The roar of the crowd crashed through the Belvard Arena like a living thing, a wall of sound that vibrated in the chest and rattled the metal rafters overhead. Every seat was taken, bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, faces painted in team colors, arms waving foam fingers and homemade signs.
The commentator's voice cut through the chaos, amplified and electric.
"Ladies and gentlemen—this is it! We've reached match point!"
Half the stadium exploded in a unified chant, fists pumping in rhythm.
"ALPHA WOLVES! ALPHA WOLVES! ALPHA WOLVES!"
The other half answered instantly, louder, defiant.
"DRAGONS! DRAGONS! DRAGONS!"
Down on the court, the air felt thick—hot with exertion, sharp with the tang of sweat and resin. The overhead lights blazed white, turning every bead of perspiration into a glint, every strained muscle into sharp relief. Six players on each side of the net stood locked in position, shoes squeaking faintly as they shifted weight, eyes fixed on the ball the server bounced once, twice.
Above them, the scoreboard glowed:
ST. VELONFORD DRAGONS – 25
SENLAND INSTITUTE ALPHA WOLVES – 26
The commentator leaned into the mic again, voice climbing.
"Twenty-five to twenty-six! The Alpha Wolves hold the lead, and the Dragons are running on fumes—battered, breathing hard, exactly where the Wolves want them! One more point, and Senland Institute pulls off the impossible: ending St. Velonford's five-year dynasty right here, right now, in the 2022 NCAA Championship!"
He paused just long enough for the crowd to suck in a collective breath.
"Can the underdogs finally do it? Will the Dragons' reign fall tonight?"
Every heartbeat in the building seemed to hang on that single white sphere.
The commentator's voice sliced through the noise again, thick with anticipation.
"It's looking very feasible now, folks—because holding serve at match point is the Alpha Wolves' super rookie, their star player—number sixteen!"
Johan cradled the ball against his palms, fingers splayed over the worn panels. He drew a slow breath through his nose, eyes shut, the roar of the arena reduced to a dull throb behind his ears. The resin on his skin felt tacky, grounding. He could taste the metallic edge of adrenaline at the back of his throat.
The commentator rolled on, riding the wave.
"He's been the best setter in this tournament—hell, maybe the best player, period. And that serve of his? Pure poison. Clocked at one-ten kilometers an hour, one of the fastest in the competition."
From the front line, Billy glanced back. Dark skin gleaming under the lights, black hair shaved close on the sides, thin beard framing a steady jaw, brown eyes calm. He gave a short nod.
"You've got this, Johan. Just put it in play. I'll clean up whatever comes back."
Cliff, blond hair pulled into a damp ponytail, sharp blue eyes narrowed in exhaustion, leaned forward from the left wing.
"Do me a solid and ace it, yeah? I'm about done jumping for the night."
Dylan, messy black hair plastered to his forehead, gray eyes glinting with mischief from the right wing, snorted.
"And you call yourself a wolf? Whining right before we eat?"
Cliff didn't miss a beat. "I've been the one flying for four damn hours. Cut me some slack."
Billy cut in, voice dry. "Johan's setting every second ball and he's still breathing fine. You don't hear him bitching."
Cliff exhaled hard through his nose. "Whatever. I'm claiming first bite of this dragon. End it quick, Johan."
Johan didn't react. Didn't twitch. Stood frozen in the service zone, shoulders squared under the black jersey, the crimson slash across his chest catching the lights like fresh blood. Dark brown hair fell across his forehead, strands shifting with each controlled breath. Eyes stayed closed, the arena's chaos locked outside his skull.
Billy watched him a second longer, lips quirking.
"He's not even listening. As usual."
Cliff muttered, "Total weirdo."
Dylan's voice dropped, almost respectful.
"Yeah. But the freshman dragged us all here..." He paused as the ball slipped from Johan's hands—dropped once, twice, three controlled bounces—then snapped back into his palm on the final rise.
Dylan finished under his breath, "He's the real alpha of this pack."
Johan drew in a deep breath, let it out slow.
One last point.
His voice was barely a murmur, meant for no one else.
"One last point, and I can show everyone here… that I'm the best."
The referee's whistle cut the air—sharp, final.
Johan's eyes opened. Amber irises caught the floodlights, steady and unblinking.
The commentator roared.
"Let the final rally begin!"
The arena fell dead silent for a single heartbeat—twenty thousand people frozen, breath caught. Then the dam broke. The roar detonated again, twice as fierce, slamming against the rafters like a physical force.
The ball rested easy in his left hand, fingers finding their familiar grip. His white shoes scraped once against the polished floor as he settled his stance.
Across the net, the Dragons shifted. Their libero dropped low, knees bent, eyes locked on him. Receivers adjusted, arms loose, feet dancing side to side. The setter hovered just behind the front line, mouth moving fast—last-second calls.
Johan ignored them all.
He rocked back, tossed the ball high and clean. It hung against the bright lights for a split second, spinning slowly.
Time stretched.
He exploded forward—three powerful steps, legs driving hard. His body coiled mid-air, core twisting, right arm whipping back like a loaded spring. Shoulder screamed with torque as he rose higher than anyone else on the court, the crimson slash on his jersey flaring wide.
Contact.
Palm met ball with a sharp crack that echoed over the crowd noise. The serve knifed forward, vicious topspin pulling it down fast, aimed dead at the seam between the Dragons' passers—tight to the sideline, low and vicious, hissing like it had teeth.
The white sphere blurred across the net.