CHAPTER 255: CHAPTER 242: VORPAL VS HARBOR KINGS (9)

The scoreboard blazed: Vorpal 80 – Harbor 65.

Four minutes left in the third. The gym was a cauldron.

Every dribble cracked like thunder, every step carried fire.

Lucas caught the ball on the wing. His golden eyes narrowed, body dipping into a wide stance, shoulders loose, ball rocking like a pendulum.

Clamps Lee smothered him.

But Lucas? He went old school.

A stutter-shake, then a lightning-quick Tim Hardaway crossover.

Clamps twitched too slow. Lucas exploded past him, rising into a hanging midrange fade,

a carbon echo of MJ over Ehlo.

Swish.

82–65.

Before Harbor could even react, Ethan was already barking, pointing, reading lanes.

His system flared.

Passing Angle +1.

Timing Boost +1.

The ball zipped to Evan, who skimmed baseline, then rifled it back to Ethan at the top. Ethan didn’t even look, he snapped a no-look dime behind his back to Brandon rolling in the paint.

BANG! Dunk!

84–65. The crowd detonated.

But Harbor roared back. Jet knifed down the lane, Malik muscled a putback, Dante Walker hammered a dunk with both fists.

84–69.

It was a war.

Next possession, Lucas waved Ethan over. For the first time, their rhythm merged—street prodigy swagger meeting cold, systematic precision.

Ethan’s screen snapped into place. Lucas dragged Clamps right, Ethan slipped left. Lucas threw a behind-the-back dish without even glancing—Ethan caught, rose, and drilled the three like he’d rehearsed it a thousand times.

87–69.

The bleachers shook. Charlotte Graves was screaming herself hoarse.

Then came defense. Harbor tried to punish them inside. Malik banged in the post, but Ryan Taylor slid over, bodying up. When Malik spun, Ethan’s hand darted like a hawk—steal.

In a flash, Ethan tossed ahead.

Lucas was already gone.

One bounce, one gather, and a soaring windmill slam straight out of the ’90s VHS highlight reels.

The gym lost its mind.

89–69.

Vorpal’s bench leapt like they’d touched fire.

Louie pounded his chest. Evan howled. Josh slapped the floor. Even Coonie’s sarcasm was gone, he was on his feet, yelling like a madman.

But it wasn’t just Lucas and Ethan anymore. Their rhythm infected everyone.

Ryan spotted up—splash, corner three.

Aiden attacked a closeout, euro-stepped through traffic.

Brandon swatted a shot into the stands.

Vorpal was a storm.

And at its eye, Lucas Graves and Ethan Albarado, two flames moving as one.

The 90s artistry of the street... the precise algorithms of the system... woven into a single symphony.

With four minutes left in the third, the war burned brighter.

And the Harbor Kings, no matter how proud, were being drowned by fire.

Vorpal 92 – Harbor 71.

The Harbor Kings regrouped at halfcourt, sweat dripping, lungs heaving. Their pride was dented, but not broken.

Jet Robinson slapped the ball into the hardwood, his jaw tight.

"Nah. We ain’t folding. We Harbor Kings, dammit."

But inside, even he felt it—the storm of Lucas and Ethan was suffocating.

Dante Morales raised his hand, demanding the rock. His fingers twitched, the itch to fire gnawing. He’d lived for these moments daggers, crowd-silencers. Yet his rhythm felt off, his legs heavy.

(C’mon. One splash and I’ll kill this noise. Just one.)

Malik Carter wiped his face, smirking despite the sweat.

"Yo, Jet. Set me up. I’ll spin right through their hype."

But his smirk wavered, Lucas had mirrored every one of his spins, Ethan reading lanes like a machine.

Brick Douglas thumped his chest, voice booming like a cannon.

"Feed the paint! They can’t hold me forever!"

But Brandon’s blocks still echoed in his skull. He clenched his fists harder.

And DeShawn "Skyline" Rivers? His eyes blazed. He wanted the lob, the slam, the roar.

Yet every time he rose, Vorpal’s defense was there, crowding him, making him second-guess.

The ball zipped to Dante. He pump-faked, slid sideways, rose for three—

CLANG! Off the rim.

Malik fought for the board, snatched it, spun hard only for Ethan to strip it clean with surgeon’s precision.

The gasp of the crowd was dagger enough.

Jet cursed under his breath, sprinting back on D.

"Tch... they’re reading everything. Like they in our huddle."

For the first time, Harbor’s pride cracked not in words, but in silence. The kind that came when belief faltered, when the scoreboard screamed louder than your own heart.

But pride wouldn’t let them quit.

Not Jet. Not Dante. Not Malik, Brick, or Skyline.

Even as Vorpal turned the steal into another fastbreak, Harbor’s eyes locked in with a different fire.

(We’re not done. Not yet.)

The ball was already in Ethan’s hands. One clean strip, like peeling the breath from Harbor’s lungs.

The gym snapped, fans leapt to their feet, bleachers rattled like thunder.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

(Three minutes left. Keep hammering. Don’t give them space to breathe.)

He pushed off, legs churning. The break was born.

Louie shot out ahead like a cannonball, waving his arms, screaming,

"EYOOOOOO! SUNSHINE EXPRESS, LET’S GOOOOO!!"

Lucas was right there with him, a blur of gold eyes and grit, his steps syncing naturally with Ethan’s stride.

Ryan streaked down the opposite wing, already pointing for a lob, smirking like a prince about to claim the throne.

"Don’t forget the chickboy, baby! I’m open!"

And Brandon? He was the anchor, lumbering but deliberate, swallowing space with each heavy step. Silent, dependable. The rim was his territory.

The Harbor Kings scrambled.

Jet Robinson whipped his head back, panic sharpening his movements.

"GET BACK! GET BACK NOW!"

Dante Morales sprinted desperately, sweat flying, his eyes wild. He had to stop the bleeding, one shot, one stop, anything to remind himself he was still the Sniper.

(Don’t let ’em pull away. I can’t let ’em bury us.)

Malik Carter bolted to the lane, spinning even without the ball, like rhythm itself would bail him out.

"Nah, nah—I’m here! I’ll cut ’em off!"

Brick roared, already lowering into position, fists tight.

"PAINT’S MINE! TRY ME!"

And Skyline Rivers? His legs coiled, ready to spring if Ethan dared toss a lob.

"Go up there. I’ll swat it clean."

But Vorpal wasn’t panicked, they were orchestrating.

Ethan crossed halfcourt and slowed not hesitation, but control. He scanned.

His system flickered in his mind, every teammate glowing with opportunity.

Louie wide. Lucas streaking mid-lane. Ryan trailing. Brandon anchoring.

(Options everywhere. Let’s make this hurt.)

He snapped the ball to Louie.

Louie caught it, grinning like fire, and no-looked it right back inside to Lucas.

The defense collapsed instantly.

Jet dove for the steal, yelling,

"I GOT BALL!"

But Lucas, eyes burning, had already shifted into his mimicry.

One hard dribble, then, he twisted his body with a clean 90s spin. The move was vintage, something ripped straight from an old VHS: Clyde Drexler’s sweeping turn, blending grace with force.

Malik tried to cut him off.

"Nah, sunshine—you ain’t—"

Too late. Lucas rose mid-spin, body angled, arms stretching. For a heartbeat, it looked like a shot.

But it wasn’t.

A sling pass fired across the lane, perfectly timed.

Straight into Ethan’s hands.

Ethan didn’t hesitate. He lifted, mid-range jumper already in motion, his form clean, Jordan’s outline etched in his shoulders.

The release—silk.

SWISH!

The net snapped. The crowd detonated.

Vorpal 94 – Harbor 71.

The Kings froze, stunned at the synchronicity.

Jet pounded his chest, barking to his teammates, more to himself.

"DON’T LOOK AT THE SCORE! NEXT PLAY! NEXT PLAY!"

But frustration leaked through his teeth.

Dante rubbed his face, muttering under his breath.

"They makin’ it look like practice, man..."

Malik spat, slapping his own arms.

"Tch. Flashy copies, fake moves—keep running that circus. We’ll answer."

Brick stomped, voice cracking the court.

"LOCK IN!!"

Skyline tilted his head back, glaring at the rim, hating how Vorpal made it look theirs.

(Nah. That’s mine. That’s my sky.)

They inbounded, trying to reset.

But the damage was visible, Harbor’s pace wavered. Their steps weren’t as light.

And Vorpal? They smelled it.

Ryan jogged back on D, smirk wide.

"Man, y’all look TIRED. Did we break the Kings already?"

Louie howled, pointing at Harbor’s bench.

"HEY! SOMEBODY CALL THE PARAMEDICS—BROOKLYN DYING OUT HERE!"

Even Brandon cracked a ghost of a grin.

But Ethan? He stayed silent, breathing steady.

(Don’t get drunk on the lead. We punish, possession by possession.)

Lucas glanced at him, nodded once. Fire recognized fire.

As Harbor tried to set their play, Ayumi’s voice rang from the bench, cutting through the noise:

"KEEP THE PRESSURE! DON’T LET THEM BREATHE!"

The Kings crossed halfcourt.

Jet pushed, teeth clenched. His speed flared—the Jet Step, crossing left, bursting right. He had to remind the court that his blur couldn’t be caged.

But Ethan slid with him, low and sharp. His system flashed:

[Defensive Angle Perfected]

Jet’s lane vanished like smoke. He stumbled, forced to kick out to Dante.

Dante rose for three, defiant.

"FALL, DAMN YOU!"

The shot arced—long, hopeful—

CLANG! Off the rim again.

Brandon bulldozed inside, securing the board like a vault shutting.

He pivoted, fired it out to Lucas.

The break was reborn instantly.

Three minutes still glowed on the clock. But in the bleachers, it already felt like Harbor was running out of time.

Lucas pounded the ball, his mimicry flaring brighter. This time, he wasn’t just copying one move, he was chaining. A Tim Hardaway killer crossover into an Iverson hesitation, flowing like water.

The crowd gasped, half of them screaming, the other half holding their heads.

Jet lunged, sliding, but Lucas slipped through like sunlight.

Ryan was already calling for the ball, but Lucas ignored him eyes locked on Ethan trailing.

One bounce pass, invisible until the last second, skidded through three defenders.

Ethan caught it in stride, gliding past Skyline.

Kobe’s fadeaway.

He rose, legs kicking, body twisting back. Skyline’s hand was there—late.

The release—pure.

SWISH!

Vorpal’s bench leapt.

Vorpal 96 – Harbor 71.

The gym was shaking like an earthquake.

And in Harbor’s eyes, even as they panted, fists clenched, a single truth burned:

Vorpal wasn’t just winning. They were dancing.

To be continue