Extra Basket-Chapter 168 - 155: Division Cup Vorpal vs Storm (9)

The ball kissed the floor with a heavy thunk-thunk as Kagetsu Renjiro brought it up the court.

Ethan stood ready, knees bent, eyes sharp, the sweat on his brow barely clinging on. Around them, time felt slower, like the court had bent into a spotlight just for the two of them.

And Kagetsu?

He grinned.

Just a tilt of the lips.

Just enough to make the storm feel real.

"So this is what you are when serious, Ethan Albarado..."

He stepped in and the whole gym tensed.

Kagetsu’s Thoughts:

(He’s skilled. Good reads, sharper timing. But...)

(Can you handle something that wasn’t learned — but born?)

"Kagetsu Style: Thunder Entry."

His foot slammed the hardwood. The floor boomed.

He didn’t move like a basketball player.

He moved like a force of nature.

..

Phase One: Shadow Flash

Kagetsu stood at the top of the arc, his body coiled like a spring.

In an instant, he exploded into motion.

His left leg kicked forward, his torso twisted, and his right shoulder dipped low, as if he was about to drive hard to the left.

It was perfect a full-body feint, smooth as silk.

Ethan’s eyes flickered.

(He’s going left—!)

But that moment of reaction was exactly what Kagetsu wanted.

It wasn’t real.

The Kagetsu Ethan had been watching vanished from his center view like smoke slipping through fingers.

..

Phase Two: Cross-Crash Lateral

Ethan turned—

Too slow.

Kagetsu had reappeared at a sharp 45-degree angle, slipping behind the edge of Ethan’s peripheral vision, right into the blind zone—the space no defender could react to in time.

His footwork was surgical. No wasted motion. No sound.

Ethan spun on his heel, trying to recover—

(Where—?!)

But Kagetsu was already past him.

...

Phase Three: Vertical Break

Then, with terrifying grace, Kagetsu launched.

Straight up.

Like thunder being born from the court itself.

Both knees tucked tight. Elbows back. A blur of black and silver rising fast.

His head nearly kissed the rim, and the ball followed a split-second later.

Ethan could only stare.

(I couldn’t track it—!!)

SLAM!

The backboard shook. The glass trembled violently. For a moment, even the net seemed stunned.

The sound of the dunk cracked like a gunshot, echoed by the eruption of the crowd.

Commentator Jamie’s Voice, nearly screaming through the mic:

"OH MY GOD—THAT’S THE HUMAN THUNDERCLAP FOR YOU!!"

Coach Doyle muttered low from the sidelines, almost in awe:

"That wasn’t a dunk. That was a judgment."

...

Score Update:

Vorpal – 44

Roanoke – 35

Time Left: 6:12 – 3rd Quarter

Kagetsu dropped from the rim with cat-like softness, landing light on his toes.

He didn’t strut. He didn’t smile.

He just looked directly at Ethan.

Unblinking. Eyes sharp. Words burning.

"You studied. You adapted."

He took one step forward. The air around him felt like crackling ozone.

"But I was born in this storm. This? This is where I live."

Ethan wiped the sweat from his forehead, chest still rising from the last play.

And then he smiled. Not out of arrogance.

But out of respect.

Out of challenge.

Kagetsu scoffed, jaw clenching as he muttered under his breath:

"You’re smiling, huh?"

"Arrogant bastard."

But Ethan didn’t reply.

Because the ball was already being inbounded.

..

Vorpal Possession

Evan Cooper slapped the leather and passed it to Ethan, who caught it near the wing.

He didn’t dribble immediately.

He walked into position.

Every step loud with intent.

Every movement echoing one thought:

(Let me show you my storm, too.)

Josh sprinted to the right corner.

Brandon sealed the block.

Ryan rotated high post.

It was a new set. A quiet one. A hunter’s trap.

And then—

BOOM.

Ethan exploded off the first step.

Kagetsu mirrored. Lightning-fast. Not biting, not jumping.

But Ethan wasn’t trying to score.

He was probing.

He pivoted.

Snapped a behind-the-back pass to Evan at the top.

Marcus "Flash" Daniels flew in, but Evan faked the three, drove left—then dumped a perfect no-look back to Ethan.

Ethan had repositioned.

Wide-open mid-range.

But he didn’t shoot.

He drove.

Commentator Jamie:

"Wait—Ethan’s not pulling up—he’s going inside! THROUGH the gap!"

Coach Doyle:

"He’s reading the collapse — he’s baiting the rim protection!"

..

Ethan’s Thoughts:

(Come on, big guy. Jump at me.)

Malik Okafor rose to meet him — a wall of arms and timing.

Ethan twisted mid-air—

—and passed.

Threaded it backwards. Clean.

Right into Josh Turner’s pocket in the left corner.

Josh didn’t blink.

"Bang time."

SWISH.

Three.

Score: Vorpal 47 – Roanoke 35

5:48 – 3rd Quarter

The crowd erupted, but Ethan?

He didn’t even turn.

He walked past Kagetsu.

Still smiling.

And this time?

Kagetsu’s eye twitched.

....

Bench Reaction

Louie: "YEEEEAAAH!! MASTER ETHAN!! THE BASKETBALL NINJA STRIKES!!"

Coonie: "Sit down before I glue your mouth shut, bro."

Lucas, arms crossed, just smiled calmly.

(That’s your storm, huh, Ethan...?)

(Looks like you were born in it, too.)

....

Score: Vorpal 47 – Roanoke 35

3rd Quarter – 5:48 Remaining

The gym was alive.

But as the cheers started to settle, and the inbound ball touched Marcus Daniels’ palms, the pressure shifted like a storm cloud repositioning itself.

Because Kagetsu Renjiro...

Was done playing nice.

Commentator Jamie:

"And now the Storm has no choice but to wake up for real."

Coach Doyle:

"Watch #23 closely. Kagetsu’s dropping the weights."

Marcus handed off.

And there he was Kagetsu.

Still. Calm. Arms relaxed.

But Ethan felt it.

That ripple in the air.

That shift.

(He’s not holding back anymore...)

The ball slapped against hardwood as Kagetsu dribbled into position, facing Ethan once more.

His stance?

novelbuddy-cσ๓

Balanced. Deadly.

The mark of a warrior with over 10,000 hours etched into his footwork.

Kagetsu’s Thoughts:

(You’ve got style, Ethan. You’ve got instincts. You even have... those eyes.)

(But you don’t have this.)

He moved.

And suddenly the court wasn’t hardwood.

It was a river and Kagetsu flowed through it like thunder riding water.

Elite crossover.

Head fake.

Inside drop-step.

Ethan read it. Reacted.

"Lockdown Defense — activate."

His body slid instinctively into Kagetsu’s path, cutting off the drive—

—but Kagetsu didn’t finish.

He faked again.

Spun.

Floated.

Mid-air reverse layup.

SWISH.

Score: 47–37

Ethan gritted his teeth.

That wasn’t just talent.

That was experience. The cold, silent knowledge that comes from thousands of real games... not simulations.

(He’s better. Right now, he’s better.)

But Ethan refused to fall back.

....

Next Possession – Vorpal

He called for the ball.

Kai passed it.

Ethan crossed halfcourt, sweat dripping down his jawline. His breath, short. His calves, tight.

Still, he activated:

Elite Crossover Dribble (Pro Level)

Magic Johnson Passing Vision (Advanced)

Sharpshooter Focus (Pro)

He danced between two defenders.

Cut inside.

Pulled for a fadeaway — channeling the form...

Kobe Fadeaway — Activate.

Release.

CLANG.

Too strong. It rimmed out.

Malik Okafor grabbed the rebound.

Commentator Jamie:

"That looked like a pro move—but he’s gassed."

Coach Doyle:

"He’s running a pro’s engine on a middle schooler’s stamina."

Roanoke Fast Break

They weren’t stopping.

Marcus to Tyrese to Kagetsu.

Three steps.

Lift.

Ethan slid in front too late.

Kagetsu rose high.

BOOM.

Two-handed tomahawk jam.

SCORE: 47–39

Ayumi (on the sideline):

"Ethan’s tiring..."

Lucas’s Thoughts:

(He’s still going. Even though every step hurts, he’s still standing between us and defeat.)

(But his body isn’t built like mine. He trained—but he wasn’t always training like I did"

Ethan stumbled back.

Hands on his knees.

(I can’t... rely on the skills forever. Not without paying the price.)

His stamina bar in the system flashed:

[WARNING – Physical Fatigue Rising: 78%]

Still, he stood straight.

Smiled.

(Not yet. This is my storm too.)

But Kagetsu?

He just rolled his shoulder once, calm.

"You’ve got the skills. You like basketball that much means you’ve got... heart."

His voice sharpened.

"But you’re not there yet."

Ethan’s jaw clenched.

His muscles screamed.

But his fire didn’t waver.

(Not yet. This is my storm too.)

He bit down hard, tasting sweat and frustration on his lips.

(No... this quarter... I wanted to go loose. I wanted to play without overthinking. Without measuring. Just heart and instinct. Just me.)

His fists trembled slightly at his sides.

(But this is my limit... for now.)

Kagetsu wasn’t just a player.

He was a veteran of these moments.

Every bounce, every pivot, every read — all born from real fights, not data.

(Tsk... so this is the difference...)

(The difference between someone who trained late... and someone who’s lived inside the game since birth.)

Ayumi gripped her clipboard tighter from the bench, eyes wide with worry.

Louie leaned forward.

"Come on, Ethan... hang in there."

Kai whispered, his voice low:

"Is he burning too fast?"

Lucas didn’t say a word.

He just watched.

Because he knew.

This wasn’t about talent.

It wasn’t even about Kagetsu.

It was about Ethan Albarado.

And the moment he realized:

He still had further to go.

The whistle blew.

Timeout: Vorpal.

The buzzer rang like a lifeline.

Coach Fred stood up, clearly scrambling, the gum in his mouth snapping with every nervous chew. He glanced around like he was searching for a missing script.

But Ethan?

Ethan Albarado didn’t wait for permission.

He walked toward the bench not limping, not staggering, but with a weight in his steps that made the hardwood creak. His breath hitched like steam from a cracked engine. His jersey clung to him, soaked with effort.

His body was screaming.

But his eyes?

They were steel.

He passed Coach Fred without a glance, stopping near the sideline and facing his team.

He looked at Lucas Graves still standing eyes full of the storm Ethan had once tried to hold back.

Then to Ayumi, who clutched her clipboard, lips parted, eyes locked on him like she wanted to scream but couldn’t.

And then—he spoke. Calm. Measured.

"...Next quarter... I’ll analyze again. Play smart."

He sat down.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He wiped sweat from his brow.

Then leaned forward, elbows on knees and looked straight toward the court where Kagetsu still stood, calm as a thundercloud.

A smirk pulled at the edge of Ethan’s mouth.

"But for now..." he exhaled,

"...let my storm bring the vortex inside the court."

For a brief moment, silence blanketed the Vorpal bench.

Not from confusion.

But from understanding.

From belief.

Louie Gee Davas rose first, popping his knuckles with a cocky grin that didn’t quite hide the fire in his chest.

"Heh... Go, Captain. Don’t worry about the score... Just do what you want."

Ethan looked at him, eyes narrowing—not with annoyance, but focus.

Then came Lucas.

He didn’t say much at first.

Just walked over slowly, sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished wood.

He stopped right in front of Ethan.

His eyes? Clear. Calm. Unshakable.

He raised his right fist—

—and tapped it lightly against Ethan’s chest, just over his heart.

"We play the game because we love basketball."

"Of course we want to win too..."

"...but do what your heart tells you to, Ethan."

There was no pressure in his words.

No strategy. No command.

Only trust.

The kind that had been built in silence. In drills. In losses. In that sacred bond only a team forged through battle could understand.

Ethan’s smirk turned into something quieter.

Warmer.

He didn’t respond right away.

Just stared at Lucas’s hand over his chest.

Then—

He bumped it with his own fist.

A quiet thump.

And in that single sound?

A vow.

To be continue

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