Extra Basket-Chapter 166 - 153: Division Cup Vorpal vs Storm (7)

2:00 Minutes Left — 2nd Quarter

Score: Vorpal 36 – Roanoke 28

The arena pulsed like a heartbeat.

Every sneaker squeak echoed like thunder. Every breath from the crowd, held tight — waiting.

Vorpal had momentum now.

Lucas Graves was locked in, sliding into position on defense like he had played this matchup a thousand times before. Louie was barking calls, Jeremy circling like a hawk at the top of the key, and Jeremy held the paint with a grit born from redemption.

From the bench, Ethan Albarado stood slowly, arms crossed, sweat cooled across his brow as his sharp gaze swept across his teammates.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t tense.

He was calculating.

"(You’re holding them, Lucas. Louie. Jeremy. Coonie. Everyone...)

(I’m counting on you for the rest of this quarter... Because once we enter the third—)

(I’ll be the one stepping in.)"

....

Back on the court, Lucas stripped the ball clean from Raymond "Razor" Kim, pivoted hard, and launched a lead pass downcourt to Louie — who slammed it off the glass for two.

Crowd: "OOOOHHH!!!"

Score: 38 – 28.

Coach Halter finally stood up, jaw tightening.

On the bench, Kagetsu Renjiro cracked his knuckles once.

"...They’re not just winning," he murmured. "They’re waking up."

On the bench, Kagetsu Renjiro cracked his knuckles once. Calm... but something flickered behind those cold eyes.

"...They’re not just winning," he murmured. "They’re waking up."

Coach Halter finally stood, his voice booming over the crowd like a war drum.

"Dante Walker... Are you going to let them WALK on you—just ’cause your name’s Walker!?"

The court froze for half a breath.

All eyes turned to #21 — Dante.

His brows twitched.

His grip on the ball tightened.

He stared at Lucas Graves, eyes wild.

"I’m gonna WALK you into GRAVES!!"

He exploded.

Dante slammed the ball to the floor like a fuse being lit.

Lucas dropped into stance.

"(Stay low. Stay focused. Read him... don’t react.)"

Dante dribbled hard to the right then switched hands mid-air.

He spun off Lucas’s shoulder but Lucas mirrored it.

Dante went up for a fade—

But Lucas didn’t jump.

He slid under, hand straight up — legal contest.

CLANG!

The shot bounced off the back iron.

Brandon secured the rebound with a grunt, tossing it quickly to Aiden White, who was already streaking down the sideline.

The bench ROARED. ƒгeewebnovёl_com

Ayumi jumped. Coach Fred accidentally dropped his protein bar.

"GO GO GO!"

Aiden sprinted — eyes scanning.

Louie dashed to the corner.

Jeremy ran a decoy drag screen across the top.

Aiden whipped a pass to Lucas, who trailed.

One bounce.

Step-back.

Fade.

Nothing but net.

SWISH!

Score: Vorpal 40 – Roanoke 28

:49 seconds remaining in the 2nd Quarter

The gym ERUPTED.

Aiden screamed from half-court.

"HE COOKIN’ HIM!! GRAVES IS COOKIN’ HIM!"

Dante stared at the rim.

His breath heavy. Shoulders shaking.

And across from him

Lucas didn’t smirk.

Didn’t taunt.

He just turned to run back on defense.

Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

"(You said you’d walk me to my grave... But it’s you who’s running out of time.)"

Coach Halter’s voice rang again:

"Walker, if you’re done TALKING—how about you start SCORING!?"

:32 seconds left. Roanoke’s ball.

The storm was brewing.

And Ethan, standing at the scorer’s table, head bowed, whispered:

"One last test before the second half... Let’s see what else you’ve got, Roanoke."

The court buzzed with electricity.

The scoreboard glowed:

Vorpal 40 – Roanoke 28.

One last possession before the buzzer.

Coach Halter’s voice cut through the noise.

"Last possession — MOVE it like you mean it!"

The ball was inbounded.

Aaron Tate (#7) took it, eyes sharp, scanning the defense as he dribbled upcourt.

Shadows. Movement.

He saw the traps forming, defenders shading the passing lanes.

But he stayed steady.

...

On the wing, Dante Walker paced like a wolf—no longer raging, no longer wild.

Silent. Focused. Locked in.

Behind him, Raymond "Razor" Kim (#9) slipped behind Aiden White, barely brushing his shoulder.

A subtle screen from Elijah "Blessed Defense" Boone (#55) gave Razor just enough of an edge.

Tate saw the window—and passed.

:25 seconds.

Razor caught it on the move.

Louie Davas jumped the passing lane—close, nearly nicked it.

But Razor held his nerve.

He faked, stepped under Louie’s reach, and turned.

Suddenly Lucas Graves was there.

Sliding in from the wing.

Eyes locked.

Across the court, Dante drifted silently to the weak side corner, watching, waiting.

:19 seconds.

On the sideline, Coach Halter held up two fingers.

A signal.

Motion Cross.

Razor didn’t hesitate.

He bounced the ball into the high post Dante flashing into space.

Jeremy met him hard shoulder to chest but Dante absorbed the hit.

He didn’t force it.

Didn’t spin wild.

No anger. No shouting.

Just control.

Dante spun smoothly.

Pump-fake.

Jeremy didn’t bite.

And then without looking Dante flicked a pass over his shoulder.

Right into the shooting pocket of Carter "Clutch Kid" Voss (#3) at the top of the arc.

:08 seconds.

Lucas rotated fast, but not fast enough.

A half-step behind.

Clutch Kid rose.

Flick.

The shot flew—

Smooth. Confident. Balanced.

Perfect backspin.

Perfect arc.

Perfect silence.

SWISH.

Score: Vorpal 40 – Roanoke 31.

:04 seconds remaining.

Ayumi was already shouting:

"Push! Push! One more!"

Aiden White inbounded quickly to Louie Davas.

:03

Louie tore up the sideline like a bolt of lightning.

Crossed half-court.

Saw the clock ticking down.

:02

He didn’t wait.

From just past the logo—

He launched it.

A deep three.

A rising arc.

A comet shooting toward the rafters.

Every eye in the gym followed the ball.

The buzzer blared—

BUZZZZZZZZZZZ!

CLANG!

Off the back iron.

It bounced high...

Then down.

...

Halftime.

The players jogged off.

The scoreboard stood still.

But the tension?

Still rising.

..

The gym buzzed with nervous chatter.

Fans stood.

Benches rose.

The bleachers rippled with murmurs and shifting feet.

Vorpal led by 9.

But the energy in the air felt like it could crack.

And yet—

Coach Halter smiled.

His arms crossed, his voice low and steady.

"Not bad, Graves. Not bad, Albarado..."

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t scold.

He just watched.

He knew momentum was shifting.

On the Roanoke bench, Kagetsu Renjiro (#23) rose from his seat.

Slow. Calm. Precise.

He rolled his shoulders back, eyes locked on the court.

The storm behind his stillness began to stir.