The second half of the finals began with renewed intensity.
As soon as the third quarter opened, Dranred lit up the court from the three-point line. His movements were sharp, precise — almost impossible to believe he was the same man who had taken a hard fall earlier. A white bandage still wrapped his forehead, faintly stained with red, yet he played as if he couldn't feel the pain at all.
The Phoenix seized the first lead of the quarter. The crowd erupted — a thunder of voices echoing Dranred's name. Every pass, every assist, every defensive switch was seamless. They moved as one body, one rhythm, one purpose. The game was no longer about survival; it was about proving who they really were.
Drake, scowling, met Dranred at the arc.
"So this is how you plan to play against James?" he taunted, his breath sharp with effort.
Dranred smirked, his eyes fixed on the rim. "And do you really think losing on purpose will make him happy? It's his dream. He has to step up and take it himself."
He took one step back and released the ball in a clean, fluid motion. Drake leapt to block — but too late. The ball sailed high, spinning like a comet, before dropping through the hoop.
Nothing but net.
The crowd roared again.
From across the court, James looked up, the words echoing in his mind.
Dranred wasn't holding back.
Even with the injury, even after everything that happened between them, Dranred was giving it his all — not because of guilt, but because of respect. He wasn't playing against James anymore. He was playing for the dream they once shared.
For the first time in years, James felt something shift inside him. The bitterness that once consumed him was replaced by pride — pride for the friend he once called a brother.
After that shot, the tension between the two ignited the whole arena.
It was no longer Drake's show — the spotlight had turned to Dranred and James.
The crowd held its breath as the two faced off. Every possession felt like a memory reborn — the way they used to play back in college, always pushing each other to the limit. Dranred attacked, James countered. When Dranred scored, James answered instantly. Their movements were poetry — precise, powerful, and filled with emotion.
The pain in James's leg was still there, but he didn't care anymore. For the first time since his injury, he was playing without fear, without regret. If this was to be his final game, then so be it. There was no better way to end his career than standing against the one person who had carried his dream for a decade.
Then came the moment that silenced everyone.
James charged in for a dunk. Dranred met him mid-air, rising to block the shot. For one heartbeat, time froze — two bodies suspended in flight, both refusing to yield. Then James's momentum overpowered him. Dranred crashed hard to the floor, the sound echoing through the arena.
No whistle. No foul.
The crowd erupted in confusion, but all Rosette could hear was the thundering in her chest. She was already on her feet, her hands gripping the rail.
"Dranred!"
Her voice trembled as she watched him lying still on the court, the bandage at his forehead darkening with fresh blood.
"Don't sleep on me. The game's not over yet," James said, extending his hand toward Dranred.
Dranred stared at it for a moment — disbelieving, hesitant.
When James started to pull his hand back, Dranred suddenly reached out and took it, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"You're too impatient," he said lightly as James helped him to his feet.
The crowd erupted into applause.
What they saw was more than just good sportsmanship — it was the reunion of two players bound by history.
But not everyone was pleased.
From across the court, Drake's jaw tightened. He could feel the spotlight slipping away from him — first to James, then to Dranred. That should've been his moment.
The third quarter ended with the Falcons ahead by four points. But as soon as the final quarter began, the Phoenix struck back hard. The crowd was on fire — the game had turned into a tug-of-war of pure willpower.
With ten minutes left, no one could guess who would take the championship.
Drake's plays grew more aggressive. He began to ignore passes, forcing shots, even causing a turnover that made their coach yell from the bench.
"Focus on the game, Drake! Keep your head!"
But Drake barely heard him. His entire focus was on Dranred — on taking back the glory he felt stolen from him.
A timeout was called with five minutes remaining. The Phoenix were now leading by five points after a clean three-pointer from their rookie and two free throws from the center, both fouls courtesy of Drake.
During the huddle, the coach turned to his team, his voice steady but firm.
"Drake, calm down. We're switching to man-to-man. James, you take Dranred — you can keep up with him."
James nodded, eyes calm. Drake stayed silent, his expression unreadable. The coach thought he understood the plan.
But Drake's silence meant something else entirely.
As the game resumed, no one expected what happened next.
When Dranred leapt for a shot, both Drake and James jumped to block him — colliding midair. The three of them came crashing down hard, but Dranred's shot found the basket before he hit the floor.
"James!" Dranred gasped as he scrambled up and ran toward him.
James was clutching his leg, his face twisted in pain. Drake stood frozen nearby, his expression unreadable, his pride suddenly hollow.
Players from the Falcons' bench rushed to help. With their support, James managed to stand, but his weight buckled immediately on one side.
"James—" Dranred started, worry thick in his voice.
"Don't," James cut him off without turning around. "Don't feel burdened… or pity me. I wanted to finish this game. It's just unfortunate that my leg won't let me."
He tried to walk, leaning heavily on his teammates.
"I'll play and win for both of us," Dranred called after him.
James heard him — but didn't look back.
The crowd slowly rose to their feet, clapping in unison. It wasn't just for his performance, but for his courage. Rosette and Estelle joined them, their eyes shining with pride. James hadn't won, but he'd proven everything he needed to.
When he reached the bench, the coach knelt beside him.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"
"I'm fine, Coach," James said with a small smile. "I'll watch until the end."
He couldn't leave — not now, not when the final moments were so close.
A substitute entered for James, and the game resumed. The Falcons quickly scored, tying the game. With just two minutes left on the clock, Drake found his rhythm again and drove in a basket — putting the Falcons ahead once more.