CHAPTER 210: CHAPTER 197: FOREST VS VORPAL (22)

The arena held its breath.

Kael stopped.

Not to reset.

But to submit.

Because when Elijah Rainn moved—

Everything else became background.

Like a ripple through still water, players shifted. Forest didn’t need a signal. Elijah was the signal.

His walk was rhythm.

His gaze, command.

A pivot here. A cut there. Hands twitched. Shoulders aligned. It wasn’t basketball anymore—it was gravity.

Elijah didn’t dribble.

He didn’t sprint.

He simply stepped.

Into the paint.

Through chaos.

Around defenders who thought they were ahead of him until they weren’t.

He glided past Evan who reached out too late.

He leaned through Ryan’s help side, reading him like a cracked-open book.

Then, as Lucas rotated

Elijah looked him in the eye.

Just once.

Not with malice.

Not even with intensity.

Just a look that said:

"You finally reached my level."

And as Lucas set his stance

Elijah did not flinch.

"Now."

Kael didn’t think.

He obeyed.

Tobias curled off the wing brushing past Josh like a whisper of static. Just enough to tilt his shoulder, to break rhythm.

Ayden faked left.

Evan’s hips twitched.

Ayden exploded right.

A split-second of imbalance.

Three seconds.

That’s all Elijah Rainn needed.

But he didn’t race.

He floated.

Drifting like falling leaves through the spaces the others had opened. He didn’t ask for lanes—he just arrived where they would be.

Lucas turned.

And what he saw was not Elijah.

It was a shape. A geometric nightmare.

A perfect machine with a singular pulse.

Forest had become Elijah’s limbs.

His vision.

His breath.

Evan shouted, desperate:

"Ryan, switch—NOW!"

Too slow.

The gears were already turning.

The trap had sprung.

Elijah touched the ball for an instant.

Not to control it.

Just to redirect it.

To Kael.

Kael reversed—sharp, clean.

Ayden caught mid-air, twisted mid-flight—

And without hesitation—

Dished it.

Right back.

Lucas was there.

He was sure of it.

He was tracking.

He had positioned perfectly.

And yet—

Elijah was behind him.

Not by speed.

Not by force.

But by preemption.

He had moved before Lucas even decided to move.

Wide open.

Lucas lunged arms up

But Elijah didn’t shoot.

He passed.

To Tobias.

Because that was the play.

That was the story Elijah wanted to write.

Tobias rose.

High.

Pure.

Release.

Swish.

Forest: 78

Vorpal: 76

The arena broke.

Cheers. Gasping silence. A ripple of awe.

But none of that mattered.

Because on the bench—

Charlotte Graves stood up.

"That’s the kind of play my brother has to answer."

Lucas blinked.

Everything around him moved but his thoughts froze.

For the first time...

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t confused.

He was awakened.

Because what Elijah just did, it wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t overwhelming.

It wasn’t even about dominance.

It was about understanding.

It wasn’t talent.

He’s seen talent. He’s fought talent.

It wasn’t instinct.

Instinct is raw, reactive. This was composed.

No—

It was comprehension.

Elijah Rainn didn’t just play the game.

He became it.

He read the rhythm like a symphony.

Wove players like threads in a tapestry.

He knew where everyone would be before even they did.

Not because he was faster—

But because he listened.

To the court.

To the silence.

To every breath and pivot like it was scripture.

(No need.)

He took the ball from the referee and inbounded cleanly to Evan, then jogged ahead. Quiet. Focused. Watching.

Elijah Rainn stood at the top of the key. Calm. Centered.

He wasn’t just playing basketball anymore.

He was basketball.

But Lucas?

Lucas didn’t want to become the game.

He wanted to break it.

He wanted to rewrite it.

He wanted to be the one thing Elijah couldn’t fully prepare for.

The unpredictable.

Evan dribbled slowly, crossing half-court with patient steps.

Josh hovered off the wing, fingers twitching for a pass.

Ryan lingered by the high post, ready to screen or flash.

Brandon stood low, heavy like a statue under the rim.

And the ball?

It never stayed still.

Quick zip to Josh.

Bounce right to Lucas.

Pop pass back to Evan.

Fake drive.

Kick outside again.

Reversal. Movement. Hands like water.

It was messy.

Imperfect.

Alive.

On Forest’s side, Elijah’s eyes narrowed.

He began again.

Calculating.

Reading.

Positioning.

One glance here. A micro-shift there. Hands angling to close passing lanes before they opened.

But—

(No. Something’s... wrong.)

Lucas wasn’t moving like he should.

One moment a hard V-cut.

The next, he just stopped, like his controller disconnected.

Then bang, he accelerated diagonally, veering into an open seam that had no business existing.

It didn’t make sense.

Not by standard logic.

Not by predictive models.

Even Elijah faltered a half-step

(He’s not playing by a pattern...)

And Evan?

He looked right at Elijah.

Grinned.

"Catch up if you can."

This wasn’t structure.

It wasn’t a diagram on a clipboard.

It was rhythm.

Not born of repetition but of trust.

Of long nights in cracked gyms.

Of missed passes turned alley-oops the next week.

Of knowing not where your teammate is

but where he feels like going.

And Lucas

He led that rhythm.

He wasn’t mirroring anyone.

He was mixing everything he’d ever seen streetball, pro sets, Jason Williams, Pistol Pete, Iverson and letting it collide into a beautiful mess.

A move half-born from instinct.

Half-born from memory.

All of it felt wrong—until it worked.

He threw a no-look overhead pass to Ryan who hadn’t even cut yet.

But Ryan caught it in stride.

Laid it up.

Tie Game. 78 – 78.

The Vorpal bench erupted.

Charlotte leapt to her feet.

Louie’s jaw dropped.

Josh screamed, fists raised.

Even Ethan cracked a small smirk, whispering beneath his breath

"Now that’s chaos theory."

Elijah turned slightly, looking over his shoulder as he backpedaled.

Lucas met his gaze.

No words. Just a smirk and a shrug.

(Can you read a player who doesn’t know what he’s doing until the moment after he does it?)

Because that was Lucas now.

Not a playmaker.

Not a mimic.

Not a shadow.

A storm.

Unscoutable. Unpredictable. Undeniable.

.

...

..

Time: 0:52 | Score: 78 – 78

The gym pulsed with tension, every heartbeat echoing off the walls. The crowd held its breath—not out of fear, but reverence. They knew what they were watching now. Not just a game. A confrontation of ideologies. Of wills.

Ayden Liu, silent and unreadable, stood at the sideline with the ball in hand. He scanned once—then lobbed it in.

Elijah Rainn caught it with calm fingers.

No flinch. No nerves.

Only that quiet control.

Across from him now, standing like a lone sword in the storm—Lucas Graves.

Not mimicking.

Not copying.

Not borrowing.

Just... being.

He wasn’t trying to be the game anymore.

He was choosing to stand against it.

A different presence. A different rhythm.

The kind you couldn’t calculate.

(This isn’t about instinct anymore...) Lucas thought, locking eyes with Elijah.

(It’s about resolve.)

The court seemed to hold its breath.

Tobias "Stonebark" Grey rooted himself beneath the rim, sturdy and grounded like ancient

wood. The kind of anchor that didn’t move—you moved around him.

Ayden took his spot up top, still a phantom in the paint. Kael Moreno, the Trail Phantom himself, swept off a screen—his motion fluid, evasive.

Micah Vale, "The Quiet Flame," exhaled just once.

His eyes were locked on the left corner.

All five players.

In their positions.

But the center of the storm—

Was still Elijah.

Lucas dropped into his stance. Knees bent. Core tight. Eyes never blinking.

Elijah watched him.

Then, without smirk or sneer, spoke calmly.

"You trust them now."

Lucas didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

His stance was his answer.

Elijah dribbled once.

Then again.

The air grew still, like the world paused to listen.

Every sound faded beneath the rhythm of leather on hardwood.

Lucas blinked.

And Elijah saw it.

The faintest twitch in Brandon’s shoulder preparing for a help-side switch. Josh’s eyes shifting prematurely toward Kael’s movement. Ayden’s elbow just slightly turned outward on what should’ve been a straight screen.

Like a composer before the first note

Elijah saw it all.

(Your heart is strong, Lucas...)

(But hearts still beat within a system.)

Then he moved.

A slash left, gliding past Kael’s trail like a whisper through branches. The ball exchanged hands mid-motion, Micah caught and relayed in one fluid beat.

Swing pass to Tobias.

High post.

Lucas mirrored Elijah’s sprint toward the corner.

But it was a feint.

Tobias wasn’t passing. His wide frame shielded the truth.

He was the curtain.

And behind him—

Elijah slipped.

Invisible.

Micah arced wide, dragging Josh with him.

Ayden knifed low, setting a subtle flare.

Then the bounce.

From Ayden.

Back inside to Tobias.

Spin.

Power.

But not a shot.

A release.

No-look. Blind drop.

Because Elijah was already in the air.

Lucas jumped with him.

Two bodies in mid-air collision. Gravity had no say.

Chest to chest.

Forearm to forearm.

Time stilled.

Elijah’s shooting form bent awkward from the clash.

But he twisted midair—adjusting.

Off-hand.

Spinning.

A kiss off the glass.

The ball dropped through.

SWISH.

Forest: 80 – Vorpal: 78

The buzzer didn’t sound.

But the sound of hundreds gasping, rising, screaming—it filled the space instead.

On the Forest bench, the players exploded to their feet.

Kael shouted, a fist raised to the rafters.

Micah let out a rare grin—faint, but electric.

Tobias simply nodded once, slow, like an old oak proud of what it protected.

Back on the court, Elijah didn’t celebrate.

He just landed.

Turned.

And locked eyes with Lucas once again.

No words.

Only breath.

Only the next second ahead.

Because the game wasn’t done.

And neither were they.

To be continue