CHAPTER 212: CHAPTER 199: THE EYE THAT OPENS

The quiet hum of machines filled the sterile room.

Outside, the dawn crept slowly across the horizon, bleeding soft gold into the pale walls.

Inside stillness. Until now.

Ethan Albarado lay unconscious. His frame, once the anchor of a team’s heartbeat, now tangled in IV lines and wrapped in bandages. A heart monitor beeped rhythmically, a steady reminder he was still here.

Barely.

His world had been quiet.

Dark.

A void between existence and disappearance.

Until—

[BASKETBALL SYSTEM: LUCID TRAINING COMPLETE]

[Status Update: Ethan Albarado – Awakening Phase Initiated]

[Mental Synchronization: 100%]

[Welcome back, Player.]

A soft ding echoed—not in the room, but within his mind.

His fingers twitched.

A sudden breath hitched in his throat.

Eyelids fluttered.

Then, slowly—

Ethan Albarado opened his eyes.

Light stabbed into his vision, sharp and overwhelming.

But he didn’t panic.

Not when the familiar, translucent blue glow hovered above him—like a ghost only he could see.

[NEW PERK UNLOCKED: "Lucid Court"]

[Your mind has reached mastery in dream-clarity. Mental simulations now affect physical skill.]

[Training Efficiency: +300%]

Ethan blinked once.

His lips parted... a whisper of air escaping.

(...They won... Didn’t they?)

Ethan blinked up at the glowing interface.

A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t move.

But deep within him, something stirred.

A fire that had been nearly extinguished... rekindled.

Because now he knew.

They didn’t just win.

They remembered.

And they honored him.

[You are no longer just a Strategist.]

[You are now: Visionary.]

[Welcome to the next phase.]

[Basketball System: Unlocked Potential Path]

Outside the hospital room, a nurse was quietly scribbling notes onto a patient chart.

Routine. Silent. Just another hour before shift change.

Then—

A flicker.

She turned.

Eyes widened.

Her pen slipped from her fingers.

Through the glass, she saw it—

Ethan Albarado’s eyes... open.

Alive.

Focused.

Burning with something unshakable.

"D-Doctor!" she gasped, stumbling backward before sprinting toward the hallway. "He’s awake!"

Chaos followed.

Doctors. Nurses. Feet pounding tile. Machines beeping faster. Words thrown like lifelines:

"Vitals!"

"Check the neural response!"

But inside the room...

Ethan didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

He stared straight through the chaos—locked on the translucent interface floating above him.

As if the entire world could wait.

His lips parted.

Dry.

Weak.

But one word made it out.

A whisper, yet sharper than a scream.

"...Vorpal..."

...

The room was dimly lit, cast in long shadows by flickering overhead bulbs. A long obsidian table stretched through the center of the chamber, around which the group sat — or loomed.

The Bald Old Man stood at the head of the table, veins throbbing along his shaved skull, fist slamming against the metal surface.

"You killed Will!" he barked, his voice echoing down the cold stone walls.

The Masked Man sat lazily on the edge of the table, platinum-blonde hair falling slightly over his eyes — his mask discarded, revealing a youthful yet dangerous face.

He looked unbothered.

"He tried to kill Ethan."

A pause.

"I told all of you. Don’t touch him."

His tone was calm. Too calm.

Deadly calm.

Madame Vena narrowed her eyes, setting her tablet down with a sharp tap.

"He was valuable. A scout, an infiltrator. And now? A corpse."

"He was sloppy." the Masked Man replied.

"If he wasn’t, Ethan wouldn’t be in a coma."

Drew — the man in the maroon suit — leaned forward, sneering.

"Tch. So what now, Romeo? You in love with the kid?"

He laughed, wild and cruel.

But his laugh stopped cold when the Masked Man looked at him.

Just looked.

And for a heartbeat, the temperature in the room dropped.

Ron, the man in the gray blazer, spoke next. His tone calm and calculated.

"...Emotions like that get people killed. You’re unstable."

"No," the Masked Man replied.

Before anyone could respond, the woman with the tablet — one of Vena’s assistants — raised her voice, urgency cracking through her normally composed demeanor.

"Sir," she said, turning to the Bald Old Man. "We have a problem."

She turned the tablet toward them a map blinking red.

"There’s a high probability Romanov Graves will discover this location soon."

A pause.

"Because of... this girl."

She tapped on the screen.

A surveillance image flickered into view:

A teenage girl. Sharp eyes. Hoodie. Unassuming. Dangerous.

Affiliation: Romanov’s inner circle. Asian Basketball Company Intelligence Division.

The room went still.

Then—

Madame Vena: "So the old ghost is still watching the board..."

Drew grinned, cracking his knuckles: "Then let’s make this a real game."

But the Bald Old Man simply closed his eyes.

And whispered:

"If Romanov moves... then so do we."

.....

Meanwhile — Romanov Graves’ Office, BAC Headquarters

Mouth of Wilson, Virginia

The wide glass windows bathed the room in amber light, the last breath of day casting long shadows across polished floors. From her elevated perch, Romanov Graves stood unmoving—arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon where city lights began to flicker alive.

Behind her, the championship rings gleamed on the edge of her desk—silent reminders of battles won, legacy forged, and promises made long ago.

Behind her, Mira Lang worked in silence. A secured tablet in her hands blinked with intercepted data—encrypted footage, financial trails buried in crypto layers, hacked CCTV of bloodied courts, and murmurs from the darkest corners of the underground basketball scene.

Romanov’s voice cut through the silence sharp, commanding.

"So this is the clue we got?"

Mira didn’t flinch.

"Yes, ma’am." Her tone was measured. "They call themselves Royal. They pay for the games. They bet on them. Watch them. All underground. Behind clean sponsors, charity fronts, and untraceable shell firms."

Romanov’s gaze didn’t waver.

"And Ethan’s attack?"

Mira hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the screen. "We can’t confirm yet. But... the timing. The shadows that move when Vorpal plays. The patterns are there. They’re careful—ghosts. But I’m piecing together timestamp skips, data leaks, unexplainable hops in server locations. Every time the Vorpal team surfaces... something follows."

Romanov turned slowly.

Her shadow fell across her desk.

She reached down and picked up a framed photo—her, Lucas, and Charlotte, all grins and medals from a youth tournament long past. The glass had a faint crack in the corner.

She held it a second longer... then set it down gently.

And when she spoke again, her voice was frost over fire.

"They dared touch my son’s team."

She faced Mira, her presence suffocating.

"Activate Protocol Six."

Mira blinked. "Protocol Six?"

"Bring Adam in from Japan. Get me a line to the North Division Leader. I want eyes on every court. Every game. Every player. And trace every single person who has ever bet on Vorpal. I want names, faces, IP addresses, crypto logs, burner phones. I want it all."

Mira’s spine straightened. "Even with Romanov-level clearance?"

Romanov stepped forward, placing both hands on her desk.

"All of it. I bled to build this empire. I made this league clean. If Royal wants to turn my court into a battlefield—"

Her eyes flashed.

"—then I’ll give them a war they’ll never forget."

She leaned back into her chair, fingers steepled, a general before the storm.

"This isn’t about money anymore."

Her voice dropped.

"This is war. And it’s personal."

...

Meanwhile — Back at the Hospital

The door creaked open slowly, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the sterile air.

Lucas Graves stepped in first.

His eyes were rimmed red, shoulders tense, his breath shallow as if bracing for another heartbreak but there was light in his eyes now. Relief. Hope. And guilt, still knotted somewhere behind his ribs.

Behind him, Charlotte Graves kept a hand on his shoulder not pushing, just grounding. Her expression was composed, but her fingers trembled slightly against the fabric of Lucas’ jacket. She, too, had nearly broken.

One by one, the rest of the Vorpal Basket team entered, forming a quiet half-circle around the bed. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to awe. The monitors beeped steadily, and the IV dripped rhythmically beside Ethan’s arm... but all that paled against the sight of his half-lidded, glowing eyes.

Louie Gee Davas burst forward, practically leaping toward the bed. His shoes squeaked on the tile as he skidded to a stop, hands balled into tight fists, eyes wide and wet.

"YOU’RE AWAKE!!!" he cried, voice cracking mid-shout. His wrist shot up to rub away a tear, grinning with all the energy of a kid who had refused to believe the worst. "I knew it! I knew you’d be okay!"

(He’s really back... he’s really back... I didn’t lose him... I didn’t lose my mentor...)

By the window, Elle Albarado stood silently.

She hadn’t moved much in the last few hours. She still wore her cardigan from work. Her school ID badge — Elle Albarado – Kindergarten Faculty — hung slightly crooked. Her hands clutched a paper cup of long-cold coffee.

But now... she exhaled, eyes fixed on her son, her entire body finally loosening after hours of vigil.

Ethan’s head turned slowly on the pillow. His eyes, still glowing faintly from the interface of the basketball system, flickered. The text that had hovered in the air just moments ago had disappeared, but its weight still lingered in his gaze.

(...So that was Lucid Training... Did I really... finish it?)

He scanned the room.

His teammates.

His mother.

Charlotte.

And then—

His eyes locked with Lucas.

There was a pause.

Not long.

But enough for memories to flash between them — the blood, the scream, the fall... the helpless look on Lucas’ face as he cradled Ethan’s body.

Lucas took a step forward. His voice cracked, barely audible.

"Ethan..."

Another beat.

Ethan blinked once, then slowly, one corner of his mouth curled upward.

The cocky, familiar smirk that had been missing from their world for too long returned.

"Yow."

To be continue