CHAPTER 256: CHAPTER 243: VORPAL VS HARBOR KINGS (10)

The truth burned hot and bitter:

Vorpal was dancing. Harbor was drowning.

But the Kings weren’t corpses yet. Not Jet. Not Dante. Not Malik. Not Brick. Not Skyline.

Jet slammed the ball into his palms on the inbound, his eyes fire and venom.

"We’re not dead. Not to them. Not to anybody."

He exploded upcourt, legs pumping, blur cutting left then right. Ethan shadowed him, but this time Jet didn’t hesitate. The Jet Step snapped—low dribble, violent cross, and before Ethan’s slide could cut him off, Jet split the seam.

He rocketed into the paint. Brandon stepped up, wall of muscle.

Jet didn’t flinch. He scooped low, twisting midair—flicking it off the glass around Brandon’s arm.

KISS. BUCKET.

The crowd erupted.

Vorpal 96 – Harbor 73.

Ethan’s jaw tightened. He jogged back, murmuring under his breath.

(Good answer. But it cost you more than it cost us.)

Louie inbounded fast. No pause, no break. He zipped it to Lucas, who turned and bolted before Harbor’s defense could breathe.

Clamps Terrence "Brick" met him head-on, arms wide, growling.

"Not through me, sunshine!"

Lucas’s grin gleamed. He dropped low, sold the hesitation, then flicked the ball behind his back into Louie’s path.

Louie caught, ripped baseline, and hurled a circus scoop under Brick’s arm.

The ball rolled off the rim—

until Brandon thundered in, slamming it down with two hands.

BOOM!

The rim rattled, the gym shook, Vorpal’s bench howled.

Vorpal 98 – Harbor 73.

Brandon didn’t roar. He didn’t flex. He just turned and jogged back, stone-faced, like it was his duty. Ryan laughed, jogging beside him.

"Damn, Big B—let a chickboy eat too, huh?"

Brandon ignored him, but the faintest smirk tugged his lip.

Harbor rushed back. Dante Morales caught it this time, frustration scalding his veins. He pulled up deep, feet barely set.

"DROP, DAMN IT!"

The three arced, swished clean.

The crowd gasped hope crackled alive.

Vorpal 98 – Harbor 76.

Ethan nodded once.

(That’s your fire, Dante. But one spark won’t outshine a blaze.)

He slowed the tempo. Crossed halfcourt deliberately, hand up. His system scanned.

Ryan flashed free off a Brandon screen, hand up, wide smile.

"Give it here, golden boy!"

But Ethan saw the angle. Lucas streaking weak side, Louie lifting high, baiting Jet.

One whip pass laser right into Lucas’s chest.

Lucas gathered, spun, rose for a midrange jumper Grant Hill’s smooth mechanics. The release: money.

SWISH!

Vorpal 100 – Harbor 76.

The triple digits broke something in the gym. Half the fans screamed ecstasy, the other half clutched their heads.

But Harbor didn’t collapse. Malik Carter seized the ball like a man possessed, slicing upcourt. He spun left, then right, twirling past Ryan, dazzling the crowd.

Ryan staggered, eyes wide.

"What the—yo, ref, that dude’s got a Beyblade in his shoes!"

Malik rose, twisting reverse under Brandon’s hand.

SCOOP. SCORE.

Vorpal 100 – Harbor 78.

The Harbor bench leapt, pounding their chests. Malik pointed, snarling.

"I ain’t done! I AIN’T DONE!"

Ethan just smirked.

(Good. Don’t be done. It makes our fire brighter.)

Louie dribbled up, pounding the ball, screaming,

"SHOWTIME, VORPAL!!"

He crossed midcourt, hit Ryan with a zip pass. Ryan, chickboy grin wide, caught, stepped back clean jumper from the wing.

SWISH!

He blew a kiss to the bleachers.

"For all my fans out there!"

Vorpal 102 – Harbor 78.

Harbor pushed again, desperate. Jet slashed inside, drew Brandon up, then lobbed high

Skyline detonated, soaring above the rim, hammering a lob home.

KRAK-BOOM!

The crowd exploded half in awe, half in defiance.

Vorpal 102 – Harbor 80.

The scoreboard glared. 1:00 left.

The war had not slowed, it had only sharpened.

And as both squads walked into those final sixty seconds of the third, sweat pouring, lungs burning, only one truth echoed in the packed gym:

Vorpal was on fire. But Harbor was still clawing, bleeding, burning, refusing to bow.

The fourth quarter wasn’t waiting. It was roaring toward them.

The scoreboard pulsed: 1:00. Vorpal 102 – Harbor 80.

The gym’s roar was thunder and heartbeat at once. Fans stomped, bleachers rattled like drums in a war march. Camera flashes lit the hardwood, catching sweat-drenched faces, clenched fists, eyes locked with desperate fire.

And in the middle of it all stood Ethan Albarado. His chest heaved with every breath, jersey clinging to his skin, but his gaze burned steady.

He whispered low, almost to himself.

"Enough watching. Time to move."

Lucas glanced at him, golden eyes catching the light. A grin curled on his lips.

"Finally. Don’t hold back too much, or I’ll leave you behind."

Ethan chuckled under his breath, the faintest smirk tugging.

"Fifty percent. That’s all I’ll give. More than that... they wouldn’t survive it."

Lucas’s grin widened, teeth flashing.

"Then I’ll match you. Watch me."

The inbound came. Jet streaked forward, fire in his veins. But this time, Ethan didn’t trail him, he cut him off, body snapping into position, his system running hotter than before.

(Jet Step incoming. Timing: 0.9 seconds. Counter: Jordan shuffle—baseline seal.)

Ethan’s foot slid perfectly. Jet slammed into a wall of air, blinked

and the ball vanished.

Lucas had stripped it clean, palms sticky, motion pure. He twirled it once, bouncing light on his toes.

"Sunshine don’t fade, Jet!" he shouted, sprinting.

The crowd surged. Lucas pushed hard, Jet at his back, Skyline flying in from the side.

Lucas didn’t panic. His eyes gleamed.

(Skyline’s block angle—high. Jet’s chase—low. Gap: right shoulder. Showtime.)

He leapt, legs splaying wide, body arching into a Dr. J glide. The ball floated, arm stretching, Skyline’s hand slicing late

Lucas kissed it off the glass, soft, silk, perfect.

BUCKET.

The gym shook.

Vorpal 104 – Harbor 80.

On the sideline, Ayumi nearly dropped her clipboard. Her voice cracked, trembling between awe and disbelief.

"That was... that was Julius Erving!"

Ryan slapped Brandon’s chest, cackling.

"Bro, sunshine just time-traveled! That’s illegal!"

Brandon only shook his head, a quiet smile forming.

Harbor roared back. Dante caught, no hesitation, pulling up deep from the arc.

But Ethan was there. One stride, one perfect contest.

(Elevation: too low. Wrist angle: flat. Result—clank.)

The shot banged off iron. Brandon secured the board, ripping it down with power, firing it instantly to Louie.

Louie sprinted, screaming like a man possessed.

"SYNCH UP, SUNSHINE! LET’S GO!"

Lucas flared wide, catching stride. But instead of shooting, he swung it back midair—behind the back, blind.

The ball hit Ethan’s hands.

The gym froze for half a second.

Ethan rose. His form Jordan’s. His release Kobe’s. His footwork his own.

The fadeaway tore through the air, Skyline’s arm just a shadow too late.

SWISH!

The sound was a dagger in Harbor’s chest.

Vorpal 106 – Harbor 80.

Ethan exhaled softly. His eyes, for the first time, glowed with sharp fire.

(Fifty percent... feels good. Controlled. Deadly.)

Lucas slapped his back, laughing, chest heaving.

"That’s what I’m talking about! You shine, I shine brighter! Let’s drown them in it!"

Ethan glanced at him, smirk deepening.

"Then keep up."

Harbor scrambled, desperate. Malik spun wild, trying to crack the wall. He weaved left, then right, diving into the lane—

But Ethan was there. Lucas shadowed. Together, they cut every angle, mirrored, twin phantoms of defense. Malik’s shot smacked off iron, rattling loose.

Brandon grabbed it, fired long to Lucas.

Lucas caught, two steps, then paused mid-stride. He looked back—smile burning.

He lobbed.

Ethan soared.

The gym erupted as Ethan hammered it through, a one-handed Skyline Slam thrown back at Harbor’s own big.

KRAK-BOOM!

The rim bent, the crowd lost its voice, Vorpal’s bench stormed the sideline.

Vorpal 108 – Harbor 80.

Skyline clenched his fists, jaw tight, sweat dripping like rain.

"He stole my dunk..."

Jet barked, teeth grit.

"Focus! Don’t crack now!"

But even their words rang hollow.

Vorpal pressed. Ethan stalked Jet full-court, eyes sharp. Lucas mirrored Dante, every twitch stolen, every rhythm absorbed. Louie barked like a street wolf, hounding the passing lanes.

Harbor tried one last push. Jet crossed snapped the Jet Step.

But Ethan’s hand was there, slapping it free.

Lucas caught it in rhythm. Showtime. He bolted.

Ethan trailed him. Two predators on the hunt.

Lucas crossed midcourt, Jet chasing, crowd on their feet. He slowed, bounced it once, then lofted.

Ethan rose behind him, catching mid-stride. But instead of dunking, Ethan flicked it back, alley-oop to Lucas.

Lucas caught reverse jam.

BOOM!

The roof nearly blew off. Fans jumped from the bleachers, voices lost in chaos.

Vorpal 110 – Harbor 80.

Ayumi’s hand trembled as she scribbled.

"They’re... syncing. Ethan at half-power, Lucas evolving every second. This isn’t just teamwork—it’s dominance. Absolute, unstoppable dominance."

The clock bled out.

Ten seconds.

Vorpal pressed one more time. Harbor barely crossed halfcourt, throwing a prayer three as the buzzer screamed.

CLANG.

The quarter ended.

The scoreboard glared like fire across the hardwood:

Vorpal 110 – Harbor 80.

Thirty points of daylight.

Vorpal’s bench swarmed their starters, laughter and fire blazing. Louie was pounding his chest. Ryan was winking at fans. Brandon stood tall, calm as a mountain.

And in the middle, shoulder to shoulder, Ethan and Lucas.

Two suns burning side by side.

Ethan whispered low, only for Lucas.

"Fourth quarter... I’ll raise it higher. You ready?"

Lucas’s golden eyes gleamed, grin feral.

"I was born ready. Let’s end them."

The horn faded, but the storm only grew louder.

And as the teams huddled for the final break, one truth was undeniable,

Harbor wasn’t just facing Vorpal anymore.

They were facing destiny.

To be continue