Tristan Herrera woke up before his alarm. The hotel room was dark, the curtains drawn tight, but his mind was already bright, sharp, and racing. The phantom glow of the System's mission window, which had burned itself into his memory last night, was the first thing he thought of.
[Mission 12: THE BEAST OF MINDANAO]
[3x Silver Upgrade Badge]
[2x Gold Upgrade Badge]
He lay there, motionless, feeling the potential thrumming under his skin. It was a secret arsenal, a hidden weapon in a war where he was, by all measures, completely outgunned. The 25 Physical Points and 50 Attribute Points were a godsend, but the Badges... the Badges were the game-changers. He could feel the possibilities, the new pathways he could unlock. He could become a different, more lethal version of himself, just in time.
The bathroom door opened, spilling a wedge of yellow light into the room. Daewoo Kim emerged, already in his team warm-ups, his hair damp. He was shadow-boxing, running through defensive slides in the small space by the door, his feet whispering on the carpet.
"Morning, Cap," Daewoo said, his voice buzzing with a nervous, kinetic energy.
"Couldn't sleep. I think I've watched that Calapan game tape four times already. My pump-fake was... it was okay, right?"
Tristan sat up, a small, confident smile touching his lips. The fear from last night, the overwhelming inadequacy, was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.
"It was perfect, Woo," Tristan said, his voice clear and steady in the dark. "It was a veteran play. You sold it. You're a shooter now, man. They have to respect you."
"Feels weird," Daewoo admitted, finally standing still. "But... good. It feels good. I'm ready to run through a brick wall for Coach."
"That's good," Tristan said, swinging his legs out of bed. "Because tomorrow, we're facing a guy who is a brick wall."
He looked at his new arsenal, invisible to everyone but him. I just have to decide when to pull the trigger. Tonight. After the film session. I'll have all the data. Then I'll evolve.
"Let's go get some breakfast," Tristan said, a new, easy confidence in his step. "I'm starving."
The hotel's private conference room, now their full-time mess hall and war room, was already buzzing by the time they arrived. The team was assembled, the mood a complete 180 from the grim, shell-shocked silence of their first film session. They were sore, they were tired, but they were winners. The victory over Calapan had baptized them in the fires of the Palaro. They weren't rookies anymore. They were survivors.
The buffet was, once again, a mountain of garlic rice, scrambled eggs, longganisa, and tapa. The team ate with the ravenous hunger of athletes who had burned thousands of calories in a single, high-stakes game.
"I'm telling you, Ced," Ian Veneracion was saying, his plate piled high, "if we get that switch again, and they put that 'Janitor' on Tris, you have to crash the offensive glass. He'll be so focused on the drive, the weak side will be wide open."
"I know, I know," Cedrick rumbled. "But my job is to box him out. Coach's orders. Gab's going to be the main defender, but we're the support. It's a team job."
At the head of the table, Marco was hunched over his phone, his face pale, his fork hovering forgotten over his plate.
"Uh... guys," Marco said, his voice suddenly small, cutting through the chatter.
"What's wrong, Marco?" Tristan asked, taking a seat. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Ghosts?" Marco looked up, his eyes wide and haunted. "Ghosts would be a vacation. Ghosts would be a nice, relaxing change of pace. I just read the news. From Group B."
The room went quiet. The clinking of silverware stopped.
"They... they played their first-round games last night," Marco stammered.
"And?" Gab asked, his voice a low, impatient growl. "Spit it out, Marco. Who won?"
"Who won?" Marco let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh. "That's not the question! The question is, 'What new species of demigod has been unleashed upon our mortal world?!' You guys thought the guys in our bracket were bad? You thought Vicente and Jacob were monsters?"
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly. "Prepare yourselves. We are but humble farmers, and this tournament is a hurricane of tractors."
"Marco, get to the point," Coach Gutierrez said. He had just walked in, a cup of black coffee in his hand, his eyes already tired. "Give them the news."
"Okay! Fine! You want the news?" Marco said, reading from his phone in a trembling, dramatic voice. "Game 1: Quezon City High—that's NCR, fellas—versus Vigan High. NCR wins by 28. No surprise, right? Wrong. Their point guard... Joco Palencia. A 6'3" point guard. Another Mythical Five."
Tristan's head snapped up. 6'3". His direct counterpart, if they ever made it that far.
"His stat line," Marco said, his voice cracking. "Forty... two... points. And... eighteen... assists."
The room was so quiet, Tristan could hear the hum of the overhead lights.
"Eighteen... assists?" Daewoo whispered, doing the math. "That's... at least 36 more points. He was responsible for... almost 80 points."
"It's a typo," Ian said, his voice flat. "It has to be. 18 assists."
"It's not a typo!" Marco shrieked, showing the phone to Ian. "It's on three different news sites! 42 points and 18 assists! He's a 6'3" Emon Jacob who also scores 40! He's a one-man apocalypse! What is that?!"
Tristan just stared at his plate. He thought of his own best game, maybe 15 points and 10 assists. This was a level he didn't even know existed.
"I'm not done!" Marco continued, his voice rising in panic. "Game 2: Bacolod versus Tacloban! Tacloban pulls off the upset. Why? Because of their guy. Matthew Joseph 'MJ' Mangon. A 6'6" shooting guard. 33 points, 8 rebounds, 5 steals. He just... decided they weren't going to lose. The Bacolod point guard, Larson Callao, had 25 and 13 assists, and they still got blown out!"
"Another one," Cedrick said, just shaking his head. "Another 6'6" shooter. It's a factory. They're building them somewhere."
"And then," Marco said, his voice dropping, "the main event. The one that should make you all want to just... go home. Game 3: Baguio versus General Santos City."
"GenSan," Coach G said, his voice grim. "Tell them, Marco."
"GenSan wins," Marco whispered. "Their center. Josh Manio. The other Mythical Five player in their bracket. He's... he's... seven... feet... tall."
Ian and Cedrick, who had been in the middle of drinking water, both choked simultaneously. A fine mist of water sprayed across the table.
"Seven... what?" Ian sputtered, coughing, his face turning red.
"SEVEN! FEET! TALL!" Marco yelled, holding up seven fingers. "A 7'0" high school kid! And he had... oh, this is just beautiful... a triple-double. 30 points. 20 rebounds. And ten... blocks."
The room was a tomb. The players were just staring, their food forgotten. They had been mentally preparing to battle 6'9" and 6'10" giants. A 7'0" center with ten blocks was... he was a different species. He was a creature from a fantasy novel.
"Ten blocks," Felix Tan, their own backup center, said, his voice a tiny squeak. "He... he had a triple-double... with blocks."
"And the Baguio forward, Ash Galang, 6'7", dropped 28, and they still got blown out!" Marco finished. "Oh, and the host team Davao won, led by another 6'6" shooter, Jomo Lapuk. So... congratulations, everyone. Welcome to the Palarong Pambansa. Every single team left is led by a 6'6" scoring god, a 40/18 assist machine, or a 7-foot monster who eats basketballs for breakfast."
He finally sat down, his entire body slumping in defeat. "We're done. It's over. We're the only 'normal' team here. We're the only team without a demigod."
A heavy, crushing despair settled over the team. Their own hard-fought victory yesterday, the one they had been so proud of, now felt like a children's game.
"So," Tristan said, his voice quiet, trying to process the impossible bracket. "The next round in Group B is QC vs. Tacloban. The 42-point-18-assist god versus the 6'6" shooter."
"And GenSan vs. Davao," Gab added, his face grim, his appetite gone. "The 7-foot 10-block monster versus the other 6'6" shooter, on his home court."
"The winner of that bracket," Ian said, his voice hollow, "is who we would play... if we win our bracket."
"And to win our bracket," Cedrick continued, the logic a cold, steel trap, "we have to beat the 6'9" Janitor. And then we have to beat the winner of San Fernando's 36-point-a-game guy, Bedia... or the Cebu Machine, Emon Jacob. The guy who doesn't get tired."
Marco just laughed, a high, empty, hysterical sound. "This is a joke. This is an actual joke. We're done. We're the only 'normal' team here. We're the only team without a demigod."
"That's not true," Tristan said, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the despair.
Everyone looked at him. He was calm, his eyes steady. The secret in his mind, the knowledge of his waiting upgrades, was a cold, hard stone of confidence.
"We're not normal," Tristan said, his gaze finding each of his teammates. "We're not. We're the Regional Champions. We're the team that just took a 'five-out piranha' team and broke them. We're the team with the best defensive frontcourt in the tournament," he nodded to Ian, Cedrick, and Gab. "We're the team with the deepest bench of grinders," he nodded to John, Felix, and the others. "And we... we're the only team here. All those other guys... they're just one player. You saw it yesterday. You take Jacob out, Cebu stalls. You take Vicente out, Naga crumbles. They're just a collection of stats. We are a team. We have a system. We have... we have heart. We have Aiden to play for."
Coach Gutierrez, who had been listening from the coffee machine, walked over. He put his cup down with a firm, solid click.
"The captain is right," he said, his voice a calm, solid presence in the storm of their panic. "You're all looking at the stat lines. I'm looking at the flaws. Joco Palencia: 42 points and 18 assists. Incredible. Also, 8 turnovers. He's reckless. He gambles. He has to play hero-ball because his team needs him to. Josh Manio: 7 feet, 10 blocks. Amazing. Also... 4-for-12 from the free-throw line. He can't shoot. You attack him. You make him move. You foul him out. Every one of these 'monsters' has a weakness."
He looked at his own team, his eyes full of a fire that belied their impossible odds.
"They are not our problem. NCR is not our problem. GenSan is not our problem. CDO is our problem. LA Morales is our problem. That is the only monster we are allowed to see. That is the only wall we have to climb. One wall at a time. One game at a time. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Coach," the team said, their voices a little stronger, a little more certain.
"Good. Today is a rest day. Your bodies rest. Your minds... your minds are on CDO. Film session at 2 PM. We are going to watch that tape again, and we are going to find a dozen more flaws in Mr. Morales's game. After that, you are free. But curfew is 9 PM. Sharp. Go. Eat. Rest."
The team, their mood shifted from abject despair to a grim, terrified resolve, finished their breakfast. The chatter was gone, replaced by a low, intense, tactical murmur.
Tristan stayed behind as the others began to file out. He looked at the new bracket, the impossible, monstrous path laid out before him.
Joco Palencia. 42 and 18. A 6'3" point guard.
Josh Manio. 7'0". 10 blocks.
LA Morales. 6'9". The Janitor.
Emon Jacob. 6'6". The Machine.
Carlo Bedia. 6'8". The 36-point-a-game-guy.
He thought of the mission window. [2x Gold Upgrade Badge]. [3x Silver Upgrade Badge].
He wasn't just a normal player anymore. The System had given him the tools. He wasn't just a captain. He was the secret weapon. He was the monster they hadn't scouted.
He finished his coffee, his mind racing, not with fear, but with a cold, hard, strategic calculation. He was going to spend the morning planning. He was going to build a new version of himself.
He wasn't just going to survive. He was going to hunt.
"Coach," Tristan said, stopping Gutierrez at the door. "I'll be in the film room."
"It's a rest day, son," the coach said.
"Not for me," Tristan replied. "I need to see that CDO tape again. By myself."
The coach looked at him, saw the new, hard light in his captain's eyes, and nodded. "Don't burn yourself out, Herrera."
"Don't worry, Coach," Tristan said, a small, cold smile on his face. "I'm just getting warmed up."