The one-minute break between the third and fourth quarters was the loudest, most suffocating silence of Tristan Herrera's life. The Dasmariñas bench was a graveyard. The starters—Tristan, Marco, Daewoo, Gab, and Ian—sat in a row, their heads hung, their eyes staring at the floor, the echo of Emon Jacob's buzzer-beating three-pointer still ringing in their ears.
The scoreboard was a monument to their humiliation: Dasmariñas 40 — Cebu 48.
A 28-to-4 quarter. A 24-point swing.
A total, systemic, and tactical collapse.
In the center of the huddle, the five reserves—Mark, John, Joseph, Joshua, and Felix—were sitting on the floor, their spirits completely, utterly broken. Mark Herras was openly weeping into his towel, the weight of the 15-0 run he'd endured crushing him. The other four just stared into space, their faces pale and hollow. They looked like survivors of a natural disaster.
Coach Gutierrez stood before them, his clipboard hanging uselessly at his side. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't screaming. His face was ashen. He looked... defeated. He had made a catastrophic, arrogant mistake. He had disrespected a basketball god, and that god had exacted a terrible, swift, and merciless price. He had broken his bench, and in doing so, he had broken his team's spirit.
He looked at his starters, his eyes filled with a desperate, raw plea.
"I..." he started, his voice a hoarse, broken rasp. "I made a mistake. A terrible one. I... I got arrogant. I did this. I put you all in this hole."
The team looked up, stunned. They had never heard their coach sound like this. It was the sound of a man who had lost.
"We are down by eight," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "Against the best player in the country. He is in the zone. His team... his team believes they're invincible. By all accounts... this game is over."
He took a deep, shaky breath. "I have... I have no new strategy. I have no more tricks. The 'Dog Pound' won't work... he's too smart. He's too... good. There is no plan."
The last ember of hope in the huddle died.
"So," Coach G said, his voice cracking, "you have ten minutes. You can... you can just... let it go. No one would blame you. You fought hard. You're a regional champion. It's... it's a good season."
He was conceding. He was giving them an out.
Tristan Herrera looked at the floor. He saw his own sweat dripping, forming a dark, spreading stain. He thought of Aiden's cast. He thought of his promise. He thought of Claire's text. He thought of his new, golden, glowing Floor General skill, an arsenal he hadn't even had a chance to truly use.
He felt a cold, quiet anger begin to burn in his stomach. It was an anger directed at Jacob, at the score... but mostly, at his coach.
How dare you.
How dare you give up on us.
"No," Tristan said, his voice quiet, but it cut through the silence like a knife.
Every player, and the coach, turned to look at him.
Tristan slowly got to his feet. He was the captain. And his coach had just abdicated the throne.
"No, Coach," he said again, his voice louder, harder, ringing with a new, cold authority. He was no longer a player. He was the general. "You're wrong. The game is not over. You don't get to quit on us."
He turned to his four fellow starters.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Ian. Gab. Daewoo. Marco. Their eyes, hollow and defeated, slowly rose to meet his.
"They scored 28 points," Tristan said, his voice a low, intense growl. "They hit us with a hurricane. And we are only down by eight. We are still here. They threw their best punch, and we are still standing."
He jabbed a finger at Daewoo. "You! You held him to seven points in the first. You made him work. He's not a god. He's just a guy. And he's tired. We just have to make him work more."
He looked at Marco. "You! You're 'The Dagger,' right? The 'artist'? You were embarrassed. They put their best defender on you and you shut down. Are you going to let him do that? Are you going to let him be the hero of this game?"
Marco's head snapped up, a flicker of his old, arrogant fire returning. "No... No, I'm not."
"Ian! Gab!" Tristan yelled. "You are the best frontcourt in this tournament! You let them punk you! You let them score in your house! We are going to own the paint this quarter. Every rebound. Every loose ball. It... is... ours!"
The two bigs got to their feet, a low growl rumbling in their chests.
"And me," Tristan said, his voice dropping, his Gold Floor General skill activating, a visible, almost palpable aura of confidence radiating from him. "I'm not going to let a point guard who can't even shoot beat me. This is my court. This is our game."
He turned and faced his entire, broken team.
"Coach is wrong! There is a plan! The plan is us! The plan is our heart! We are the 'Dog Pound'! We are the 'Ambush'! We are the team that fought back from a 7-0 run! We are the team that beat the 'Janitor'! We are the team that earned the right to be here! This game is NOT over until that buzzer sounds! We will fight! We will scrap! And we will win! FOR AIDEN!"
The huddle, which had been a morgue, was now a powder keg. The despair was gone, burned away by the sheer, furious will of their captain.
Coach Gutierrez just stared at Tristan, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound, dawning respect. He had broken his team, and his captain... his 15-year-old, 5'9" captain... had just rebuilt them.
"DASMA ON THREE!" Tristan roared, his hand in the center.
"ONE, TWO, THREE..."
"DASMAAAAAA!" The yell was not a cheer. It was a war cry.
Start of the Fourth Quarter: Dasmariñas 40 — Cebu 48
The starters—Tristan, Marco, Daewoo, Gab, and Ian—walked onto the court. They were a different team. The fear was gone. Their faces were masks of cold, furious, unified purpose.
Emon Jacob saw it. He saw the shift. The beaten, shell-shocked kids were gone. The warriors were back. He just smirked. Too little, too late.
Cebu, confident, started with the ball. They ran a simple set for Jacob. He got the ball at the elbow, isolated on Daewoo.
He drove hard. Daewoo, playing with a suicidal, reckless abandon, cut him off. Jacob spun. He was met by Gab, a perfectly-timed double-team.
Jacob was trapped!
He tried to throw a pass to his center, Ramos, but Ian Veneracion, who had been baiting the pass, uncoiled his 6'6" frame.
Steal!
"RUN!" Ian roared, firing the outlet to Tristan.
Tristan was flying. It was a 2-on-1 with Marco. Abella, the Cebu PG, was back.
Tristan drove at him. Abella committed. Tristan, with his 80-Ball handle and Silver Dimer, threw a perfect, behind-the-back bounce pass to a trailing Marco.
Marco caught it, laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 42 — Cebu 48
"LET'S GO!" Marco screamed, sprinting back on D. "THAT'S ONE!"
Jacob, annoyed, brought the ball up himself. Daewoo was in his jersey, bumping him, harassing him.
Jacob, with 10 seconds on the clock, just... rose up. A 28-foot, "logo" three. A shot of pure, arrogant disrespect.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 42 — Cebu 51
He had just put the lead back to nine. He was trying to break their spirit, to tell them their run was pointless.
Tristan caught the inbound. He looked at Jacob. He didn't say a word.
My turn.
Tristan didn't pass. He didn't call a play. He waved his team away. Isolation.
He was guarded by Abella, who was being backed up by Jacob.
Tristan, his 80-Handle a blur, hit Abella with his new Ankle Breaker skill. A vicious, right-to-left crossover. Abella's feet got tangled. He stumbled.
Tristan was past him. Jacob rotated over.
Tristan, with his 75-Speed, blew past Jacob's rotation. The center, Ramos, stepped up.
Tristan, at full speed, leaped, his Silver Slithery skill activating. He contorted in mid-air, absorbing the contact from Ramos, and finished with a wild, high-glass, acrobatic reverse layup.
WHISTLE.
The basket was good. And-one.
Score: Dasmariñas 44 — Cebu 51
Tristan stood up, his face a mask of cold fury. He looked at Jacob. I can do that, too.
He sank the free throw.
Score: Dasmariñas 45 — Cebu 51
A 6-point game. The Dasma crowd was coming alive.
Jacob was angry. He was being challenged. He drove hard. He was met by Daewoo and Gab. A wall. He threw up a wild, contested shot.
Clang. It missed.
Ian and Gab boxed out the entire Cebu front line. Gab secured the rebound.
Tristan pushed. Fast. He saw Marco, sprinting to the right wing. He saw Jacob, trailing, his eyes on Tristan.
Tristan pump-faked the pass to Marco. Jacob, with his high IQ, bit, just for a millisecond, leaving his own man.
It was a trap. Tristan had baited the machine.
He pulled the ball back and drove the lane that Jacob had just vacated.
The center, Ramos, was there. Tristan, with his Silver Dimer skill, threw a perfect, no-look pass to Ian, who was cutting baseline.
Ian caught it, dunked it.
Score: Dasmariñas 47 — Cebu 51
A 4-point game. The arena was shaking.
"They're... they're back," Aiden whispered from the stands, his hands clasped in prayer.
Jacob. He was furious. He knew he'd been tricked.
He drove. He wasn't passing. He was going to score or die.
He drove into the teeth of the defense. Gab. Ian. Daewoo.
He was swarmed. He threw up a shot. It was blocked! By Gab! A clean, brutal, stuff!
Loose ball!
Daewoo dove on the floor, wrestling it away from Abella. He got it! He flipped it to Tristan!
Tristan, with his Gold Floor General skill, saw the entire court. He saw Marco, sprinting, his hand in the air.
Tristan threw a 70-foot, one-handed baseball pass. A perfect strike.
Marco caught it, all alone.
Layup.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — Cebu 51
A two-point game. The 16-point lead was gone. The comeback was real.
"TIMEOUT, CEBU!"
The Cebu huddle was a scene of chaos. Jacob was screaming at his teammates for not helping. The coach was screaming at Jacob for playing "hero ball." The machine was breaking.
Out of the timeout, they were rattled. They tried to run a play for their center.
The pass was high. Ian tipped it from behind.
Steal!
Dasma Ball
Tristan had it. He was walking the ball up. Calm. Ice.
He saw Marco, guarded by Jacob. He saw the mismatch.
He passed to Gab. Gab passed to Ian. Ian passed back to Tristan.
The shot clock was at 10.
Tristan called for the clear-out. He was guarded by Abella.
He dribbled. 7... 6...
He hit him with the Ankle Breaker again. A crossover. Abella stumbled.
Tristan rose up from 18 feet. His 80-Mid-Range shot.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 51 — Cebu 51
THE GAME WAS TIED.
Tristan just stared, his face emotionless, and jogged back. He had erased a 26-point swing, by himself.
The next three minutes were the most brutal basketball of their lives.
Cebu, desperate, scored. 51-53.
Tristan came back, hit Ian on another pick-and-roll. 53-53.
Jacob, refusing to lose, hit an impossible, contested three. 53-56.
Marco, answering, came off a screen from Gab and hit his own three. 56-56.
The crowd was losing its mind. The game was tied, with one minute to go.
This was it. Emon Jacob had the ball. He was going to hold for the last shot.
He was being guarded by Daewoo, who looked like he was about to pass out from exhaustion.
The clock ticked. 15... 10...
Jacob made his move. He drove right. Daewoo cut him off.
He spun left. Gab was there.
He stepped back. 5... 4...
He rose up for the game-winner, a 20-foot fadeaway.
Daewoo, with his last ounce of strength, leaped, his fingers stretching...
Tipped!
He got a piece of it! The shot was short!
It hit the front of the rim.
Rebound! Ian Veneracion! He ripped it from the air, his face a mask of triumph!
He was fouled!
No! The ref didn't call it. He outlets to Tristan.
Dasma Ball (6.0 seconds remaining)
Tristan had the ball. He was sprinting.
NO TIMEOUTS. Coach G was screaming, "GO! GO!"
Tristan crossed half-court. 4.0 seconds.
Emon Jacob was in front of him. The two captains. The two gods. The game on the line.
Tristan drove right. Jacob, with his 6'6" frame, cut him off.
3.0 seconds.
Tristan spun back left. Jacob was still there. His defense was perfect.
2.0 seconds.
Tristan was trapped by the sideline. He was double-teamed by a rotating Abella. He was going to lose the ball. The game was over.
He leaped into the air, his body parallel to the floor, his eyes scanning, his Gold Floor General skill screaming at him.
He saw it.
He saw the one, impossible, desperate opening.
Marco, who had been sprinting from the opposite wing, had just arrived at the deep right corner. His defender, Chavez, was two steps behind him, watching the ball.
Tristan, trapped, in mid-air, threw a one-handed, blind, cross-court skip pass. It was a pass of pure, desperate hope. It sailed over the entire Cebu team.
1.0 second.
Marco caught it. He was in the corner. His "office."
He didn't have time to set his feet. He didn't have time to think. He just... caught it, and in one single, fluid, beautiful motion, he rose up, his body twisting, and fired.
The buzzer sounded. The red light flashed on the backboard.
The ball was in the air.
The entire arena, 10,000 people, was dead silent.
The ball traced its high, perfect, championship arc.
...
...
...
Swish.
Final Score: Dasmariñas 59 — Cebu City 56
The gym was silent for one, full, disbelieving second.
And then... chaos.
The Dasmariñas bench... the reserves, the coaches... everyone... stormed the court. Marco was already at half-court, his jersey off, screaming at the sky. He was tackled by Ian and Cedrick.
Daewoo Kim collapsed at the free-throw line, just... sobbing.
Gab Lagman just stood there, under the basket, his hands on his head, staring at the scoreboard, as if he couldn't believe it was real.
Aiden, in the stands, was screaming, his crutches on the floor, his mother trying to hold him up.
Tristan Herrera stood where he had thrown the pass. He just... watched. He watched the celebration. He watched his team.
He turned and looked at Emon Jacob, who was standing at center court, his hands on his hips, his face a mask of cold, profound, and utter disbelief. The Machine... was broken.
Tristan had done it. He had led his team back from the dead. He had kept his promise.
He slowly, calmly, raised his arms to the sky.
They had slayed the god. They were going to the Palarong Pambansa Championship.