masterpiece of control by Cebu. They stopped targeting Bedia on defense. They just let him get the ball, and then sent a soft, rotating double-team, forcing him to pass to his less-talented teammates.
The San Fernando offense ground to a halt. Their role players, not used to creating, were forcing bad shots, turning the ball over.
Meanwhile, Jacob was just... executing.
He hit another three-pointer off a screen.
Score: 5-14.
He got another steal and a fast-break dunk.
Score: 5-16.
He drove, drew the defense, and hit his center for another easy layup.
Score: 5-18.
It was a 13-0 run. It had happened in less than five minutes.
Carlo Bedia, the "Pampanga Predator," was just... watching. He was on the court, but he was gone. Jacob had taken his will.
Bedia, in a final, desperate act, got the ball. He was 30 feet out. He didn't even try to drive. He just... pulled up. A "logo-level" three-pointer.
It was a shot of pure, desperate frustration.
And it went in. Swish.
Score: San Fernando 8 — Cebu 18
"Wow," Marco said. "So his 'giving up' shot is... is a 30-footer."
Jacob didn't even blink. He came down. He ran his defender off a screen. He caught the ball. He shot it.
Swish.
Score: San Fernando 8 — Cebu 20
It was a brutal, cold-blooded answer. You can have your miracle. I'll just take my points.
The quarter ended with Cebu in complete, total control. San Fernando was broken. The duel of the Mythical Five was a total, one-sided execution.
End of First Quarter: San Fernando High 10 — Cebu City High 24
The television cut to a commercial. The conference room was deathly quiet.
The team that had been so loud, so proud, so confident after their own 38-point victory, was now staring at a new reality.
They had just watched a team—their next potential opponent—dismantle another Mythical Five superstar by 14 points in a single quarter.
They had been celebrating their win over a 6'9" monster.
They had just watched a 6'6" machine humiliate a player just as good.
Marco put his pen down. He looked at Tristan. He looked at his coach.
"So... Coach," Marco said, his voice a tiny, frightened whisper. "I have a question."
"What is it, Marco?"
"That... that whole 'let's go to war' speech. That 'we're the ambush' plan. That was... that was for the CDO team, right? The one we just beat?"
"Yes."
"Okay... okay... good." Marco nodded, swallowing hard. "So... what's the plan... for that?" He pointed a trembling finger at the blank TV screen. "What's the plan for the team that doesn't have a weakness? What's the plan for the guy who doesn't miss, doesn't get tired, and plays defense like Gary Payton? What's the plan... for the perfect player?"
Tristan looked at his coach, his own heart a cold stone in his chest. He had no answer. He had just watched a level of basketball he did not possess.
Coach Gutierrez just stared at the screen, his face a mask of stone.
"The plan," the coach said, his voice a low, cold growl, "is that we just found our opponent."
He looked at his team, his eyes burning with an insane, cold fire.
"And we've got 24 hours to figure out how to break a machine that looks unbreakable. Get your notebooks ready. The second quarter is starting. I want every single one of their plays. Every one."
The team, their own victory now a distant memory, turned back to the screen. The joy was gone. The hunt had begun.