The 'Matina' conference room was thick with the smell of cold, leftover buffet food and the palpable, metallic tang of fear. The television screen, which had just showcased the inhuman, balletic duel between Emon Jacob and Aekley Vicente, now felt like a portal to a world of basketball they couldn't possibly belong to.
Marco had his head on the table, his arms draped over it, a posture of complete and total surrender. "It's over," he was mumbling into the polished mahogany. "Just... it's over. We're a footnote. We're the team that got to watch the real players before we went home. Can we just go to the durian farm now? I want to experience one good thing before we die."
"Get your head off the table, Marco," Coach Gutierrez's voice sliced through the gloom. He walked to the front, his face unreadable. He'd let them stew in their awe and terror for a full five minutes. "You're right about one thing. You just watched two players who are destined for the pros. They are brilliant."
He picked up a new data stick from the table. "Now, forget about them. They are not your problem. You are not in their world. Not yet. They have to play each other, and San Fernando's Bedia, just to get out of their side of the bracket. Their path is a meat grinder. Ours... ours is a single, towering wall. And we get to meet him the day after tomorrow."
He clicked a button on the remote, and the TV switched from the live broadcast to a new video file. The logo of "Jolo High School" appeared, then cut to a game.
"This," the coach said, his voice dropping, "is our problem."
The team, as one, sat up. The fear from the last game was replaced by a new, more immediate, and more personal dread. This was their opponent. This was their next 48 hours.
"You've all read the stat line," Coach G said, his voice a low, clinical monotone. "Louise Andre 'LA' Morales. They call him 'The Janitor.' Six-foot-nine, 220 pounds. A power forward with a 7-foot-2 wingspan and a 38-inch vertical. And he is, by all accounts, the most relentless rebounder in the history of this tournament."
The film started. And it was a horror show.
It wasn't the slow, methodical, post-up brutality of Aekley Vicente. It wasn't the fluid, surgical, all-court brilliance of Emon Jacob.
It was... chaos. It was pure, unadulterated, athletic dominance.
The first clip showed a Jolo High guard taking a three-pointer. It was a bad shot. It clanged hard off the back rim. And then, from the opposite side of the floor, a green-and-yellow-clad blur—#14, Morales—streaked into the frame. He didn't just jump. He exploded upwards, his head at rim level, his long arm extending far above the three Jolo players who were passively waiting for the rebound. He snatched the ball out of the air at its apex, with one hand. Before his feet even touched the ground, he had already thrown the ball back up, a soft, impossible hook shot that dropped through the net.
"That's an offensive rebound... from the three-point line," Ian Veneracion whispered, his voice hollow. He, a 6'6" rebounding specialist, knew he couldn't have even gotten near that ball.
The next clip. A Jolo fast break. A 2-on-1. The Jolo guard went up for what looked like an easy layup. From behind him, from completely out of the frame, Morales appeared. He took two massive, ground-eating strides, leaped, and didn't just block the shot—he caught it. He pinned the ball against the backboard with a resounding smack, plucked it out of the air, and landed, all in one motion, as the Jolo player crumpled to the floor.
"What... what is he?" Daewoo asked, his pen frozen over his notebook. "He's 6'9"... but he runs faster than me."
"He's the Janitor," Coach G said simply. "Because he cleans up everyone's mistakes. His, yours, the referees... he's everywhere. He has the highest motor in this entire tournament. He never stops moving."
The next clip. A put-back dunk, where he jumped over his own teammate. A full-court, coast-to-coast drive that he finished with a thunderous slam. Four blocks. Sixteen rebounds.
It was a 24-point performance that felt like a 50-point performance. He hadn't just beaten Jolo High. He had systematically demoralized them, taking away their will to even shoot, knowing he would just grab the rebound.
When the film ended, the room was silent again, but this was a different, sicker silence.
"So," Marco said, his voice a tiny, strained squeak. "Vicente is a 6'10" troll. Jacob is a 6'6" alien. And this guy… this guy is a 6'9" superhero. What did we do to deserve this, Coach? Did we anger a basketball god?"
"This is not a god," Coach G snapped, though his own face was tight. "This is a player. A very, very good one. But he has flaws. Did you see them?"
The team was silent. They had seen no flaws.
"His handle," Tristan said, his voice quiet, his eyes narrowed. "It's high. When he drove coast-to-coast, he was fast, but the Jolo guard was scared. He didn't try to get in front of him. He just… let him go."
"Exactly," Coach G said, pointing at Tristan. "He's a straight-line driver. He's not a creator. He's a finisher. And…"
"He has no left," Gab added, his voice a low rumble. He'd been watching with a disturbing, analytical calm. "Every move, every rebound, every shot... it's all right-hand dominant. He spins over his left shoulder. Every time."
A flicker of hope. A tiny one.
"Good," Coach G said. "He's a monster. But he's a predictable monster. We can't stop him. I want to be clear about that. He is going to get his points. He is going to get his rebounds. Our job is not to stop him. Our job is to stop his team."
He looked at his big men. "Ian. Cedrick. Felix. Your job tomorrow is not to get rebounds. That's a suicide mission. Your job is to box him out. I want a body on him, from the second a shot goes up until the ball is secured. You will hit him, you will hold him, you will absorb the fouls, and you will not let him have a clear path to the rim. You are sacrificing your stat line for the good of the team. We will win the rebound battle by committee."
Then, he turned to Gab Lagman. The entire room, including Gab, tensed.
"Gab. You're starting at power forward tomorrow, in place of Cedrick."
Cedrick just nodded, his face grim. He understood. This wasn't a demotion; it was a strategic necessity.
"Your assignment," Coach G continued, "is LA Morales."
Gab, the 6'3" grinder, looked at his coach. He was being asked to guard a 6'9" athletic phenom.
"He's six inches taller than me, Coach," Gab said, not as a complaint, but as a simple fact.
"I know," Coach G said. "And you are fifty pounds stronger on your base. You are lower to the ground. And you are, without a doubt, the meanest, most stubborn defender I have ever coached. He is going to try and post you up. You will not let him. You will deny him the ball. You will get under his legs. You will use your low center of gravity. You will be a dog. You will be a pitbull at his ankles for 40 minutes."
He paused. "He will score on you. But you will make him hate it. You will make him work for every single point. You will take his legs. You will take his will. Your job is to make him a tired, frustrated, 6'9" kid by the fourth quarter. Can you do that?"
Gab Lagman looked at his coach. He thought of Aiden's cast. He thought of his team. He thought of his role.
He gave a single, sharp nod. "Yes, Coach. I can."
"Good," Coach G said. He shut off the TV, plunging the room into the dim, fluorescent light of the hotel. "The rest of you... your job is simple. Morales is their only creator. We will let Gab be the island. We will not double-team Morales. We will stay attached to their shooters. We will force LA Morales to beat us, one-on-five. I am betting he can't. I am betting we are the better team."
He looked at the clock. "It's 8:30 PM. Curfew is in thirty minutes. Go to your rooms. Get off your feet. Get your heads right. the day after Tomorrow, we go to war."
The walk back to Room 1012 was silent. Tristan and Daewoo were in a state of mental overload. The sheer, crushing weight of the opponents they had just witnessed—Calapan's piranhas, Cebu's machine, Naga's giant, and now CDO's superhero—had left them speechless.
Daewoo, who had been the hero of their first game, looked pale again, his confidence shattered.
"He's… he's so… athletic," Daewoo whispered, as he unlocked the door to their room. "How is Gab supposed to…?"
"Gab will do his job," Tristan said, his voice flat, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "Our job is to make sure their guards score zero. We get no fast breaks. We get no second-chance points. It's... it's the only way."
Daewoo nodded, disappearing into the bathroom to shower.
Tristan was alone. He kicked off his shoes and fell backward onto the stiff hotel bed, his arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling.
He felt small. He felt outmatched.
He was the captain. He was supposed to be the leader, the one with the answers. But what answer did he have for a 6'9" athletic monster? What answer did he have for Emon Jacob or Aekley Vicente, if they even got that far?
His Floor General skill, his Dimer... they felt like children's toys in a war of gods and monsters. He was bringing a knife to a gunfight.
He thought of his promise to Aiden. He thought of Claire's belief in him. He felt like a fraud.
I can't do this, he thought, the admission a cold, sharp pain in his chest. I'm not good enough. We're not good enough.
He lay there, drowning in the silence, the pressure of the single-elimination tournament, the fate of his entire team, his entire region, crushing him.
He was at his lowest point. The victory over Calapan felt like a distant, fluke memory.
DING.
A sound. A soft, clear chime that was not from his phone and not from the hotel. It chimed inside his head.
His eyes shot open.
A familiar, translucent blue window shimmered into existence in front of his face, its light a stark, ethereal contrast to the dim, beige hotel room.
He hadn't seen it since before the regional finals. He had almost forgotten.
His heart leaped, hammering against his ribs.
[NEW MISSION ACQUIRED]
[Mission 12: THE BEAST OF MINDANAO]
Description: Your team has survived the piranhas. Now, you face a monster. The path to the championship is blocked by the 'Janitor,' LA Morales of CDO High. This is a game of heart over height. Lead your 'Dog Pound' to victory and take the next step.
Objective: [WIN AGAINST CDO HIGH]
[Failure Penalty: Severe reduction in all current player statistics.]
Tristan's blood ran cold. The penalty. It was still there. Single elimination. The System was mirroring the tournament. There was no tomorrow. There was no "we'll get 'em next time." There was only victory, or there was the void.
And then, his eyes scanned down. The reward.
[MISSION REWARDS]
[+25 Physical Stat Points]
[+50 Attribute Points]
[1x Bronze Skill Badge]
[3x Silver Upgrade Badge]
[2x Gold Upgrade Badge]
Tristan just... stared.
His breath caught in his throat. He had been expecting a boost. He had not been expecting an arsenal.
The points were one thing—25 Physical, 50 Attribute. That was a significant, immediate boost. A new Bronze skill was always good.
But the badges.
Three Silver Upgrade Badges. Two Gold Upgrade Badges.
He thought of his skill list. Floor General (Silver), Acrobat (Silver), Tight Handles (Bronze), Dimer (Bronze), Slithery (Bronze), Post-Fade Phenom (Bronze),
Comeback Kid (Bronze), Giant Slayer (Bronze).
This... this was not a small upgrade. This was an evolution.
This was the System acknowledging the new, monstrous level of their opponents. This was the System giving him the tools to fight back.
The fear that had been crushing him, the feeling of hopeless inadequacy... it didn't vanish. But it was suddenly, sharply, focused. It was forged into something new.
It was no longer hopeless.
He looked at the two Gold Upgrade Badges gleaming in the blue window. He knew exactly what they were for. One was for Floor General. To become a true, game-bending leader, like Emon Jacob. The other... he could use it on Dimer, or Tight Handles... or he could save it.
The three Silver Badges. He could turn his three bronze-level finishing package—Dimer, Slithery, Giant Slayer—into a Silver-tier arsenal.
He could become a different kind of player.
The bathroom door opened. Daewoo came out, toweling his hair. "Man, I am so… Tris? You good? You look like you just saw a ghost."
Tristan blinked. The window vanished. He was back in the room. He sat up slowly, his heart pounding a new, powerful rhythm.
He wasn't the same player he was two minutes ago.
He looked at Daewoo, a new, cold, and dangerous smile on his face. The fear was gone, replaced by a chilling resolve.
"I'm good, Woo," Tristan said, his voice calm and steady. "I'm great, actually."
Daewoo looked at him, confused by the sudden, 180-degree shift in his captain's demeanor. "You are? Why? That film was... terrifying."
Tristan stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the lights of Davao, the city that was supposed to be their graveyard.
"They have a 6'9" monster," Tristan said, his voice a low, confident hum. "They have a 'Janitor.' That's good. Because the day after tomorrow... we're going to take out the trash."
He didn't need to apply the points yet. He just needed to know they were there. The mission was set. The arsenal was unlocked.
The path was impossible.
And for the first time, Tristan Herrera truly believed they were going to walk it.