The night belonged to the city.
In the sleek, polished districts of Beijing, Casa de Imperium students buried themselves in simulations and algorithms. But a few streets away — past the neon signs and the smell of sizzling oil from late-night food stalls — another kind of intelligence ruled.
Street courts. Broken asphalt. Sweat instead of strategy.
Here, rules were loose, pride was currency, and every shot was a bet.
Under a single flickering streetlight, a crowd of migrant workers and students formed a rough circle around a cracked basketball court. Someone had painted lines on the ground years ago, and though the paint had long faded, everyone knew exactly where the three-point line should be.
At the center of it all was a young man in a sleeveless jersey, tattoos crawling down his arm like vines of rebellion. His grin was wide, careless, alive.
"Double or nothing!" He shouted, spinning the ball on his finger before passing it behind his back. "You sure you still wanna play?"
The other player — a taller, bulkier man — sneered. "You talk too much, kid."
Lynx only laughed, stepping back. His sneakers scuffed dust into the air as the crowd roared.
He didn't care about the money, not really. It was the rush — the heartbeat in his ears, the thrill of unpredictable rhythm. The moment where instinct took over and thinking got in the way.
The ball hit the ground — once, twice — then vanished.
To everyone else, it was a blur. To Lynx, it was music.
He crossed left, faked right, spun around, and in one smooth motion slipped past his defender.
The man lunged — and hit nothing but air.
"Phantom Drive!" Someone in the crowd yelled as Lynx lifted off the ground, the ball gliding from his palm, arcing through the haze of streetlight.
The net swished.
The court exploded with cheers. Bills were exchanged, bets shouted, laughter echoing into the night.
Lynx raised his hand, pointing toward the sky like a victor in a war only he understood.
That was when the rumor reached the upper blocks — the kind of whispers that moved faster than light.
"There's a guy in District Nine taking everyone's bets. Filipino. Not a student. He's crazy fast."
Inside a quiet café near the Casa de Imperium campus, Uno raised a brow as he listened to a fellow student talking excitedly at the next table.
"Filipino street player?" Uno repeated, glancing at Mico. "That sounds like our type."
Mico's expression didn't change, but the faintest interest flickered behind his eyes. He look back at the students. "District Nine, you said?" He asked.
The student nodded, recognizing Mico and Uno. "Yeah. Everyone's losing to him. Word is he plays like a fucking glitch."
Uno grinned, already standing. "We should check it out. Could be recruitment material."
Mico's gaze turned toward the window, where the lights of the city painted the glass in red and gold.
"Or it could be a waste of time," he said, though his tone betrayed curiosity. "Still, if someone's creating a name in a place like that… we should see for ourselves."
Minutes later, they were weaving through narrow streets — Mico in his crisp Casa uniform, Uno with his jacket slung over one shoulder, looking wildly out of place in the chaos of Beijing's underground.
The noise hit them first — laughter, shouting, the thump of a ball against cement. Then the smell of sweat and soy sauce from nearby food stalls. The court came into view, surrounded by a sea of Filipinos shouting in Tagalog and Mandarin mixed together.
"Yo…" Uno murmured, a grin curling on his lips. "This is wild."
Mico said nothing. His eyes locked on the player at the center of the crowd — the one with the impossible reflexes and the grin that could start a fire.
Him.
He moved like no one Mico had ever seen. No rhythm, no pattern — yet everything was deliberate in its recklessness. A contradiction in motion.
Uno nudged him. "You seeing this?"
Mico's voice was quiet, steady. "I see him."
And just like that, the first piece of Castillian fell into place.
It was chaos and messy. And Mico needed that.
---
The crowd began to fade as the last game ended. Voices turned to murmurs, laughter breaking into smaller pockets of conversation. Lynx sat at the edge of the court, a towel draped over his shoulders, counting the crumpled bills in his hand.
He grinned, satisfied. Another night, another win. Another set of mouths shut by the kid who wasn't supposed to belong here.
He hummed softly, tapping his fingers against the folded money — a rhythm of victory and defiance.
Then a shadow fell across him.
"Your footwork on that last drive was inefficient," a calm voice said.
Lynx blinked, tilting his head up. The man standing before him didn't belong here — too neat, too composed, too Casa. The white shirt, the black tie, the sharp eyes that didn't wander like the others. Behind him stood another guy, more relaxed, smirking with his hands in his pockets.
Lynx's grin faded into curiosity. "You lost, boss? This isn't your kind of neighborhood."
Mico didn't flinch. "We're looking for players."
Lynx raised a brow, amusement flashing in his eyes. "Players? You mean gamblers? 'Cause you're in the right place."
"No," Mico said, stepping closer. "Basketball players. I'm forming a team under Casa de Imperium."
Lynx laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, good luck with that, boss. I'm too busy making money here. College ball doesn't pay, unless you're already famous."
Uno stepped forward, hands raised in mock peace. "We're not just talking about fame, bro. There's money too — sponsorships, allowances, tournament bonuses. Casa's got deep pockets."
Lynx smirked. "And what, you think that'll make me drop this?" He flicked the bills in his hand. "I've got something solid here. Easy money. No curfews."
Mico's gaze sharpened. "Temporary money."
Lynx's grin faltered for half a second. Mico continued, voice precise, cutting through the noise around them.
"You win tonight, maybe you eat well for a week. But what about the next? What about next year? You'll still be playing on cracked concrete, waiting for bets that might not come. What I'm offering you isn't a gamble. It's a system that works — if you're good enough to survive in it."
Lynx stood, the grin returning — sharper now, less friendly. "You sound like every other scout who's tried to recruit me." He turned, counting his bills again. "I've had promises before, Captain. Fancy uniforms, fancy words, but in the end, they all wanted the same thing — to use me. So thanks, but no thanks."
Uno opened his mouth, but Mico's hand raised slightly — stopping him.
Then Mico said, quietly, "What if I told you there's more than just money?"
Lynx didn't turn around. "Like what?"
"Like a ticket home."
That stopped him.
The ball he'd been bouncing stilled. The grin faded for real this time. He turned his head, just enough to meet Mico's eyes.
"Home?" Lynx echoed, voice lower now.
Mico stepped closer, the streetlight casting long shadows between them. "We'll play under Casa de Imperium's banner. International tournaments. National exposure. If we make it far enough, the final rounds will be held in the Philippines — Casa de Vi."
The name hit like a heartbeat. Casa de Vi. Manila. The air back home.
Lynx stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled — not mocking, but something softer. "You're dangerous. You know exactly what to say."
Mico didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Finally, Lynx grinned again, slower this time. "Alright. I'll play your game. But I'm not joining your system. You're joining mine."
Uno snorted. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
Mico extended his hand. Lynx stared at it — then took it.
The handshake was firm, electric — order meeting chaos, control meeting instinct.
The sound of the street faded behind them — laughter, chatter, the dull thud of basketballs echoing off cracked pavement. Casa de Imperium's main road was quiet at this hour, the golden lamps painting long shadows across the empty path.
Uno walked beside Mico, hands tucked in his pockets, still grinning.
"Well," he started, "that was smooth. You didn't even flinch when he said no. Then boom — you pulled the 'home' card like it was nothing."
Mico didn't respond immediately. His gaze was straight ahead, calm as ever, like he was already three steps ahead of the moment.
Uno tilted his head. "Seriously, though. How'd you know that would get him?"
Mico's tone was quiet but deliberate. "Because I paid attention."
Uno raised an eyebrow. "To what?"
"To his eyes."
Uno blinked. "His eyes?"
Mico nodded slightly. "Every time someone mentioned money, they lit up — but only for a second. When I said 'home,' they didn't light up. They stopped."
Uno frowned, curious. "You think he's homesick?"
Mico finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. "He's more than homesick. The place he's living in— it's one of the industrial quarters near East Dock, right?"
"Yeah," Uno said. "Place stinks of steel and diesel. Full of construction workers, loaders, factory hands."
"Exactly," Mico said. "Except I've been there before. That street court is in an area known for housing undocumented workers. People who came in on tourist visas and never left. People hiding from immigration checks."
Uno's grin faded. "You're saying Lynx is one of them?"
Mico's voice softened, almost reflective. "Look at his hands. Calloused, but not from tools. He's been surviving through bets, not jobs. No steady income, no papers, no safety net. Just talent."
Uno let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's why he's always playing street games. That's how he eats."
Mico nodded. "That's also why he's dangerous. He's desperate, but smart enough to hide it. That kind of hunger—" he looked up at the night sky, his words calm but heavy, "—you can't teach that in any academy."
Uno glanced at him, silent for a moment. "So what, you're recruiting undocumented players now?"
Mico gave a faint smirk. "No. I'm recruiting people who have something to lose. They fight harder."
Uno laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "You're insane, you know that?"
"Maybe," Mico said, almost amused. "But I'd rather have one Lynx than ten players who only play for pride."
They reached the dorm gate. The security light flickered as they stepped in, the muffled hum of the city behind them.
Uno stretched, cracking his neck. "Well, Captain, that's one down. How many more to go?"
"Three," Mico replied simply. "Three more pieces."
Uno smirked. "And you already have someone in mind, don't you?"
Mico didn't answer, just gave that half-smile Uno knew too well — the kind that meant he was already planning something.
The kind of smile that built dynasties.