Extra Basket-Chapter 171 - 158: Division Cup Vorpal vs Storm (11)

Score: Vorpal 56 – Roanoke 48

10 minutes remain.

The buzzer echoed through the gym like a war drum.

The third quarter was done.

The crowd hummed with nerves and energy, some still on their feet, others holding their breath. But on the Vorpal bench, time seemed to pause for just a moment.

Ethan Albarado stood at the center of the huddle.

His forehead glistened with sweat, but his eyes were clear sharp, like glass about to cut through steel.

Around him, the team waited, breaths heavy from the battle they’d just fought.

Ethan looked at each of them. Then spoke.

"Fourth quarter. This is where we put everything on the line."

They leaned in.

"The starters will be me, Lucas, Evan, Brandon... and Louie."

There were no protests. Only silence.

But the question was written on all their faces.

Ayumi, from the side, blinked. "Why Louie?" she asked softly.

Ethan glanced at her, then looked toward Louie, who had his towel around his neck and was still catching his breath.

"Because we need a wild card."

"Louie’s style breaks patterns. He’s unpredictable. That’s exactly what we need to dismantle Roanoke’s defensive rhythm."

Ethan turned to Evan and Brandon.

"Evan, you’ll control the flow—slow or fast, it’s on your hands."

"Brandon, no unnecessary jumps. Box out every damn time. You’re the anchor."

Then to Lucas.

He paused.

"...You’ll be our balance."

Lucas gave him a nod.

"And me?" Louie asked, flashing a cocky grin.

Ethan didn’t hesitate.

"Be the storm behind the storm."

Louie blinked. Then grinned wider.

"Now that’s what I like to hear."

Ethan stepped back, glancing up at the scoreboard—then at Roanoke’s bench, where Kagetsu Renjiro was calmly stretching his legs.

He could feel it coming.

The last quarter.

The true battle.

(They’ll bring the thunder...)

(Then we’ll ride the wind straight through it.)

Ethan cracked his knuckles.

"Let’s finish this. No fear."

As Ethan named the starting five—himself, Lucas, Evan, Brandon, and Louie—the announcement hit like a ripple across the bench.

Ryan Taylor clenched his jaw.

He didn’t flinch or complain. He just nodded slowly.

(I gave it my all. But now it’s their turn. Finish the job.)

He reached for his water bottle, gulped hard, and muttered under his breath:

"Don’t let ’em push you around, Brandon. Lock that paint down."

Coonie Smith leaned back with a small smirk.

Not in disappointment but in satisfaction.

"Louie, you better make those wild-ass shots count, man."

Then he gave a subtle nod toward Ethan.

"That guy knows what he’s doing."

Kai Mendoza tapped his shoe nervously against the bench.

(So I’m out. That’s fine. I read the plan. We stretched them. We weakened them.)

He adjusted his sweatband and looked at Evan.

"It’s your tempo now, maestro. Don’t drop the baton."

Jeremy Park sat still, a towel draped around his neck, his chest rising and falling.

He didn’t say a word, but his eyes were alive.

They weren’t filled with regret only hope.

(So this is what it feels like... to trust someone else with your dream.)

He looked at Ethan walking toward the court.

"Do it for us... Captain."

Ayumi Brooke, clipboard in hand, stood near the bench, eyes scanning the floor—then the five boys lining up.

The weight in her chest was real.

Her hand trembled a bit... but then she remembered something:

Ethan’s words from earlier.

"This isn’t just basketball. It’s noise. Chaos. War. But we’ll be louder."

She smiled.

"Alright... Show them the real Vorpal."

Aiden White leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

He had played hard this game steady, reliable.

Now he watched his captain take the court with fire in his steps.

"You’ve carried us this far, Ethan..."

He let out a slow breath.

"...Now go all the way."

Josh Turner spun the ball once in his hands, resting it on his lap.

The shooter in him wanted to be on the floor—badly.

But the teammate in him?

He understood.

"Lucas. Louie. Don’t freeze up. Ethan’s trusting you both."

He stood, clapping once.

"Let’s go. Light it up."

And just like that, the court lit with the energy of five players.

But the bench?

They weren’t just watchers.

They were believers.

They had bled.

They had battled.

Now, they passed the torch.

This... was the final quarter.

...

Meanwhile Roanoke Storm Bench — Start of 4th Quarter

The scoreboard glowed ominously.

Vorpal 56 – Roanoke 46.

Ten minutes remained. Just ten.

The players of Roanoke Storm sat still—barely breathing, like wolves leashed too long.

Coach Halter stood with arms folded, eyes locked on the court. No clipboard. No instructions.

He didn’t need to say it.

They knew.

This was war now.

Dante Walker leaned forward, sweat still dripping from his temple, fists balled on his knees.

His teeth clenched.

Then—

"Tsk... win this, fuckers."

His voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp—like a blade drawn across stone.

And then there was Kagetsu Renjiro.

Standing now.

Silent.

His long fingers rolled his shorts as he stared down the returning Vorpal lineup.

He watched Ethan Albarado walk past the half-court line again.

Lucas.

Brandon.

Louie.

Evan.

A formation of fire.

Kagetsu’s jaw flexed once.

Then he muttered under his breath— freewebnσvel.cøm

"Let’s see if your wind still blows when the storm gets real."

He cracked his neck.

Coach Halter’s voice followed, low but heavy:

"No more testing. Shut the gate."

The buzzer sounded.

Fourth quarter.

This was it.

..

The buzzer echoed like a war drum.

Shoes squeaked. Breath fogged. Everything felt slower—heavier—like the air itself thickened.

Ethan Albarado stood at the top of the arc.

Lucas Graves, beside him, cracked his knuckles once.

Louie Davas bounced in place, fire in his eyes.

Brandon Young, the center, anchored the middle.

Evan Cooper, already reading the court, tapped the floor twice with his sneakers.

Across from them?

The Roanoke starters were back.

Kagetsu Renjiro lowered his stance, eyes locked on Ethan like a lion.

Marcus "Flash" Daniels twitched his fingers.

Tyrese Caldwell. Andre "Tank" Malone. Malik Okafor. All braced.

It was predator vs predator.

And Vorpal had the ball.

"RUN SET PHANTOM ARC!" Ethan shouted.

Evan inbounded. The ball snapped to Ethan’s chest.

Lucas sprinted right, dragging two defenders with him. A fake flare screen by Louie—reverse cut back in.

Ethan dribbled once.

Twice.

Behind-the-back.

"Switch! Switch!" Roanoke yelled.

Too late.

Brandon Young slammed a body screen into Tank Malone, flipping the lane open.

Ethan surged forward.

The defense collapsed.

"Help!" Marcus shouted—

But Ethan wasn’t going for the layup.

Mid-air.

He twisted his body.

Kick-out to Louie.

Corner three.

"WIDE!" shouted the commentator.

Louie raised up—

Shot.

Arc perfect.

Net: SWISH.

Score: Vorpal 59 – Roanoke 48.

The gym erupted.

Lucas smirked. "Welcome to the fourth."

Kagetsu narrowed his eyes.

"Let’s see if you can keep that up."

The storm wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

..

..

The ball was inbounded fast.

Marcus "Flash" Daniels caught it in stride, goggles gleaming under the gym lights. His dribble was a blur low, tight, threatening.

Vorpal’s defense was ready, Evan Cooper squared up, eyes sharp, crouched low.

But this wasn’t Flash’s play.

It was Kagetsu Renjiro’s.

As Flash crossed half-court, he flipped the ball back with a smooth behind-the-back pass.

Kagetsu caught it.

Still. Calm. Dead center at the top of the key.

Across from him, Lucas Graves slid into position.

No smile. No words.

Just that look locked and loaded.

...

Jamie (commentator):

"It’s the clash we’ve been waiting for, Coach Doyle! Copycat versus Prodigy. Graves versus Renjiro!"

Coach Doyle:

"Lucas better have something more than just memory, Jamie. Kagetsu lives in this storm."

..

Kagetsu dribbled once.

Then twice.

Then—

SNAP.

The move was almost invisible.

A short hop, left foot pivot — then a sharp jab fake, followed by a mid-air hesitation crossover. A blur of movement only his limbs could make look clean.

Lucas followed.

Half a step behind.

(Got it—he’s baiting. Shift your weight—watch his shoulder—)

Too late.

Kagetsu flowed into a Eurostep, cutting through the pocket between Lucas and Brandon.

Ethan, from the wing, shouted:

"SWITCH!"

Brandon lunged—

But Kagetsu had already launched himself.

One leg. Right hand.

BOOM.

A reverse dunk.

Net snapped. Rim rattled.

Score: Vorpal 59 – Roanoke 50.

Kagetsu landed light again, facing Lucas without a word.

His presence said it all.

(Copy all you want. This isn’t memory. This is instinct.)

Lucas breathed once.

Calm.

(Then I’ll copy that, too.)

As The crowd had gone quiet for half a second after Kagetsu’s reverse dunk — not in fear, but in awe. Then came the eruption. Cheers. Shouts. Gasps.

But Ethan Albarado didn’t flinch.

He leaned back slightly on the bench, towel draped across his neck, sweat still wet on his jawline.

His eyes never left the court.

Not the scoreboard.

Not the crowd.

Just Kagetsu.

He exhaled slowly.

(This isn’t about moves anymore. This is about message. And he’s sending one loud and clear.)

Across the court, Lucas Graves stood near the baseline, ball already in his hands for the inbound.

But he wasn’t moving yet.

He was staring.

Straight at Kagetsu Renjiro, who had already turned his back, walking to the other end of the floor.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed.

(You’re saying I can’t reach you, huh?)

Kagetsu hadn’t taunted him. Hadn’t smirked. Hadn’t flexed.

That silence was more insulting than words.

(That dunk... you weren’t just scoring. You were telling me to sit down.)

Lucas spun the ball once in his fingers.

He didn’t speak.

But his next thought was sharp and clean.

(Then let me show you I’m still standing.)

He passed it to Evan, then started sprinting down the sideline.

Ethan saw it.

And he grinned, just slightly.

(Yeah... Show him.)

..

Meanwhile on bench

The bench was still.

No one reached for water. No one adjusted their jerseys. No idle chatter.

All eyes were locked on the court.

Kagetsu’s dunk still echoed through the gym, even if the rim had finally stopped shaking.

Coonie Smith, towel over his head, muttered under his breath.

"This is... intense."

Beside him, Kai Mendoza leaned forward with elbows on his knees, eyes sharp.

"Yeah."

Ryan Taylor clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly.

"Kagetsu... damn prodigy."

The room felt heavier. Like a storm cloud had rolled over the bench.

Then Jeremy Park broke the tension, voice low but steady.

"Don’t worry. We still have a 9-point lead."

Josh Turner raised a brow, arms crossed.

"Yeah, but 9 points? That’s easy to wipe out if you blink too slow."

A short silence.

Then, Aiden White, who had been watching without blinking, spoke calmly.

"If their opponent wasn’t Ethan... maybe. But it is."

He glanced at the court, where Ethan Albarado stood near the arc, calling a quiet play, and

Lucas Graves sprinted to his spot like he had fire in his veins.

"Especially with Lucas. And Ethan... You know Ethan."

The group didn’t respond at first.

Then, from the end of the bench, Ayumi Brooke—still scribbling notes despite everything—nodded without looking up.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"A genius."

They all looked at her.

She finally raised her head, eyes fierce behind her glasses.

"Not just because he’s smart. Or talented. But because he never lets the court control him. He controls it. Every second."

Ethan and Lucas... had just made eye contact.

And that was the real start of the fourth quarter.

To be continue

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