The gymnasium was not a building; it was a living, breathing entity. It was a 10,000-seat pressure cooker, and the heat was on. Every seat was filled. The aisles were packed. Spectators hung over the railings, a deafening, multi-colored wall of human anticipation. This wasn't just a high school game. This was an event.
This was the Group A Final. The de facto semi-final for this half of the Palarong Pambansa. The winner would get a 24-hour rest and a ticket to the Palarong Pambansa Championship. The loser... went home.
In the stands, near the Dasmariñas bench, a small island of green and white was trying to make itself heard. In the front row of that section sat Aiden Robinson, his casted leg propped up, his face pale with a nervous, electric energy. He was wearing his #7 jersey, a clipboard on his lap. He looked like an injured coach, his eyes already dissecting the court.
The Dasmariñas National High were in their tunnel, the roar of the crowd a physical, thumping bass line they could feel in their chests.
"This is it," Marco said, his voice unusually quiet, his face slick with sweat before he'd even run a drill. "This is... this is the whole thing. This is the monster."
"He's just a guy," Tristan said, his voice a low, calm counter-rhythm. He was bouncing on his toes, his mind a quiet, cold lake. His new Gold-tier Floor General skill was already processing the angles of the court, the acoustics, the sheer, overwhelming pressure of the moment.
"Gab. Daewoo. Ian," Tristan said, calling his defensive anchors. "Don't get caught up in the noise. Don't get caught up in him. Just... execute the plan. One possession at a time."
"We're the dogs," Daewoo said, his voice a tight, focused whisper. He was adjusting his knee pads. He looked like he was preparing for a 40-minute car crash.
"We're the dogs," Gab Lagman confirmed, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He cracked his knuckles.
Coach Gutierrez put a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "This is your game, son. You're the general. You control the pace. You control everything. Don't let him be the hero. You be the team."
Tristan nodded. "Yes, Coach."
The lights dimmed. The spotlights flared. The announcer's voice, brimming with hype, boomed over the PA system.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE GROUP A FINAL! ARE YOU READY?!"
The crowd erupted.
"FIRST, YOUR CHALLENGERS! THE CINDERELLA STORY! THE GIANT-KILLERS! FROM REGION 4A, CALABARZON... THE DASMARIÑAS NATIONAL HIGH SCHOOL...!"
They ran out into the smoke and light, a wall of noise hitting them.
"Their starting five! At Center, the 6'6" wall... IAN VENERACION!"
"At Power Forward, the 6'1" pitbull... GAB LAGMAN!"
"At Small Forward, the 6'0" defensive shadow... DAEWOO KIM!"
"At Shooting Guard, the 5'11" dagger... MARCO GUMABA!"
"And at Point Guard, their captain, the 5'9" Floor General... TRISTAN HERRERA!"
The team huddled, the noise deafening.
"They're not even... they're not even cheering for us," Marco yelled over the din.
"They will be," Tristan said.
"AND NOW!" the announcer screamed, his voice rising. "THEY ARE THE MACHINE! THE PRIDE OF CENTRAL VISAYAS! THE CEBU CITY HIIIIGH!"
The arena exploded. The sound was a physical, painful thing. This was a Cebu crowd.
"Their starters! At Center, the 6'7" powerhouse... K. RAMOS!"
"At Power Forward, the 6'4" enforcer... V. CHAVEZ!"
"At Small Forward, the 6'3" cutter... L. SANTOS!"
"At Point Guard, the 5'11" engine... J. ABELLA!"
"AND AT SHOOTING GUARD!" The announcer paused, letting the crowd's roar build into a fever pitch. "HE IS THE MYTHICAL FIVE! HE IS THE MACHINE! THE 6'6" SUPERSTAR... EMMANUEL 'EMON' JACOB!"
Jacob ran out, his face a mask of bored, arrogant calm. He didn't high-five his teammates. He just... took his place. He looked across the court at the Dasmariñas team, his eyes scanning them with a chilling, analytical disinterest. He was a shark, and they were just... food.
The captains met at center court. Tristan and Emon Jacob.
Jacob, at 6'6", towered over Tristan.
"Good luck, man," Tristan said, extending a hand.
Emon Jacob just looked at Tristan's hand, then at his face. He didn't shake it. He just turned and walked back to his huddle.
The disrespect was total.
Tristan stood there for a beat, the entire arena watching. He slowly, calmly, lowered his hand. His face was unreadable. But inside, the cold, analytical focus was now burning with a white-hot, personal fire.
Okay, Tristan thought. Okay. Let's play.
Tip-Off: Ian Veneracion, fueled by the snub, jumped with everything he had. He met the 6'7" Ramos at the apex, but Ramos, with a stronger frame, managed to tip the ball backward to his point guard, Abella.
The arena was on its feet. This was the moment.
J. Abella (#5) brought the ball up.
And the plan was immediately, shockingly, put into action.
Daewoo Kim (#10) did not guard his man. He sprinted directly to Emon Jacob (#7) and stood in his face. He was face-guarding him, 35 feet from the basket, his hand in Jacob's chest, his eyes locked on his sternum.
The crowd, the announcers, and the Cebu team all faltered, confused.
"What... what is this?" the announcer stammered. "This is... this is a full-denial, box-and-one... no, it's a... it's a 'Man-and-Four' zone! I've never seen this!"
Emon Jacob, annoyed, shoved Daewoo. Daewoo, a rock, didn't move. Jacob tried to run. Daewoo was with him, a shadow, a parasite.
The Cebu offense was now 4-on-4.
The PG, Abella, looked at his coach, panicked. The coach was screaming. Abella, with the shot clock winding down, tried to run a pick-and-roll with his center, Ramos.
But he was being guarded by Tristan Herrera.
Tristan, with his new 75-agility and 75-Speed, was a different animal. He was quicker, stronger. He beat Abella to the spot, cut off the drive, and with his new, higher IQ, he saw the pass coming. He shot the gap, his hand a blur.
Steal!
Tristan was in the open court. He was on a 1-on-0 fast break. He laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 2 - Cebu 0
The arena was dead silent. The Dasmariñas bench was a screaming mob.
"IT'S WORKING!" Marco shrieked. "IT'S WORKING!"
Emon Jacob stood at the other end, glaring at his point guard, his hands on his hips.
Abella brought the ball up again. Daewoo was still in Jacob's jersey, 94 feet from the basket. He was harassing him, bumping him, making his life a living hell before he even crossed half-court.
"This is... this is the ultimate sign of disrespect!" the announcer yelled. "They are completely ignoring four players!"
Abella, flustered, passed to his forward, Chavez (#11). Chavez was now being guarded by Gab Lagman.
Chavez, as the film had shown, was not a creator. He was a spot-up shooter. He was open, but he wasn't in his spot. He hesitated. He put the ball on the floor.
Gab Lagman, a pitbull, pounced. He ripped the ball from the hesitant forward.
Another steal!
Gab outletted to Tristan. Dasmariñas was in its 4-on-4 offense.
Tristan held the ball, his Gold Floor General skill painting the court with possibilities. He saw the mismatch. Emon Jacob, in his arrogance, had decided to "shut down" Marco. He was face-guarding him on the other side of the court.
The two superstars were in a 1-on-1 shadow-boxing match, 30 feet from the play.
"IT'S 4-ON-4!" Tristan yelled. "FIND THE HOLE!"
He called for a high-screen from Ian. The Cebu center, Ramos, switched. A big, slow center was now guarding Tristan.
Tristan's eyes lit up.
He didn't need to pass. He hit Ramos with his new Ankle Breaker skill, a vicious, low crossover. The center's feet tangled. He stumbled.
Tristan blew by him. The lane was wide open. He laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 4 - Cebu 0
Aiden, in the stands, was screaming himself hoarse. "THEY CAN'T GUARD HIM! THEIR PG IS TOO SLOW AND THEIR CENTER IS TOO BIG! HE'S GONNA EAT ALL DAY!"
Emon Jacob was furious. He shoved Daewoo, sprinted to the ball, and took it from his own point guard. "Give me the ball!"
He was now bringing it up, with Daewoo hounding him, bumping him, all the way up the court.
"Foul! That's a foul!" the Cebu crowd screamed. The ref swallowed his whistle. It was physical, but it was legal.
Jacob, gassed and irritated, finally got to the three-point line. He called for an isolation. He was going to end this.
He drove hard right. Daewoo, his heart engine on full-blast, stayed with him. Jacob spun left. Daewoo was there. Jacob stepped back, creating a foot of space, and rose for one of his signature, impossible, high-release jumpers.
It was a perfect shot.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 4 - Cebu 2
Jacob glared at Daewoo as he jogged back. You can't stop me.
Daewoo just stared back, his face impassive. That took you 20 seconds. And you're tired.
Tristan brought the ball up. The 4-on-4 game continued. He saw Ian had his man sealed deep. Cebu's center, Ramos, was terrified of Jacob's anger, and he was playing off Ian, ready to help on defense.
Tristan didn't even hesitate. He threw a perfect, Silver Dimer-enhanced entry pass, hitting Ian in the hands.
Ian turned, one power-dribble, and a soft hook shot. Easy.
Score: Dasmariñas 6 - Cebu 2
Jacob, again. He was done with his team. He took the ball. Daewoo was on him.
Jacob drove. He was met by Daewoo, and then by Gab, who had rotated over. He was trapped.
He tried to pass out. He threw a wild, angry pass to the wing.
Tristan, who had been reading his eyes, shot the gap.
Another steal.
Fast break. Tristan. 3-on-2.
He drove, drew both defenders, and with his new 80-Vision, he saw Marco trailing the play. He stopped, faked a pass to Ian, and fired a pinpoint, cross-court pass to Marco, who was wide open on the three-point line.
Swish!
Score: Dasmariñas 9 - Cebu 2
"TIMEOUT, CEBU!"
The arena was in a state of stunned, horrified silence. The "Cebu Machine" was being dismantled. Broken. Humiliated.
In the Cebu huddle, Emon Jacob was screaming at his teammates. "Get open! Cut! Do something!
"Stop," the Cebu coach said. "Stop. This is what they want. They're taking you out of the game, Emon. You have to trust your team. We're going to our 'Flood' set. We're going to use Emon... as a decoy. Let's see if their defense is smart enough to handle that."
Out of the timeout, the play was set. Jacob ran to the corner. Daewoo, as instructed, went with him.
The 4-on-4 game began. Cebu's PG, Abella, drove. He was met by Ian. He kicked it to the forward, Chavez. Chavez was open. He took the three-pointer.
It was the shot Coach G wanted.
Clang. It missed.
Gab Lagman, a monster on the boards, ripped the rebound away from two Cebu players.
Tristan, again. The 4-on-4. He was toying with Abella now. His 80-Handle was too much. Crossover. Behind-the-back. He got into the lane. The defense collapsed.
He threw a perfect alley-oop lob to Ian Veneracion, who slammed it home with two hands.
Score: Dasmariñas 11 - Cebu 2
Aiden, in the stands, was just laughing, his clipboard forgotten. "This is a masterpiece! This is a coaching masterpiece!"
Emon Jacob had seen enough. He sprinted from the corner, shoved his own point guard out of the way, and took the ball.
"He's done," Tristan said to his team. "He's broken. It's Hero Ball time."
Jacob drove, a furious, out-of-control bulldozer. He drove right into the chest of Gab Lagman.
WHISTLE.
Offensive foul. Charge.
Emon Jacob's first foul. And a turnover.
Gab stood up, a small, grim smile on his face. He had taken a charge from LA Morales. This was nothing.
Tristan brought the ball up, his face a mask of cold, surgical calm. He ran a simple play, a screen for Marco.
Marco caught the ball. Jacob, who had switched onto him, was playing him with a desperate, angry intensity.
Marco smiled. He jab-stepped, then drove baseline. Jacob cut him off. Marco spun back, creating a foot of space, and hit a nasty, contested, step-back fadeaway jumper.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 13 - Cebu 2
The arena was emptying. The Cebu fans, in disbelief, were leaving.
The Dasmariñas bench was a sea of ecstatic joy.
The Machine was in total system failure. Abella, the PG, got the ball. He was so terrified of making another mistake that he just... stood there.
The whistle blew. A five-second violation. Turnover.
"He's... he's terrified," Daewoo said, his voice in awe. "Tristan... you broke their point guard."
"We broke their system," Tristan corrected.
Tristan, in a final act of dominance, brought the ball up. He saw Jacob sagging off, trying to bait him.
So Tristan just... stopped. At the three-point line.
He rose up.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 16 - Cebu 2
A 14-point lead.
Emon Jacob, in a fit of pure, individual pride, came down. He was guarded by Daewoo, who was still in his face, still harassing him.
Jacob didn't care. He rose up from 30 feet, with Daewoo's hand in his face, and threw up a prayer.
It went in. A three-pointer.
Score: Dasmariñas 16 - Cebu 5
He was a monster. He was still a monster. But it didn't matter.
Tristan brought the ball up. He ran the pick-and-roll with Ian. The defense collapsed. He hit Gab for another easy 10-foot jumper.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 18 - Cebu 5
The rest of the quarter was a painful, slow bleed. Cebu's "passengers" missed three more shots. Emon Jacob hit one more, impossible, spinning jumper.
But the quarter ended. The buzzer sounded.
End of First Quarter: Dasmariñas 18 — Cebu City 7
The Dasmariñas team walked off the court to a sound they had never heard before: the stunned, dead silence of a 10,000-seat arena.
They had taken the best player in the country, the "Machine," the "Mythical Five" superstar... and they had held his team to 7 points. Jacob had all 7 of them. His teammates had zero.
In the Dasmariñas huddle, the players were gasping for air. Daewoo looked like he had just run a marathon. He collapsed into a chair, his entire body shaking.
"Water," he gasped. "Water..."
Tristan handed him a bottle, a look of profound, deep respect in his eyes. "You did it, Woo. You did it. Ten minutes. You held him... you frustrated him."
"He still... he still scored... seven," Daewoo panted.
"Who cares!" Marco yelled, his voice giddy. "We scored 18! The 4-on-4 worked! Their other guys are trash!"
"They are not trash, Marco," Coach Gutierrez said, his voice cutting through the celebration. He was not smiling. His face was stone.
"That," he said, "was a perfect quarter. You executed the plan. You broke them."
He looked at the scoreboard. "And we are still only up by 11. That man," he pointed at Jacob, "is a god. And he is now... very, very angry. He's going to adjust. They're going to adjust. That was the easy part."
He turned to his bench. "John. You're up. Daewoo, you have a five-minute rest. Then you go back in. This is not over. This is just the beginning."
The team, their euphoria fading, looked at their coach, then at the huddle across the court, where Emon Jacob was staring at them, his eyes not angry, not frustrated... but cold. He was calculating. He was learning.
The ambush had worked. But the machine... the machine was adapting.