Extra Basket-Chapter 172 - 159: Division Cup Vorpal vs Storm (12)

Time: 6:40 – 4th Quarter

Score: Vorpal 59 – Roanoke 50

The ball left Evan Cooper’s fingertips and zipped like a line drive into Lucas’s chest near the right wing.

Lucas Graves caught it mid-stride, his body already coiled.

Across from him, Kagetsu Renjiro waited.

The air between them bent with tension.

Like a bowstring drawn tight.

Commentator Jamie leaned in toward his mic, breath caught.

"We’re about to see it again. Graves vs Kagetsu — and this time, no screens. No help."

Coach Doyle muttered under his breath.

"Don’t blink, Jamie. He’s gonna try it."

Kagetsu shifted his weight slightly.

One heel raised.

Eyes calm.

Hands loose.

(Show me, Copycat.)

But Lucas wasn’t flustered.

He bounced once on the balls of his feet, then exhaled deeply.

His fingers relaxed on the ball then curled again.

(You looked down on me earlier. That was your mistake.)

Dribble.

One hard pound to the right.

Kagetsu slid with him, anticipating the cross.

Dribble — crossover. Behind-the-back. Snatch back.

Lucas’s footwork blurred.

a mimicry of Kagetsu’s tempo from earlier...

...but faster.

Kagetsu’s eyes widened—just a fraction.

Lucas stepped forward.

Pump-fake — Kagetsu didn’t bite.

But that was part of the plan.

Lucas planted both feet.

then twisted his hips mid-air.

"Kobe Fadeaway—Enhanced Form."

Release.

The ball sailed high.

Too high?

No.

Swish.

Nothing but net.

....

Jamie (Commentator):

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Lucas Graves—fades away like a phantom and buries it! That’s not a copy... that’s a statement!"

..

Lucas landed soft on his toes, knees bent slightly.

His hand hung in the air from the follow-through.

Then he dropped it slowly.

Across from him, Kagetsu stood frozen eyes narrowed, chest rising.

For the first time that night...

he blinked.

Then, he smiled.

"So you really recorded it all," he murmured under his breath.

Lucas’s thought pierced the moment:

(I don’t need to be you... I just need to be better than who I was.)

From the sideline, Ethan watched silently, his arms crossed.

The crowd’s roar faded into the background for him.

He wasn’t smiling.

Just watching.

Calculating.

(That shot... it was perfect. He didn’t just copy Kagetsu’s form. He added control, timing... his own rhythm. That’s not mimicry anymore.)

(That’s evolution.)

The scoreboard clicked.

Vorpal 61 — Roanoke 50

6:38 left in the game.

Kagetsu turned as Roanoke prepared for the inbound.

He spoke only to himself.

Roanoke’s next offensive possession

...

Roanoke inbounded.

Marcus "Flash" Daniels caught the pass and took off —

a streak of movement, shoes squealing like lightning.

Evan Cooper slid in front, low stance, eyes locked.

But Marcus didn’t hesitate.

Flash Step.

One rapid jab step.

A flick of his shoulder.

Then he was gone, left Evan staggering half a beat behind.

Commentator Jamie gasped:

"Flash breaks through the top! Clean step on Evan Cooper!"

Ethan’s eyes narrowed from the weak-side help zone.

(He’s not looking to finish. He’s looking to collapse the defense—)

He was right.

Flash whipped a no-look pass to Tyrese Caldwell at the left wing.

Caldwell rose

shot fake.

Louie Davas bit, flew past him.

Tyrese dribbled once floated it to the baseline.

Kagetsu.

The ball touched his hands like it belonged there.

He pivoted.

One jab.

A quick shift of the shoulder to fake a drive.

But he didn’t drive.

He turned.

Back to the hoop.

One... two...

Then fadeaway smooth, clean, quiet.

Swish.

The crowd stirred, a wave of murmurs echoing behind the net.

Vorpal 61 — Roanoke 52

On the other side of the court, Ethan held his breath.

Not out of fear.

Out of analysis.

(That was clean. He’s testing angles now. Creating shots. That wasn’t power — that was artistry.)

(He’s saying: I can shoot like Lucas too.)

He looked at his teammates:

Lucas, catching his breath, sweat sliding down his jaw.

Brandon, clenching his fists, stepping to inbound.

Evan, still chewing the misstep.

Louie, frustrated, grinding his teeth.

Himself... quiet but burning inside.

(He’s pushing us toward something. That wasn’t about the points.)

(That was a message. A reply to Lucas’s fadeaway. A balance strike.)

Ethan clenched his jaw.

(We have to widen the gap again before he starts speeding up their rhythm. If he turns this into a storm...)

(We’ll get drowned.)

He raised his hand.

"Motion Play Alpha. Lucas — corner off the double screen."

Lucas glanced at him once—

nodded.

The battle had only just begun.

...

Meanwhile Kagetsu side

The moment the ball whispered through the net, Kagetsu didn’t celebrate. free𝑤ebnovel.com

He didn’t flex.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t gloat.

He just... stood there.

Breathing.

Watching Lucas walk up the floor.

(So that’s the shot you gave me. That fadeaway...)

(I gave you a storm. You gave me silence. I roared — and you answered by vanishing into air.)

Kagetsu clenched and unclenched his fists slowly.

His breath was measured, but inside?

The thunder rumbled.

(I hate that look in your eyes, Graves. Like you’re not fighting me — but challenging something inside yourself.)

He glanced toward Ethan.

The boy was already signaling new movement. Calm. Surgical.

No emotion.

(And you... Ethan Albarado. You’re the one who changed all this. If this was any other game, it would’ve ended by now.)

(But this isn’t basketball anymore... this is a philosophy class disguised as war.)

Kagetsu turned his head slightly toward his bench.

Dante? Still seething.

Coach Halter? Calm, like always.

But Kagetsu could feel it.

This was not the same Vorpal team they scouted.

This wasn’t even the same Lucas Graves he looked down on in the first quarter.

(He’s improving... mid-game. He’s adapting like it’s breathing.)

(I’m not just fighting a player — I’m fighting a mirror that refuses to break.)

Kagetsu bounced once on the balls of his feet.

Not to test his legs.

But to remind himself—

This isn’t over.

He looked at Lucas and whispered under his breath.

"I’m not letting you take this game."

Then, softly barely audible:

"Even if I have to burn my storm dry to stop you."

...

Possession: Vorpal Basket

The crowd was roaring, but Ethan’s world was quiet.

He saw everything.

The defense was still recovering from their previous sprint.

Kagetsu’s fadeaway, though clean, had forced them into a high-emotion state.

That meant fatigue even microseconds was leaking into their rotations.

(This rhythm... I get it now. The tempo’s not theirs anymore.)

(It’s ours.)

He raised one hand in the air as he dribbled up.

One signal.

Motion Flow – Set C.

Lucas darted off a stagger screen.

Louie dragged his defender wide to the corner.

Brandon set up at the high post.

The defense shuffled overcompensating for Lucas.

They expected another fadeaway.

Ethan smiled slightly.

(Wrong. This isn’t about highlight reels anymore. This is tempo murder.)

He jab-stepped left, then exploded right.

The defender bit.

Behind-the-back crossover.

Low sweep dribble.

He split between two — clean.

Commentator Jamie shouted:

"HE’S THROUGH! ALBARADO SLIPS THROUGH THE GAP AGAIN!"

Coach Doyle grunted:

"No wasted motion. He’s not just moving — he’s composing."

Ethan reached the paint Malik Okafor stepped up.

But Ethan didn’t go for the shot.

"Evan!"

A bullet pass behind the back, no look.

Right into Evan Cooper hands at the elbow.

Caldwell was late on the closeout.

Josh rose, shoulders square

release clean.

Swish.

Vorpal 63 – Roanoke 52

The gym snapped again like a wire pulled too tight.

Ethan turned as the crowd roared.

But he wasn’t distracted.

He was already scanning again.

(If I’m done analyzing their play...)

(It’ll be over for them.)

He wiped sweat from his brow.

And smiled.

..

Roanoke inbounded.

But it wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t relaxed.

There was a pressure now — not just from the scoreboard,

but from the rhythm itself.

Ethan had stolen it. And everyone felt it.

Marcus Daniels dribbled up the court, his goggles fogged slightly from sweat.

Coach Halter stood now. Silent. Watching. Measuring.

Kagetsu called for the ball.

Daniels passed it to the wing —

Kagetsu caught it like it was magnetic to his palms.

Lucas was already there.

No space.

No cushion.

Just man-to-man.

Kagetsu smirked faintly.

(So it’s you again.)

One bounce.

A jab to the right Lucas didn’t flinch.

Cross left Lucas mirrored.

"Come on then," Lucas muttered, low.

Kagetsu shifted back a step.

Then—

BOOM.

Exploded forward.

His new tempo: Kagetsu Style, controlled acceleration into chaos.

He launched off the first step—

Lucas stayed with him.

Second step—

Spin.

Lucas read it. Matched hips.

Slid to contest.

But Kagetsu — he didn’t finish with the lay.

He air braked mid-spin.

A move from earlier. Familiar.

Then pivoted off the foot fading from the mid-range.

But—

He twisted his wrist last second—

No shot.

A bullet pass down low.

Andre "Tank" Malone, posted hard on Brandon, sealed.

Caught.

Went up—

Foul. And one.

Commentator Jamie:

"THAT’S A VETERAN PASS! KAGETSU BAITED LUCAS INTO THE CONTEST—AND DUMPED IT TO THE PAINT!"

The Roanoke bench erupted.

Brandon clapped his hands together in frustration.

Lucas turned, lips tight.

(He changed his rhythm again. Mid-move.)

Coach Doyle:

"Don’t beat yourself up, kid. That’s not just skill. That’s experience."

...

Ethan narrowed his eyes as the free throw was taken.

(He’s adapting too. Faster than before. He’s not trying to beat us with power anymore...)

(He’s learning how to win.)

The free throw bounced—

Miss.

Brandon grabbed the board.

Vorpal still led 63 – 54.

But the fire in Roanoke’s eyes?

It was reignited.

And Kagetsu?

He was just getting started.

..

Vorpal Bench — 4th Quarter, 5:37 Remaining

Score: Vorpal 63 – Roanoke 54

The bench was tense shoulders hunched, sweat-damp jerseys clinging to backs, eyes glued to the court.

The energy in the gym had shifted.

Coonie Smith slapped his thigh hard, jaw tight.

"Fuck. It’s still just a 9-point lead."

His voice wasn’t panicked just sharp. Frustrated. He hated momentum swings.

Ryan Taylor leaned forward, elbows on knees, not blinking.

"Oh come on. Don’t worry. Ethan knows what he’s doing."

There was belief in his voice—but the kind that was tested under pressure.

Kai Mendoza, leaning against the bench rail, cracked a small grin.

"Well... we do have Ethan and Lucas out there."

Then his grin widened.

"Lucas—man, that fadeaway earlier? That was smooth."

Jeremy Park didn’t speak.

But his fingers clenched the towel in his lap.

(Ethan...)

He remembered the training.

The weights. The laps. The shouting. The drills.

All of it.

He’d seen Ethan build this team from scraps.

Josh Turner tapped his fingers on the bench wood, almost casual—but the glint in his eye wasn’t.

"Well, it’s Ethan. After all."

Like it was that simple.

And maybe, sometimes, it was.

Aiden White finally spoke up, arms crossed, eyes locked on the floor.

His voice was calm. Certain.

"Lucas and Ethan... they’re the core this game."

A breath passed among them.

Silent agreement.

Because even if the storm was roaring—

Their anchors were still on the floor.

...

Meanwhile Ayumi Brooke stood near the edge of the bench, clipboard hugged against her chest, the whistle around her neck swaying slightly with each subtle breath.

She heard them.

Coonie’s tension.

Ryan’s faith.

Kai’s calm logic.

Jeremy’s silence.

Josh’s certainty.

Aiden’s clarity.

Every voice, every word it painted a picture.