The echoes of the final buzzer were still ringing in his ears when the hand touched his shoulder. Daewoo Kim, drenched in sweat and adrenaline, his mind a static-filled blur of relief and exhaustion, flinched. He turned, expecting to see Marco or Tristan, but was met instead by a bright, blinding camera light and a microphone.
"Daewoo Kim! Number 10!" a young, energetic woman said, her voice bright and professional. She was from the local Davao sports network. "What a game! You came in today with a lot of pressure, filling in for the injured Aiden Robinson. You started with a tough airball, but you finished with a stat-line of seven points, six rebounds, five steals, and the dagger shot that sealed the game. Can you walk us through that transformation?"
Daewoo blinked, the light searing his eyes. He felt a dozen cameras, phones from the crowd, all trained on him. He had never been interviewed in his life. He was the dog, the grinder, the player who operated in the shadows. This spotlight was terrifying.
"I... uh..." he stammered, his mind completely blank. He looked desperately for Tristan, for his coach, for anyone to save him. "I... I just... I trust my team. And my coach. They... they told me to shoot. So I shoot."
"But that airball must have been tough," the reporter pressed, not unkindly. "What was going through your mind after that?"
"I... It was bad," Daewoo said, his honesty blunt and disarming. "I was in my head. I was playing scared. But my captain," he nodded towards Tristan, who was watching from a distance, "and my teammates... they told me to stop thinking. They told me to just... play. To play hard. This game... it wasn't about me. It was about our team."
"And that final pump-fake..."
"They... they left me open. I... I just did my job."
"Well, your 'job' was one of the most impressive defensive performances we'll see! Congratulations on the—"
"THAT'S MY DOG!"
A massive, sweaty arm was suddenly slung over Daewoo's shoulders, and Marco's grinning, impossibly confident face pushed its way into the frame, nearly knocking the microphone from the reporter's hand.
"This guy! Daewoo 'K-Dog' Kim! The Hallyu Hustle! The Seoul Survivor! He's a defensive assassin! He was everywhere! You see that steal? That was pure heart! You see that shot? Ice in his veins! Just like I taught him!"
Daewoo, caught between embarrassment and amusement, just shook his head.
"Marco, stop..."
"He's the heart of this team, ma'am!" Marco declared, grabbing the microphone. "And we're just getting started! We're here for the whole thing! We're doing it for Aiden! Tell 'em, K-Dog!"
Tristan, seeing the interview completely derailed, finally stepped in, grabbing Marco by the jersey. "And we're also... very late for our bus. Great game, ma'am. Thank you." He smiled at the reporter, grabbed his two teammates, and pulled them towards the exit, leaving the reporter laughing, with a perfect, chaotic, human-interest story.
The bus ride back to the hotel was a polar opposite of the grim, silent journey to the arena. The bus, which had been a chamber of suffocating anxiety, was now a rolling party.
"WHO'S THE DOG? WOO'S THE DOG! WOO! WOO! WOO!" Marco was chanting, leading the entire bench unit in a rhythmic, pounding beat against the seats.
Daewoo, his face a brilliant shade of crimson, was trying to sink into his seat, but he was grinning from ear to ear.
Ian and Cedrick, in the back, were quietly breaking down Ian's monster dunk.
"I didn't even see him," Ian said, a rare, wide smile on his face. "I just saw the rim. I was... angry."
"He'll be seeing you in his nightmares," Cedrick rumbled, clapping his massive hand on Ian's shoulder.
Even Coach Gutierrez, sitting at the front, had a relaxed set to his shoulders. He was on the phone, his voice low, but Tristan could hear him. "Yeah, they... they looked good, honey. They looked like a team... No, I'll tell them. Okay, I love you too." He hung up, a rare, soft smile on his face.
They were just a team. They had survived.
They arrived at the hotel, a conquering army, and the other athletes in the lobby saw them differently. The anonymous, unproven team from 4A had just drawn first blood. They had a new identity. They were winners.
"Alright," Coach G said, his voice back to its gruff baseline. "You have thirty minutes to shower and get the stink of the game off you. Then, we eat. As a team. Conference room. Don't be late."
An hour later, the team was assembled in the private 'Matina' conference room, which now served as their dining hall and war room. The long mahogany table was laden with a massive, catered buffet—steaming trays of chicken adobo, beef caldereta, grilled fish, and mountains of white rice. The players, who had been running on nervous energy and adrenaline, descended on the food like a pack of wolves. For ten minutes, the only sound was the clatter of silverware and appreciative grunts.
"I am..." Marco said, his mouth full, "in love. With this chicken. I am going to propose to this chicken. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"You said that about the prom drinks," Gab said, his plate piled high.
"The prom was a lifetime ago," Marco dismissed. "I'm a new man. A man who has seen battle. And who is very, very hungry."
As the initial, frantic wave of hunger subsided, the players relaxed, the easy, joyous chatter of a victorious team filling the room.
"That pass, Tris..." Ian said, shaking his head. "The one to Marco in the second quarter. The behind-the-head one? That was just... disrespectful."
"I didn't even see it," Marco admitted. "I just... felt it. It was a psychic connection. We're on another level right now, Captain."
"It was a smart play by Cedrick to draw the help," Tristan deflected, always the captain. "You just finished it."
"Hey," Mark, the reserve guard, said from the end of the table. He was scrolling on his phone. "Guys, the other game in our bracket just finished. CDO vs. Jolo."
The room quieted down.
"And?" Coach G asked, his fork pausing mid-air.
"CDO won," Mark said. "88-70. It was a blowout."
"So they're next," Tristan said, the food in his stomach suddenly feeling heavier. The relief of their win was already being replaced by the pressure of the next challenge.
"Yeah," Marco said, his own phone now out, his expression serious. "And... oh, man. This is our next assignment. Listen to this. 'CDO was led by their star power forward, Louise Andre "LA" Morales. A monster performance: 24 points, 16 rebounds, and 4 blocks.'"
Ian and Cedrick, who had been joking, stopped cold. They looked at each other.
"Sixteen rebounds," Ian said, his voice flat.
"And four blocks," Cedrick added. "So he's a two-way interior threat. A paint-beast."
"They call him 'The Janitor,'" Marco read, "because he cleans the glass on both ends. He's 6'10", 250 pounds of just... muscle. He's a myth... oh, wait. He's a junior. A junior!"
"So," Gab rumbled, summarizing the situation with his usual bluntness. "We just spent three days practicing how to guard a team of perimeter-shooting piranhas... just to be rewarded with a game against a traditional, back-to-the-basket, great white shark. That's... great."
The room was sobered. Their path, which had seemed so clear, was now blocked by a mountain.
"Wait, wait," Marco said, his thumb scrolling frantically. "The other bracket finished too. San Fernando versus Butuan."
"And?" Tristan asked.
"San Fernando won, 92-80. And... Carlo Bedia..."
"The Mythical Five guy," Tristan finished, his gut tightening.
"The one and only," Marco confirmed, his voice now just a whisper of awe. "Stat line: 36 points. 11 rebounds. 5 assists."
He looked up from his phone, his face pale. "Thirty-six points. He almost outscored their entire team in the first half. He's... he's on another planet."
A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the room. The victory against Calapan, which had felt so monumental an hour ago, suddenly felt small, like the first step on an impossibly tall ladder.
"So, let me get this straight," Tristan said, mentally mapping out the bracket. "We have to play the CDO 'Janitor' next. And if, if, we survive that... our opponent in the Group A Final... would be the winner of San Fernando and..."
He trailed off, looking at the large television in the corner of the room, which had just switched to a live feed of the arena they had just left. The pre-game hype was beginning.
A graphic flashed onto the screen, a massive, dramatic graphic that read:
BATTLE OF THE MYTHICALS: NAGA CITY (VICENTE) vs. CEBU CITY (JACOB)
The local announcer's voice filled the room, brimming with excitement.
"...and folks, this is the game we have all been waiting for! The final game of Day 1 in Group A! The unstoppable force meets the immovable object! From Naga City, the 6'10" Mythical Five power forward, Aekley 'The Beast' Vicente! And from Cebu City, the 6'6" Mythical Five shooting guard, the smoothest scorer in the country, Emmanuel 'Emon' Jacob!"
The players just stared.
"So," Ian said, his voice a low, disbelieving rumble. "Our path is... we have to beat the Janitor. And then we have to play the winner of a game between three Mythical Five teams? Bedia, Vicente, or Jacob?"
The sheer, terrifying absurdity of their bracket settled on them. They hadn't gotten a lucky draw. They had been thrown into the deep end of the shark tank.
"This," Marco said, finally, "is the most unfair, unbalanced, brutal bracket in the history of sports. We're... we're doomed."
"No," Coach Gutierrez said. He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "We're not. We're exactly where we're supposed to be."
He walked over to the TV, his eyes fixed on the screen as the Cebu and Naga players warmed up.
"This is the Palarong Pambansa," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying across the silent room. "You don't win a national title by getting lucky draws. You win it by beating the monsters. And this bracket... this bracket is full of monsters."
He turned to his team, a strange, cold fire in his eyes.
"We just proved we can out-think a smart team. Now, we have to prove we can out-tough a strong team. And if we do that, we get to prove we can beat a legendary team. This isn't a death sentence. This is an opportunity."
He looked at the players, their faces a mixture of fear and dawning resolve.
"We were going to watch the film of these teams in a dark room tomorrow. But we've been given a gift. We get to watch these two... these 'Mythical' players... try to tear each other apart. Live."
He nodded to Tristan. "Finish your food. All of you. Get your notebooks. This isn't lunch anymore. This is class. And our lesson... is on how to slay a giant."
The team, as one, turned their chairs. The leftover food was forgotten. The joy of their own victory was packed away. They were no longer players. They were scouts. They were students of the war, and their next two potential opponents were about to put on a masterclass.