Chapter 13 – Different Breed
Catching the ball, Zane stood silently at the center of the court, staring down the four players spread in front of him. They were all taller, leaner, and far more athletic in appearance. Muscles tightened beneath their jerseys, sneakers squeaked with anticipation, and the confidence on their faces was unmistakable.
To anyone watching, it would've looked ridiculous—one chubby kid going up against four seasoned players. But Zane didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. His eyes, calm and cold, scanned each of them as if they were nothing more than chess pieces waiting to be knocked over.
'They still don't take me seriously.' He tapped the ball on the polished floor rhythmically. 'That's not my problem anymore.'
"Wanna put a bet on this?" he asked, voice low but steady.
"A bet?" one of the boys echoed, raising a brow.
Zane nodded, his tone casual. "If you win, I'll do whatever you want for a week. Whatever. But if I win… you'll owe me the same."
The group fell silent for a beat, before one of them burst out laughing. "Hahaha! You're really out of your mind, fatty! Where'd you get all that courage from?"
"Is this a joke?" another added, amusement laced with contempt. "You lose either way, but hey, sure. I'd love a personal butler."
"Well, if you're that generous," the third one chuckled darkly, "we won't refuse. But just so you know… if you don't follow through after we beat your ass, your school life's gonna be hell."
"Sure." Zane shrugged indifferently. "Let's begin."
He bounced the ball once more, the sound sharp in the echoing silence of the gym. Then, without rushing, he began walking forward—slow, deliberate steps that made the four players look at each other in confusion.
'What the hell is he doing?'
"Just take the damn ball," one of them scoffed, stepping forward and reaching out. But before his fingers even came close, Zane's body shifted like liquid—swaying left, then darting right with almost unnatural smoothness. He slipped past the first player without effort.
"W-What the—?!"
Before the second player could react, Zane feinted left again, his movements sharp and controlled. The defender lunged at empty air, and by the time anyone processed what had happened, Zane was at the rim, laying the ball in with quiet precision.
BOUNCE.
The ball hit the floor and rolled away. The silence that followed was deafening.
Zane turned back toward them with a neutral expression. "Two points."
He walked back to his starting spot, bouncing the ball once as he got into position again. "Let's go again."
Their faces were priceless—eyes wide, mouths parted in stunned disbelief. Not even in their wildest dreams had they imagined this version of Zane. The slow, clumsy boy they used to humiliate had just waltzed through them like they were amateurs.
"What the hell just happened?" one muttered, disbelief painted across his face.
"You idiots let him through like it was nothing!" another snapped, clearly flustered.
"You're the one who got crossed first!"
"Shut the hell up and focus!"
"I'm taking you seriously now, fatty. You better feel honored."
The tension thickened. They spread out again, taking proper stances this time—knees bent, arms wide, eyes locked onto Zane like wolves circling prey.
Zane dribbled again, slower this time. He examined their spacing carefully, then surged forward in a sudden burst of motion. The defenders responded immediately, stepping in to cut off his path.
But Zane was waiting for that.
He pushed toward the first two, luring them in. As one dropped low to block him, the other stepped sideways to intercept the ball. Just as planned.
Zane slammed on the brakes, pivoted hard, and stepped back at an angle, launching the ball into the air with one fluid motion. It spun upward, high above their heads, before descending in a perfect arc.
SWISH.
The net rippled. A clean three-pointer.
Dead silence.
They stared at the hoop like it had betrayed them.
"Five points," Zane said calmly, walking back once more. His breathing hadn't even picked up.
One of the boys broke first, his face twisted in frustration. "Where the hell did you learn basketball, fatty?! Where'd you learn that?!"
Zane blinked. "Huh? I didn't. I just threw the ball. Not too hard, especially against you guys. If this is the level of the basketball club, I think I'll fit right in."
The words were delivered in a neutral tone, but each syllable was like a slap to the face. The subtle arrogance—the brutal honesty behind his calm voice—was more humiliating than any trash talk they'd heard before.
"You son of a—!" One of them lost it. He rushed forward, arm cocked back for a punch.
Zane didn't move—he simply raised the ball and hurled it with force. It smacked the boy square in the face, snapping his head back. The boy staggered, clutching his nose as the ball bounced off and rolled back to Zane's feet.
"If you've got something to prove, use the ball. Not your fists." Zane's voice was steel now, like a reprimanding teacher talking to a tantrum-throwing child. "If you can snatch it from me."
That shut them up.
The air shifted. No more laughter. No more jokes. The ridicule in their eyes was gone, replaced by something else entirely—unease, uncertainty, even fear.
They could no longer pretend this was a joke. Something was wrong here. This wasn't just a fluke. The way Zane moved, the way he spoke… it was like he wasn't the same person.
Even the way he stood had changed. Straight, tall, confident. His posture radiated presence, and something deeper—pressure. Something heavy settled over the court, something none of them could explain.
It made their skin crawl.
'What the hell happened to him…?'
Zane bounced the ball again. "Round three. Let's see what you've got."
What followed was pure madness.
From a distance, it looked absurd—four tall, athletic boys chasing after a single overweight kid. But anyone watching closely would realize something terrifying:
Zane wasn't just holding his own. He was dominating.
He weaved through their defenses like smoke, vanishing from one point and reappearing somewhere else. His footwork was so precise it was surgical. Each feint drew their eyes in the wrong direction, each pivot left them stumbling.
Every time they thought they'd cornered him, he escaped.
They threw everything they had—double teams, aggressive defense, raw strength. But none of it mattered. The ball always found the net.
Eight points. Then ten.
And then—twelve.
Game over.
The four boys collapsed to the floor, panting heavily. Sweat drenched their clothes, their faces pale with shock and shame. No one spoke. No one dared to.
Zane stood above them, not even winded, calmly holding the ball under his arm. His expression hadn't changed once. He looked like he had just been on a stroll rather than a hard match. It wasn't even worth breaking a sweat over.
In just a few minutes, everything they thought they knew had been shattered. The boy they used to mock, the joke of the school, had just crushed them like it was nothing.
And in that moment, they understood something crucial:
This wasn't the same Zane.
This was something else entirely.