CHAPTER 207: CHAPTER 194: FOREST VS VORPAL (19)

Fourth Quarter – 10:00 Remaining

The sound in the arena shifted.

It wasn’t cheering anymore.

It wasn’t noise.

It was something deeper.

A hum. A pulse.

A rumble—low and slow, as if the earth itself was murmuring beneath their shoes.

A living, breathing heartbeat of thousands.

And beneath that thunder, there was something else.

Respect.

Not the kind you earned from popularity.

Not applause.

This was the kind of reverence saved for the final act. The last breath.

The moment just before something eternal is born.

No mascots. No drums.

No flashing lights.

Just silence disguised as sound.

...

The scoreboard blinked: 65 – 65

Fourth quarter. Ten minutes.

On one side of the court—Forest.

Five players dressed in black and silver, standing with a poise that felt less like confidence and more like fate.

On the other side—Vorpal.

Hands on knees. Glistening with sweat. Breathing hard.

Alive.

No benches.

No words.

The coaches didn’t speak.

Even Coach Fred, always shouting—was quiet now.

He just stood with his arms crossed, head bowed slightly, as if praying to a god he didn’t believe in.

Ayumi clutched her clipboard like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Her eyes weren’t on the paper anymore.

They were on the court.

On them.

On him.

Lucas Graves stood still. Center of the storm.

Fingers twitching at his sides. Jaw clenched.

His jersey stuck to his skin. His heart thundered in his chest.

But his mind?

(It’s time.)

He exhaled once, slowly, dragging the air from his lungs as if forcing everything else out with it—fear, hesitation, fatigue.

Across from him, just past the halfcourt line, Elijah Rainn stood tall.

Still.

No hunch. No lean.

Just standing.

Like the eye of a hurricane. Calm. Watching. Waiting.

And then—

Ryan stepped up beside Lucas.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

"Let’s be remembered."

Lucas didn’t look at him right away.

He stared forward.

Into the face of the one player who had started to feel less like a rival and more like something carved out of prophecy.

And then, without shifting his gaze, he replied:

"We’re not leaving quietly."

Ryan smiled. It wasn’t cocky.

It was war paint on a tired face.

Evan, a few steps behind, rolled his neck side to side, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"No one dies a legend without surviving the last quarter."

He didn’t mean it as a metaphor.

He meant it like this game had become life itself.

...

Forest’s Side.

Elijah Rainn rolled his shoulders back once.

A slow, elegant motion.

Not to warm up.

But to remind his body—

That it was meant to cut.

Meant to dance.

Meant to destroy.

(This is it. The last curtain.)

Behind him, Micah stepped up quietly. Voice barely a whisper.

"Final act, huh."

Kael didn’t speak. He just tilted his head to the side until a soft crack echoed in the quiet. His eyes were sharp now. Focused.

Ayden took a deep breath, reaching his arms to the sky.

Stretching not just muscles—

But hope.

(No more silence. No more shadows. Let’s finish this... right.)

And Elijah?

He took one step forward.

Then another.

Smooth. Balanced. Measured.

Until he stood in the center circle.

Alone.

Waiting.

The hum of the court swelled again.

A shift in the air.

And then—

From across the hardwood—

Lucas Gray moved.

He walked like a man stepping through fire.

Slow. Steady. Unafraid.

He joined Elijah in the circle.

Two captains.

Two worlds.

Two storms.

They didn’t shake hands.

Didn’t nod.

They simply stood, facing each other, letting the world around them fade.

No plays.

No strategies.

Just presence.

The referee stepped forward, holding the ball in both hands.

But before he could whistle—

Elijah tilted his head.

His voice came soft. Almost gentle. But unmistakably real.

"Don’t hold back."

Lucas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

"I stopped holding back the moment I met you."

A silence passed between them.

Not of tension.

But of weight.

Of understanding.

Two artists about to paint in blood and brilliance.

Two warriors about to write their names into the concrete of this gym with sweat and resolve.

The ball hit the wood.

THUD.

The whistle blew.

Quarter Four began.

And with it—

Everything.

..

..

9:58 – Fourth Quarter.

Score: 65 – 65.

The buzzer had long faded, but something else remained in its place.

Not noise.

Not cheering.

But a low, vibrating hum.

Like thunder hiding beneath the concrete.

Like the world itself was holding its breath.

The pass came in to Elijah Rainn.

He didn’t rush to catch it.

Didn’t dart. Didn’t sprint.

He simply walked into it.

Like a conductor approaching his orchestra.

Measured. Balanced. Purposeful.

Lucas backed off not in retreat, but in readiness.

His sneakers scuffed lightly against the hardwood, a half-step drawn with patience.

(No... not yet.)

(Don’t bite. Don’t jump. That’s what he wants.)

He had studied Elijah long enough to know the rhythm.

The illusion of slowness.

The calm before the lightning.

You don’t pounce.

You wait.

The gym lights gleamed harder now.

Hot, almost blinding.

The floor seemed to shrink beneath the weight of expectations.

The play unfolded around Elijah like ripples in water.

Micah circled up from the left corner, brushing past a teammate with a smooth screen.

Ayden took the left wing and faked a drag, drawing Ryan’s eyes for just a split second.

Kael sliced baseline fast, threatening but still a feint.

It was noise.

All of it.

Noise meant to mask the truth.

Because Elijah never moved from the top of the key.

He dribbled slowly.

Eyes calm.

Breath steady.

(He’s not looking for an opening...) Lucas realized. (He’s building one.)

Like a sculptor chipping away marble—he was shaping the play around him.

Evan took the switch.

Ryan hedged, knees bent, eyes scanning.

And Lucas...

Lucas just watched.

He wasn’t reacting to Elijah’s body—he was listening to it.

Every breath. Every step. Every twitch of the fingers.

Then—

Flash.

Elijah jabbed left.

It was subtle.

A toe twitch, a shoulder dip.

But it worked.

Both Evan and Ryan twitched.

And that’s when Elijah vanished.

A right-hand cross—explosive.

Too fast.

Too fluid.

He blew by Evan like a storm through dry branches.

Ryan stepped in—late.

Too late.

Elijah floated past.

A Euro step—graceful and slow-motion in the heat of the moment.

Then, the fade.

He hung there, suspended in air like a question yet to be answered.

Lucas’s eyes locked on the release.

No wasted motion.

Just control.

The ball spun upward—

A perfect arc.

No rattling rim.

No bounce.

Just swish.

A net barely moved.

But everyone felt it.

67 – 65. Forest.

The crowd murmured, the tension curling tighter like a noose.

But Elijah didn’t celebrate.

He didn’t pump his fist.

Didn’t grin.

Didn’t nod.

He simply turned around, head high, sweat on his brow, and walked calmly back on defense.

Like it was routine.

Like the beauty of it hadn’t shaken the world.

But Lucas...

Lucas was still standing there.

At the free-throw line.

Watching him.

Eyes sharp.

Heart hammering.

(He’s showing me the future...)

(And daring me to change it.)

Lucas narrowed his eyes.

The court gleamed under the lights, but all he saw was him Elijah Rainn walking back without so much as a glance at the scoreboard. No fist pump. No grin. Just that unbothered calm again. Like scoring on them was as routine as breathing.

(He’s saying: "Keep up.")

Lucas didn’t look away.

(Fine. I will.)

He inhaled.

Slow. Deep.

The taste of sweat and rubber and adrenaline filled his chest.

The ball was already inbounded to Ryan, who scanned upcourt, waiting for movement.

Lucas moved.

No words to his team. No signals. Just trust.

He stepped past halfcourt, brushing his fingers once against his hip.

A signal only Ayumi caught.

She raised an eyebrow from the bench.

"He’s switching it," she muttered under her breath. "Calling it himself."

Ethan sat forward, eyes fixed on Lucas.

No hesitation in the pass. Ryan tossed it—clean, crisp.

Lucas caught.

And the air shifted again.

The crowd didn’t roar. They leaned.

A different kind of silence settled sharp. Electric.

Lucas dribbled once.

Twice.

Eyes on Elijah.

Elijah had turned to face him again, arms relaxed, feet perfectly set.

Two predators.

Lucas bounced low, then rose up slightly, body light on the balls of his feet.

He could hear his own heartbeat now.

(You want me to adapt? You got it.)

He didn’t need flashy.

Didn’t need chaos.

Just clarity.

Lucas leaned left.

Elijah’s eyes twitched—a microscopic movement.

That was all Lucas needed.

He spun right, sudden and sharp—but it wasn’t to shake Elijah.

No.

It was to bait him.

Elijah matched. Clean footwork. Step for step.

Perfect.

Lucas stopped.

Dead halt.

Then immediately snapped a behind-the-back pass—no look—straight to Evan cutting baseline.

Evan caught.

Up.

Contact—Kael flying in late.

Foul.

Whistle.

And—bucket.

67 – 67.

The crowd exhaled like they’d forgotten how to breathe.

Lucas didn’t react.

He just looked at Elijah again.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Elijah?

He tilted his head again, just barely.

And for the first time all game...

He grinned.

Not wide. Not arrogant.

Just a flicker.

Acknowledge.

(That’s it. That’s the pace now.)

Lucas adjusted his jersey and turned to the bench.

Raised two fingers. Dropped them once.

Ayumi stood instantly.

"Mirror Mode."

Coach Fred didn’t stop her.

He just crossed his arms.

"Let the captains decide."

The fourth quarter wasn’t just a battle now.

It was a test.

Not of power.

But of understanding.

Of who could read faster.

Adapt faster.

Survive longer.

And Lucas?

He was just getting started.

To be continue