Extra Basket-Chapter 173 - 160: Division Cup Vorpal vs Storm (13)

The ball clanged off the front rim.

Thud.

A brief gasp from the crowd followed by silence.

Brandon Young soared, arms outstretched like wings, and secured the rebound with both hands. His landing was heavy, controlled. He didn’t rush the outlet.

Ethan stood a few feet away, already reading the floor.

63 – 54.

But that wasn’t what held Ethan’s attention.

It was Roanoke’s eyes.

Focused. Burning. Alive again.

He glanced across the court—

and there he was.

Kagetsu Renjiro.

Arms loose. Breathing steady. But eyes?

Eyes that burned like a second wind.

(He’s not just playing anymore...)

(He’s adjusting.)

Kagetsu wasn’t throwing haymakers now. No wild storms or reckless speed. He was moving efficiently. Conserving. Calculating.

(He’s not trying to destroy us...)

(He’s trying to break our rhythm.)

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

(You’re evolving too, Kagetsu. Like I thought... you’re not just talent. You’re a damn mirror of your own.)

The play resumed.

Vorpal walked it up tempo slower.

But the danger wasn’t gone.

It had just changed form.

Ayumi scribbled rapidly beside the bench, her brows furrowed.

Kai muttered under his breath, almost reverent.

"He’s learning... Kagetsu’s still leveling up... in real time."

Coonie wiped his forehead.

"So now what?"

Ryan leaned back, letting out a quiet chuckle.

"Simple."

He looked at Ethan on the court.

"Now it’s a real game."

..

Time: 4:48 – 4th Quarter

Score: Vorpal 63 – Roanoke 54

Possession: Vorpal

The ball was in Ethan’s hands again.

But it felt heavier now.

Not from fatigue but from the weight of what was coming.

Across from him, Marcus "Flash" Daniels hounded every step. Not overextending, not gambling just tight, reactive pressure.

Ethan dribbled left.

Tap. Tap. Crossover.

Lucas darted across a screen—but Kagetsu stuck to him like static.

Brandon came to set a high pick, but Ethan waved him off.

(No screens. Not yet.)

He motioned to Louie, who zipped through the baseline, dragging two defenders a step out of place.

(There. Just a sliver.)

Ethan attacked.

Snap—behind-the-back. Pull-up fake. Step. Launch.

But—

THWACK.

Tyrese Caldwell closed the gap just in time, his hand grazed the ball, enough to knock it off rhythm.

The shot clanged off the rim.

Rebound: Roanoke.

Coach Halter stood from his seat.

His voice thundered—

"GO!"

Like released hounds, Roanoke surged forward.

Marcus to Tyrese. Tyrese to Kagetsu. The ball never stopped moving.

Kagetsu caught it in rhythm near the arc, but instead of shooting—

He faked.

Then exploded.

One step. Two.

Ethan rotated in from help side, cutting off the angle—

But Kagetsu didn’t rise.

He spun.

"Kagetsu Style – Phantom Step!"

A pivot disguised as a rise-up.

He turned his back to Ethan

then kicked out the ball mid-spin to Andre "Tank" Malone, who was rolling free down the lane.

BOOM.

Two points. Easy.

Score: Vorpal 63 – Roanoke 56

The gym rattled.

Ayumi stood.

"They’re closing the gap—fast."

Kai grit his teeth.

"And Kagetsu’s not even sweating."

Coonie snapped his head toward Ethan.

"Yo—how’s he supposed to stop that?"

Ryan’s voice was steady.

"He doesn’t."

"He redirects it."

..

Time: 4:18 – 4th Quarter

Score: Vorpal 63 – Roanoke 56

Possession: Vorpal

The gym rumbled like distant thunder. Roanoke’s defense was alive, charging forward with every possession, and for the first time in minutes—Vorpal felt it.

Pressure.

Lucas Graves caught the inbound pass and glanced at the scoreboard.

(Seven points.)

Just a minute ago, it was eleven.

He lowered his stance, dribbled low... and narrowed his eyes toward the defense.

(Should I... use it?)

(Allen Iverson speed—enhanced mimicry.)

He bounced once on the balls of his feet, coiled like a spring—

"No."

Ethan’s voice cut through the noise, sharp but calm.

Lucas blinked, surprised. "Why?"

Ethan stood just a few feet away, back turned slightly toward him but eyes fierce, watching the court unfold.

"Not this time. Not this game."

He stepped toward Lucas.

"Not this time. Not this game. Let them play. Let us build this the hard way. We’re not here just to win—we’re here to become a team that can win again and again."

Lucas stared at him those sharp yellow eyes focused not on domination, but growth.

There was no pride in Ethan’s voice.

Only conviction.

Lucas hesitated.

Then lowered his hands.

"Okay, Ethan... I believe in you."

Ethan nodded once.

The play began.

Ethan took the ball.

A slow breath.

Then a signal just one tap to his chest.

"Motion Flow — Set C."

Brandon set a screen on the left elbow. Evan ghosted across the weak side. Louie sprinted baseline, dragging his defender.

Lucas stayed spaced.

Ethan didn’t rush.

He flowed.

Quick jab step exploded left.

Behind-the-back switch crossed up Tyrese Caldwell.

Malik Okafor stepped up again to protect the rim.

Ethan didn’t flinch.

"LOUIE!" he shouted mid-air.

A no-look flick to the corner.

Louie caught it clean.

Rise. Fire.

Bang!

Three!

Vorpal 66 – Roanoke 56

The crowd roared.

Ayumi slammed her clipboard in joy.

Coonie jumped from the bench. "LOUIE FOR THREE!"

Lucas watched it all unfold, then looked at Ethan.

(This isn’t just basketball to him. For him this is teamwork.)

...

Roanoke Bench — 4th Quarter, 3:58 Remaining

Score: Vorpal 66 – Roanoke 56

The storm wasn’t just on the court.

It was in Dante Walker’s chest.

He sat near the edge of the bench, his towel draped over his head, hands shaking slightly—not from fatigue, but frustration. Everything the missed rotations, the heated words earlier, the helplessness it clawed at his gut.

He suddenly stood and walked to Coach Halter, who stood with arms crossed, calmly watching the game.

"Coach."

Coach Halter didn’t look at him at first. "What?"

Dante hesitated.

Then lowered his head.

"I’m sorry for my behavior... I just— I’ve been stressed a lot lately. Since, y’know... my background."

That made the older man pause. Slowly, he turned to face him.

Coach Halter’s voice was quieter now.

"I know that, kiddo."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"That’s why I never put you on the starters."

Dante clenched his fists. His voice cracked.

"Coach... if I finish my problems—if I get my head right and stop with the attitude... will you bring me back? To the starters?"

Coach Halter smiled slightly, like a teacher watching a student take the first step.

"Is that even a question? Of course. You and Kagetsu..."

He placed a hand on Dante’s shoulder.

"You two are one-in-a-million talent. You know that. But talent without control? It’s a fire that burns down the house."

Dante bit his lip—hard.

Then, the tears came. Quiet, angry tears of helplessness and longing.

"I hate being like this, Coach..."

Coach Halter didn’t scold him. Didn’t dismiss him.

He just tightened his grip on Dante’s shoulder.

"That’s why you gotta finish your fight, Dante. Not against the opponent. But in here."

He tapped Dante’s chest.

"Once you do... you won’t just be back in the starters. You’ll be a star. One you earned."

Dante wiped his face with his sleeve and nodded silently, a mix of pain and hope written in his eyes.

..

Possession: Roanoke Storm

The crowd simmered with anticipation as the ball was inbounded to Kagetsu Renjiro, who took it with one hand like it weighed nothing. His strides were slow. Calculated. But the intensity radiating from his every step was unmistakable.

Across from him, Ethan Albarado stood with a straight back and narrowed eyes.

Two forces. Two reads.

One war.

Kagetsu dribbled once, then raised his voice — low but sharp.

"Did you finish analyzing me?"

Ethan’s lips curled just slightly, sweat trailing down his cheek as his fingers flexed.

"No..."

His eyes glinted.

"...but once I do—we win."

Kagetsu gave a faint, dangerous smirk.

"That’s bold of you."

He snapped the ball between his legs. Ethan shifted instantly, reading the weight distribution, the subtle twitch in Kagetsu’s foot.

(He’s going left... but there’s a hesitation coming.)

Kagetsu slashed left—

Then stopped on a dime.

Behind-the-back into a fade—

Ethan didn’t bite.

He stepped with him. Pressured the elbow.

Kagetsu gritted his teeth, spinning back toward the paint Ethan stayed glued.

The crowd was on their feet.

Commentator Jamie’s voice cracked over the speakers:

"It’s a chess match—one-on-one! And Ethan’s not giving Kagetsu an inch!"

Kagetsu launched off two feet a powerful jump stop.

Ethan jumped too but slightly late.

Kagetsu twisted in mid-air—

"Kagetsu Style – Aerial Side Kick Finish!"

He kicked his leg outward mid-spin, creating space—

Shot—

Clang!

It bounced off the rim—

For a split-second, time fractured.

Lucas Graves leapt up, arms fully extended, eyes locked on the rebound.

Brandon Young, the anchor under the rim, boxed out Malik Okafor with brute strength, his legs braced like steel.

Ethan Albarado who is now back to his postion read the angle and launched forward again—gritting his teeth, pushing past Tyrese Caldwell’s outstretched arm.

Three players. One ball.

And then—

Boom.

Kagetsu Renjiro crashed back into the frame.

Not floating. Not gliding.

Crashing.

Like thunder behind his nickname.

"GRAAAHH!"

He roared as he rose above all three—chest flaring, eyes blazing.

His fingers snatched the rebound, yanking it down through the chaos with both hands.

Commentator Jamie:

"HE RIPPED IT OUT OF THE SKY! THAT’S KAGETSU — THE HUMAN THUNDERCLAP!"

Coach Doyle slapped the desk in shock.

"He should’ve been boxed out! But he willed that ball into his hands!"

Kagetsu landed hard, his knees bending to absorb the shock.

Sweat flung from his jawline as he growled under his breath:

"It’s still my storm."

Without a second wasted, he kicked the ball out to Marcus Daniels.

Roanoke reset.

Kagetsu backed into the post.

Eyes never leaving Ethan.

Ethan, still panting from the chase, wiped sweat from his brow and smiled grimly.

(You’re insane... But so am I.)

..

Lucas Graves stood firm on the left wing.

The court around him surged with heat and heartbeat. Roanoke’s momentum had started to creep in like fog but he didn’t waver.

His eyes were sharp.

Fixed.

On Kagetsu.

That vertical leap. That presence.

That storm.

(He’s something else.)

Lucas clenched his fists lightly, shifting his weight as Tyrese Caldwell moved near his corner, ball in hand, scanning.

The ball swung back to Marcus Daniels.

Lucas’s thoughts turned inward.

(I’ve seen every NBA crossover. Every stepback. I watched hours of 2010 footage—AI, Kobe, D-Wade, LeBron... even Nash. Their rhythm, their tricks, their posture before the burst.)

His lips pressed tight.

(But I’m not them.)

Tyrese tried a jab step Lucas didn’t bite.

He stayed low. Shoulders square. Palms wide.

(Their bodies were forged in gyms and decades of high-level play. Mine? Middle school. Average strength. No weight room. Just sweat and stubbornness.)

He breathed in.

(So I stopped trying to be them exactly.)

(Instead... I made it mine.)

Tyrese tried a stepback. Lucas mirrored it not perfectly.

But fluidly. With purpose.

"Copycat," Kagetsu had called him.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed.

(Wrong. This isn’t copying anymore.)

(This is translating.)

He didn’t need to match an NBA athlete’s power or speed.

He needed to understand the reason behind the movement.

Then execute it the Lucas way.

His own rhythm. His own timing. His own constraints.

That was the answer.

Caldwell passed ball swung to Kagetsu at the top.

Lucas instinctively rotated, helping early, already understanding the motion.

Kagetsu caught. Turned. Their eyes met.

A silent war in their gaze.

(I’m not behind you. I’m beside you.)

To be continue

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