If the walk to the restaurant had felt triumphant, heroic, and cinematic. The walk back was… none of those things. It was a slow-moving disaster.
The night air around Casa de Imperium was cool and clean, the kind that smelled faintly of polished steel, rain-soaked pavement, and money. The campus lights glowed softly, illuminating glass towers and quiet pathways where students usually walked with purpose.
Tonight, five figures staggered through it like a broken parade.
Lynx and Uno were the problem.
Lynx swayed dramatically, one arm draped over Mico's shoulders like a fallen warrior refusing to fall.
"I'm tellin' you," he slurred, pointing at absolutely nothing, "if basketball had music, we'd be jazz."
Uno, supported by Felix on the other side, nodded far too seriously.
"No, no, no. We're… experimental jazz. With mirrors."
Felix blinked. "…What does that even mean?"
Uno squinted at him. "It means I look incredible while having no idea what I'm doing."
Mico exhaled a breath that was 10% oxygen and 90% regret. "Why," he muttered, hoisting Lynx's dead weight, "is it always the ones who care about their hair that lose their skeletal integrity first?"
Lynx gasped suddenly. "Mico."
"Yes."
"You're my favorite dictator."
"…I am letting go."
"WAIT—"
Felix tightened his grip on Uno just in time as Lynx nearly tripped over his own feet.
As they reached the dorm compound, a uniformed security guard straightened, eyes widening at the sight of them.
"Sir—?" The guard began cautiously. "Do you need assistance?"
Mico immediately shook his head. "No. We're fine. We can do it."
Felix nodded once. "Temporarily. But we can manage."
The guard looked at Lynx, who was now waving at a lamp post.
"Good evening, General Tree."
The guard hesitated. "I really can help—"
"We got this," Jairo said quickly, stepping in with a grin.
Uno raised a finger. "I am balance." He immediately leaned the wrong way. Felix corrected him without breaking expression.
The guard stared.
"…Alright then."
As soon as the guard turned away, Mico whispered sharply. "You do not got this."
Jairo bit his lip, shoulders shaking.
They moved again, slower now. Lynx began talking nonstop.
"I could've gone pro, you know," he said proudly. "But fate was like—bam!—China."
Uno added, equally incoherent, "Basketball is just… angles. And love. Mostly angles."
Jairo tried to keep up. "Okay, okay, breathe. One at a time. Use words I understand."
Lynx frowned. "Wow. Judgment."
Uno nodded. "So much judgment."
Felix glanced at Mico. "They are communicating emotionally."
Mico sighed. "They're communicating nonsense."
Jairo had been quiet for exactly thirty seconds. Which meant something was wrong.
Mico turned. "Jairo, put the phone away."
Too late.
Jairo was walking backward, phone up, recording everything with barely contained laughter.
"I can't," Jairo whispered back, his shoulders shaking. "This is for the archives. For science. For blackmailing Lynx at his wedding."
Lynx noticed the lens and instantly tried to smolder. He looked less like a model and more like a man having a mild allergic reaction. "Wait—get my profile. The one that says 'I own a yacht'."
Uno leaned into the camera, his eyes uncoordinated. "To my fans... drink water. Or don't. I'm not your dad."
By the time they reached the dorm entrance, they were no longer walking in sync. They were swaying together, five shadows under the glow of Casa de Imperium's lights.
Two drunk, one filming, and two holding the entire group upright through sheer willpower.
Mico unlocked the door with impressive precision. Felix steered Uno inside like a professional handler. Jairo finally lost it—covering his mouth, laughing silently as his shoulders shook.
Lynx slung an arm around Mico one last time.
"Hey, Captain?"
"Yes, Lynx." Mico sighs tiredly.
"Thanks for… catching me."
Mico paused. "…Always."
The door closed behind them. The corridor fell silent again.
---
The soup had barely settled when the universe decided mercy was overrated.
Mico was halfway through an equation when his tablet buzzed.
Once. Twice. Then a familiar voice cut through the dorm like a judge's gavel.
"Good morning, champions."
Lynx froze mid-sip. Uno slowly lowered his spoon.
That voice.
Prof. Alaric Damaso stood at the doorway, coffee in hand, jacket pristine, expression far too calm for a man about to ruin lives.
Mico already knew. He always did.
"…Sir," Mico said carefully.
Damaso took a step inside, eyes sweeping over the room: the empty bowls, the pale faces, the lingering scent of regret.
He sits on the counter and make himself a coffee from the pot. "Judging by the smell of gin and poor decisions," he said mildly, "you had a celebration."
Uno groaned. Lynx whispered, "I knew happiness was temporary."
Damaso smiled. That was never a good sign. "I'll be brief," he said. "I've signed Castillian up for a league."
Silence.
Not the confused kind. The dangerous kind.
Mico slowly stood. "…What league, sir?"
Damaso took a sip of coffee. "The Eastern Continental League."
Lynx choked.
Uno blinked. "The… what?"
"Eastern Continental League," Damaso repeated, voice steady. "Nationally sanctioned. Eight regional champions. University powerhouses and semi-professional clubs. The tournament that decides Asia's best non-professional team."
The room seemed to tilt.
Mico felt it immediately. The weight, the implication, the responsibility crashing down like a gravity well.
"…Sir," he said quietly, "that league is—"
"Hell," Damaso finished for him. "Yes."
Lynx dropped back into his chair. "Oh good. I was worried my hangover would go to waste."
"Is it a friendly league?" Uno asked, hopeful.
Damaso looked genuinely offended. "Nothing about this league is friendly."
Damaso set his tablet on the table and turned the screen toward them. Logos. Schedules. Names that carried weight across Asia. Guangzhou Silver Phoenix. Seoul Ardent. Veteran programs. Hardened systems. Teams built over decades.
"You will be representing Casa de Imperium," Damaso said. "Officially."
Mico felt his chest tighten.
"Casa de Imperium. The most advanced science and technology university in Asia," Damaso continued. "The Campus of Command does not send participants. It sends statements."
Lynx stared at the screen. "…So no pressure."
Damaso glanced at him. "Incorrect. Immense pressure."
Uno let out a weak laugh. "So training resumes."
"Yes."
"How bad?"
Damaso's smile returned. Small, sharp, academic.
"Worse."
Mico straightened, fatigue evaporating under instinct. "When do we start?"
Damaso checked his watch. "Should be thirty minutes ago."
Lynx buried his face in his hands. "I want to go back to Philippines. Send me back to my motherland."
"No," Damaso corrected. "You're going to the gym. In twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?!" Lynx wailed. "I'm still seeing two of you!"
"I don't care." He looked at each of them in turn. "You are no longer just a team that shocked Asia." His gaze settled on Mico. "You are the team Asia now aims to dismantle."
Mico nodded once. "Understood."
Damaso picked up his coffee and turned toward the door.
"Oh, and Captain?"
"Yes, sir."
"Congratulations." Damaso paused just long enough for the words to land. "You are now carrying the reputation of Casa de Imperium on your backs." Then he left.
The door clicked shut. The dorm was quiet again.
Mico stood up, his face returning to its default 'Scary Commander' setting. "You heard him. Finish your soup. Hydrate. If anyone pukes on the court, you're cleaning it with your own jersey."
Lynx looked at the ceiling. "I miss the lamp post. The lamp post understood me."
Hellish training had begun again. And this time, all of Asia was watching.