bantayden Chapter 277: The Cold New Gym
Chapter 277: The Cold New Gym
The Titan Performance Center was located in the middle of Bonifacio Global City. It did not look like a place where boys played basketball. It did not have the warm, happy feeling of a normal school gym. Instead, it looked like a secret science laboratory. It looked like a place built to make perfect, unfeeling soldiers.
The outside of the building was made of dark, heavy metal and shiny glass. The glass acted like a mirror, bouncing the bright morning sun back into the busy city streets. Back in their hometown of Dasmariñas, the gyms were open. The air was always warm, sticky, and full of the smell of sweat and loud cheers. But this new building was completely closed off. The doors were thick and heavy. The air conditioning was turned up very high. It was freezing cold inside. The thermometer on the wall said it was 18 degrees Celsius. Every breath the boys took felt sharp and icy in their lungs.
Fifteen young men stood in the very middle of the basketball court. They were chosen because they were the absolute best young basketball players in the whole country. They were wearing their new practice uniforms. The uniforms were bright blue, red, and white—the colors of their national flag. But no one felt proud right now. No one felt like a hero representing their country. The air in the room was completely silent. The quiet was thick and heavy. Everyone was worried. Everyone felt that something bad was about to happen.
Tristan Herrera stood at the very front of the group of boys. He kept his hands behind his back. He stood very straight. Next to him was Marco Gumaba. Marco was usually the loudest boy on the team. He was usually making jokes and laughing. But today, Marco was totally quiet. His eyes moved left and right. He was looking at the small, black, high-tech cameras that were bolted to the top of every single wall. The cameras were watching their every move.
On the other side of Tristan stood Gabriel Lagman, whom everyone called Gab. Gab was tall and very strong. He stood completely still, like a statue made of stone. Gab was staring down at the basketball floor. The wood floor was perfectly clean. It was polished so much that it shined like pure, liquid gold. There were no scratch marks. There was no dirt. It was almost too perfect.
The team list was full. The fifteen best players were all there.
The Giants (The Centers):
Josh Manio: He was 7'0" tall, with very long arms.
Jonas Singson: He was 6'11" tall and very strong.
The Forwards:
Aekley Vicente: A quiet boy who played very hard.
LA Morales: A fast runner with good jumping skills.
Carlo Bedia: He was 6'8" and loved to score points.
Ash Galang: A tough defender who never gave up.
Gab Lagman: Tristan's best friend and a great blocker.
Aiden Robinson: A young, fast player with a lot to learn.
The Guards:
Larson Callao: A smart player who controlled the ball well.
Joco Palencia: A very aggressive and confident scorer.
MJ Mangon: A quick player who loved to steal the ball.
Jomo Lapuk: A strong runner who drove to the basket.
Emon Jacob: A good shooter from far away.
Marco Gumaba: The best three-point shooter and Tristan's good friend.
Tristan Herrera: The team captain, the point guard, and the leader.
"Where is the Coach?" Aiden Robinson whispered. He leaned his body a little bit toward Tristan so the others would not hear him. "He told us that practice starts exactly at 8:00 in the morning. It is already 8:05."
"Be quiet," Tristan answered in a very low voice. He did not want to move his lips too much.
Inside Tristan's mind, something strange was happening. His special basketball System was glowing. It was sending him a bright warning sign in his head. The warning sign felt like a small, buzzing alarm.
[ENVIRONMENT ALERT: HIGH-PRESSURE ZONE DETECTED]
Tristan knew this meant danger. He knew the System only warned him when things were about to get very hard.
Suddenly, at the very far end of the basketball court, a pair of thick double doors opened. They made a loud hissing sound, like air escaping from a tire.
A man walked into the gym.
It was not Coach Gutierrez. Coach Gutierrez was the man who had picked them for the team. Coach Gutierrez was kind. He was like a father to them. But the man walking toward them was a stranger.
This man was not very tall. He was of average height and quite thin. He was wearing a very expensive, perfectly fitted black suit. Under the black jacket, he wore a bright white shirt. He did not wear a tie. His clothes looked like he was going to a serious business meeting, not a basketball practice. He wore glasses with no frames. The bright white lights from the ceiling bounced off his glasses, so the boys could not see his eyes. His hair was black and pulled straight back with sticky hair gel. Not a single hair was out of place.
In his left hand, he held a flat, digital tablet. In his right hand, he held a single basketball.
He walked slowly. He did not look at the boys. He walked straight to the big circle in the middle of the basketball court. When he reached the middle, he stopped. He simply opened his right hand and let the basketball drop to the floor.
Thud.
The ball bounced back up.
Thud.
It bounced lower.
Thud.
The sound was very loud. In the giant, quiet room, the sound of the bouncing ball echoed off the glass walls. It sounded like a slow heartbeat.
The man finally looked up. Now the boys could see his eyes behind the glasses. His eyes were dark black. They were cold. They looked like they were doing math, calculating everything. There was no kindness in his face at all.
"Coach Gutierrez has been moved to a different job," the man said. His voice was not loud. It was soft and very smooth. But the way he spoke made everyone in the room feel very scared.
"My name is Coach Dante Baldomero," the man continued. "I am the new boss of this basketball program. And starting today, starting this very morning, I am your God."
A soft, nervous sound moved through the line of boys. They were shocked. Joco Palencia, who was usually very confident, pulled his eyebrows down into a deep frown.
"Moved to a different job?" Joco asked out loud. "But Coach Gutierrez built this team. He chose all of us."
Coach Baldomero turned his head very slowly. He looked straight at Joco Palencia. He moved his head like a hungry lion looking at a weak zebra. It was a scary, slow movement.
"Coach Gutierrez built a team for little kids," Baldomero said. His voice was sharp now. "He built a family. Families are very cute. Families sit at a table and eat dinner together. Families hold hands. But do you know what else families do? Families lose in the big games of the World Cup by thirty points. They lose because they care too much about being nice to each other instead of winning."
Baldomero started to walk. He walked slowly around the circle of fifteen boys. He stepped very close to them, invading their personal space. He wanted them to feel uncomfortable.
"I have watched all the video tapes of your past games," Baldomero said while he walked. "I have studied every single thing you did in your old tournaments. I watched every time you touched the ball. Do you want to know what I saw when I watched you?"
He stopped walking. He was standing right in front of Tristan Herrera. He leaned his body forward. His face was only a few inches away from Tristan's face. Tristan could smell his expensive, sharp cologne.
"I saw that you are all cowards. I saw fear," Baldomero whispered.
Tristan tried to be brave. He did not blink his eyes, even though his heart was beating incredibly fast inside his chest.
"I gave my teammates 12 assists in my last game, Coach," Tristan said. He tried to keep his voice calm and steady. "I passed the ball well."
"Exactly," Baldomero said. He spat the word out like it was a disgusting piece of food. "Twelve times. Twelve times you had the ball, and you gave the job to someone else. Twelve times you looked at the basket and said, 'I am too scared to shoot. I will let someone else decide if we win or lose.' You think passing is a good thing. You call it being a good point guard. I call it being terrified."
Baldomero turned away from Tristan. He took a few steps and stopped in front of Carlo Bedia. Carlo was a very tall boy, 6'8", and he was known for scoring a lot of points.
"And you," Baldomero said, pointing a long finger at Carlo. "When two defenders come to guard you, you always pass the ball away. Why do you do that?"
Carlo looked confused. He swallowed hard. "Because... because that is the correct rule of basketball, sir? You pass the ball to the player who is open?"
"Wrong," Baldomero whispered angrily. "The open player is only open because the other team does not care about him. The other team thinks he is weak. If you are the best player, you do not pass. If two people guard you, you must destroy both of them. You must score anyway and break their hearts. When you pass the ball, you are telling the other team that they have beaten you."
Baldomero walked back to the center circle. He looked at all fifteen boys.
"The country of the Philippines has a bad sickness," Baldomero said loudly. This was the first time he raised his voice. It echoed off the walls. "It is called Bayanihan. It means working together. It means helping your neighbor. This is a very good thing when you need to build a house. It is a very good thing when a bad storm hits the town. But in the game of basketball? Working together like that is poison. It makes you weak."
He lifted his hand and pointed to a giant television screen hanging from the ceiling. The screen suddenly turned on. It showed video clips of the most famous basketball players in the world. It showed players from the NBA and players from Europe.
"Look at the screen," Baldomero ordered. "Look at the superstars. Are they nice boys? Do they share their toys? No. They are monsters. They are selfish. They always demand to hold the basketball. They believe, deep in their hearts, that they are the only people in the whole world who deserve to shoot the ball."
He turned his back to the screen and looked at the frightened boys.
"I am not here to teach you how to run nice plays. I am not here to teach you how to share the ball. I am here to kill the 'good little boy' that lives inside your heart. I want to build a weapon. I want to create a player who is so dangerous, so selfish, and so strong that the whole game of basketball revolves around him."
Coach Baldomero raised his hand in the air and snapped his fingers. Snap.
Suddenly, a metal rack lowered down from the ceiling using a quiet motor. The rack stopped in front of them. It was holding basketballs. But there were only three basketballs on the rack.
"There are fifteen players in this room," Baldomero said with a cold, flat voice. "But there are only three basketballs."
The boys looked at the rack, confused.
"The rules of this drill are very simple," the coach explained. "You have exactly ten minutes. You must score a basket on the main hoop. But here are the rules: If you hold the ball for more than three seconds without shooting, you lose points. If you hold the ball for more than three seconds without dribbling toward the basket, you lose points. And the most important rule: If you pass the ball to anyone else, you lose points."
He looked down at his very expensive silver watch.
"When the ten minutes are over, I will check the scores. The top three players—the three boys who score the most points—will be treated like kings. They will sleep in the beautiful luxury bedrooms upstairs. They will eat perfect, delicious food. But the other twelve boys? You will sleep on hard, uncomfortable beds in the dirty back rooms. You will eat cheap food. And the three boys with the lowest scores? You will spend your night scrubbing the toilets and cleaning the floors of this gym."
"This is crazy," Larson Callao whispered under his breath. "Basketball is a team sport. We need to work together."
"Not today," Baldomero said. He heard Larson. He smiled, but it was a scary, thin smile that did not reach his eyes. "Today, this is not a team sport. Today, this is a war for survival. Begin!"
Baldomero brought a silver whistle to his lips and blew it as hard as he could. TWEET!
Crazy chaos broke out immediately.
Fifteen huge, strong athletes ran wildly toward the metal rack to grab only three balls. People were pushing and shoving. It was violent.
Josh Manio, the giant who was seven feet tall, used his incredibly long arms to reach over everyone else. He grabbed the first ball quickly. Joco Palencia, who was smaller but much meaner and faster, jumped onto the floor. He dove like a swimmer and grabbed the second ball. Aekley Vicente used his big muscles to push two other boys out of the way and grabbed the third ball.
Tristan Herrera stood perfectly still for one tiny second. He did not know what to do. His whole life, he had played to help his friends.
Suddenly, his System screen popped up in front of his eyes. It glowed with bright blue letters.
[NEW QUEST: SURVIVE THE CULLING]
[Objective: You must finish in the Top 3 highest scores.]
[Constraint: PASSING THE BALL IS DISABLED. You cannot pass.]
Tristan quickly looked around the court. He saw Josh Manio holding the first ball. The giant boy was trying to dribble toward the basket. But Josh was a center. He was tall, but he was very bad at dribbling. The ball was bouncing too high. He was clumsy.
Tristan saw his chance. This was an opportunity.
Inside his mind, Tristan turned on his upgraded body powers.
[Speed Level: 85]
[Steal Level: 40]
Tristan's steal skill was not very high, but his speed was incredible. He did not need to be tricky. He just needed to be fast. When Josh Manio turned his big body, the ball bounced away from him for a split second.
Tristan ran forward like a fast snake biting its prey. He reached out and slapped the ball hard, knocking it away from the giant's hands.
"The ball is mine!" Tristan yelled. This felt very strange. Tristan never yelled. He never acted selfish. But he was fighting for his life now.
He grabbed the loose ball with both hands. He turned his body toward the basketball hoop.
Standing right in front of him, blocking his path to the hoop, was Gab Lagman.
Gab was his best friend. They had grown up together. They had won so many games by working together. They were like brothers.
For a tiny second, Tristan's brain wanted to do what it always did. He wanted to give Gab a secret hand signal. He wanted to tell Gab to set a screen so they could do a nice, easy play together.
But then, Tristan remembered the scary voice of Coach Baldomero: Kill the good little boy inside you.
Tristan bit his lip. He did not give a hand signal. He did not pass. Instead, he bounced the ball hard and ran straight at his best friend.
Gab was completely surprised. He expected Tristan to pass. Because Gab was surprised, his feet moved too slowly. Tristan used his new, upgraded body strength.
[Strength Level: 85]
Tristan crashed into Gab's chest. It was a hard hit, but Tristan did not stop. He bounced off Gab's chest, jumped high into the air, spun his body around, and threw the ball backward over his head. The ball hit the glass backboard and fell smoothly through the net.
Two points.
"Good point, Herrera," Coach Baldomero yelled from the side of the court. He was tapping his finger on his digital tablet to record the score. "Manio, you lost your ball! You are weak prey!"
The next ten minutes were a nightmare. It was a brutal, ugly, and mean game. This was not the beautiful game of basketball. This was fifteen angry boys fighting like wild dogs. Everyone was trying to drive to the basket at the same time. People were bumping into each other. Boys were shooting the ball even when three other people were blocking them. No one was passing. No one was helping.
Marco Gumaba was having a terrible time. Marco was a shooter. His special skill was waiting for Tristan to pass him the ball so he could shoot from far away. But in this game, no one passed to him. He had to try and dribble the ball himself, and he was not good at it.
"Damn it!" Marco screamed in anger. He tried to dribble, but Ash Galang easily reached out and stole the ball right out of his hands.
"Get away from me!" Jomo Lapuk yelled loudly on the other side of the court. He forcefully pushed Emon Jacob hard in the back just so he could grab a basketball that missed the hoop.
Coach Baldomero stood on the side, watching all the pushing and fighting. He had a big, happy smile on his face. He loved this. He did not care if the boys missed their shots. He only cared that they were acting selfish and hungry.
Joco Palencia was doing incredibly well. This crazy game was perfect for him. He loved playing selfishly. He loved going one-on-one. He dribbled the ball very fast, made Larson Callao fall down, jumped back, and shot the ball straight into the net. A few seconds later, Joco ran up to Aiden Robinson, ripped the ball out of his hands, and scored again.
"You are too soft, Robinson!" Joco yelled, laughing at the younger boy. "You are weak! Go sit on the bench and cry!"
Aiden looked very upset. His face was red. He looked over at Tristan, his eyes begging for help. He wanted the team captain to save him.
Tristan saw Aiden looking at him. At that exact moment, Tristan had a basketball in his hands. Aiden was running toward the basket. Aiden was completely open. There was no one guarding him.
Pass the ball, Tristan's heart screamed. Give Aiden the ball. It is an easy score for him. Help him.
Tristan lifted the ball, ready to pass. But then he looked over at Coach Baldomero. The coach was standing very still, staring straight into Tristan's eyes. The coach was waiting to see what Tristan would do.
Tristan closed his eyes for a second. He gritted his teeth together. He stopped looking at Aiden. He decided not to help.
Instead, Tristan turned to face Carlo Bedia, who was standing in front of him to defend the hoop.
Tristan called on his System powers again.
[Skill Activated: Ankle Breaker - Bronze Level]
[Speed with Ball: 90]
Tristan bounced the ball quickly between his legs. He moved his shoulders to pretend he was going left. Carlo fell for the trick and leaned left. Then, Tristan exploded toward the right side with incredible speed. Carlo lost his balance and stumbled backward awkwardly. Tristan had a clear space now. He stopped running, jumped high behind the far line, and shot a three-point shot.
[Three-Point Shot Level: 90]
The ball flew through the air in a perfect curve.
Swish.
It went straight through the net without touching the metal ring.
"Good," Coach Baldomero whispered to himself, marking his tablet. "Very, very good."
The clock on the wall showed it was exactly 8:30 in the morning.
TWEET!
The sharp whistle blew again. The drill was finally over.
All fifteen players fell down onto the hard wooden floor. They were covered in slippery sweat. Their chests were moving up and down violently as they gasped and choked for air. Playing one against fourteen other angry boys was incredibly exhausting. Their muscles burned, but their minds hurt even more. They felt dirty inside. They felt like bad people. They felt like they had broken a promise to their friends by being so selfish.
Coach Baldomero walked slowly among the tired boys on the floor. He looked down at his digital tablet.
"Here are the top three winners," he said loudly.
"Number 1: Joco Palencia. He scored 18 points."
"Number 2: Aekley Vicente. He scored 14 points."
"Number 3: Tristan Herrera. He scored 12 points."
Joco Palencia sat up on the floor. He used the back of his hand to wipe the dripping sweat from his forehead. He smiled a cocky, arrogant smile. He looked over at Tristan. "You barely made it into the top group, Captain," Joco teased.
"As for the rest of you twelve boys," Baldomero said, waving his hand like they were garbage. "You are all completely average. You are boring. You are nothing special."
Baldomero stopped and pointed down at the giant, Josh Manio.
"Especially you, Manio," Baldomero said cruelly. "You are a giant. You are seven feet tall. You should be a monster. But you play like a tiny, scared mouse. You let a much smaller point guard steal the ball right out of your hands. Do you have no pride in yourself at all?"
Josh Manio looked down at the shiny floor. He felt so embarrassed. The giant boy was actually shaking with sadness.
Baldomero then turned his cold eyes toward Marco.
"And you, Gumaba," the coach said. "You are completely useless. You cannot do anything unless someone hands you the ball first. You are like a tick or a flea. You are a parasite. If Tristan Herrera does not chew your food and feed it to you, you will starve to death. Is that the kind of weak man you want to be?"
Marco's face turned bright red. He closed his hands into tight fists. He was supposed to be the best shooter in the entire country, and this new coach just called him a useless bug in front of everyone.
"Listen to me carefully," Baldomero said in a loud, booming voice. "This is how you will live from now on. This is your new reality. Every single day, we will fight like this. I will break your friendships. I will destroy your happiness. I will shatter your bonds until there is nothing left. And from those broken pieces, I will build a sharp, deadly weapon."
It was 12:00 PM. Time for lunch in the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was divided. Because Tristan, Joco, and Aekley had won the morning drill, they were sent to the "Luxury Suite" area. They sat at a very small, fancy, round table covered with a white cloth. On their plates, they had thick, juicy, expensive steaks and bowls of creamy, delicious pasta.
The other twelve boys had to sit far away on the other side of the room. They sat at long, cheap metal tables. Their food was just standard, plain chicken and white rice.
Coach Baldomero did this on purpose. He wanted the losing boys to look at the winners and feel angry and jealous. He wanted to breed hate.
Tristan sat quietly with Joco and Aekley. He cut a piece of his steak with a knife, but he did not want to eat it. He felt sick to his stomach. He looked across the giant room. He could see Marco and Gab sitting at the cheap tables, chewing their dry chicken. They looked sad.
"I have to admit, this food tastes so much better when you know you fought hard and earned it," Joco Palencia said with a full mouth. He stabbed his steak with a fork very aggressively. "Coach Baldomero is a smart man. He is a genius. This is the only way to find out who the real strong leaders are."
"This is completely toxic," Tristan said in a quiet, sad voice. "He is trying to make us hate each other. He is destroying the team's heart."
"Having a good heart is for losers," Joco argued back, chewing his meat. "Winners do not care about feelings. Winners care about points. Winners care about statistics. You saw how you played this morning, Herrera. You had the ball. You saw Aiden open. But you did not pass. You chose to shoot the ball yourself. You wanted the points. You liked how it felt. Do not lie to me."
Tristan stopped moving his knife. He froze. He slowly looked down at his own hands.
He knew Joco was right. In that moment during the drill, when he decided he was the best person to take the shot—when he decided he did not need his team—he had felt a strange, exciting rush of power. He had never felt that before. It was not the warm, happy feeling of helping a friend score. It was the cold, thrilling feeling of being completely in control. It was the feeling of dominance.
Even his secret System had liked it. The System had given him a huge amount of extra experience points just for being selfish.
[NEW STATUS UNLOCKED: EGO AWAKENING is at 5%]
At 2:00 PM, Tristan heard his name called over the speakers.
"Herrera. Come to the office for a moment."
Coach Baldomero asked Tristan to come into his private room. When Tristan opened the door, he saw that the office was very dark. The lights on the ceiling were turned off. The only light in the room came from five big computer monitors on the desk. Every monitor was playing video clips of old basketball games.
Tristan took a deep breath and stepped inside.
"Sit down," Baldomero ordered, pointing to a hard wooden chair.
Baldomero turned his own leather chair around to face Tristan. "You are having a hard time deciding what is right," the coach said.
"I believe that working together is the right way to play, Coach," Tristan said, trying to sound strong. "The special bond I share with my friends, Marco and Gab... that friendship is what makes our team so powerful."
"That friendship is a crutch for a broken leg," Baldomero interrupted sharply. "I have read all the numbers on your 'friendship.' It is true, your numbers are very good. When you three boys play together, you are strong. But what will you do if Gab jumps and breaks his ankle? What will you do if Marco misses all his shots? If you rely on them, and they fail, then you become completely weak and average."
Baldomero leaned his thin body forward across the desk. His dark eyes were shining with a crazy, intense light.
"Listen to me, Tristan. You have a special gift. Your brain is faster than a normal boy's brain. I see how fast you think. When you are on the court, you see the game moving in slow motion. You see paths and lines that no one else can see."
Tristan felt his muscles tighten. He knows, Tristan thought to himself. He knows there is something special about how I see the game.
"But you take this amazing, genius brain, and you use it just to serve other people," Baldomero continued, his voice full of disappointment. "You are a powerful king, but you dress up and act like a poor servant boy. I want you to stop. I want you to use your perfect eyes for yourself. When you trick the defenders, do not trick them so Marco can shoot. Trick them so you can shoot."
The coach reached out and pushed a button on his keyboard. One of the bright screens changed. It played a video clip of Tristan making a game-winning shot from the day before.
"Look closely at this video," Baldomero said. "This right here. This tiny moment. This is the only time you played real basketball. You did not look for a pass. You looked at the clock, and you decided that you were going to win the game. Not your team. Just you."
"What exactly do you want me to do?" Tristan asked. His throat felt dry.
"I want you to become the bad guy," Baldomero said very softly. "Joco Palencia is a simple tool. He is like a loud, heavy hammer. He is arrogant and stupid. But you... you are much more dangerous because you are so smart. I want you to eat this team alive. I want you to use your friend Gab simply as a wall to block people. I want you to use your friend Marco simply as fake bait to distract people. Use them like tools. I want you to become the absolute center of the entire basketball universe."
Baldomero reached to the side of his desk. He picked up a thick, black paper folder and slid it across the smooth desk toward Tristan.
"Inside this folder is a new, special practice plan," Baldomero explained. "It is made only for you. It does not have any passing drills. It only teaches you how to score by yourself and how to break defenders one-on-one. If you agree to follow this plan, you will not get many assists anymore. Your good friends might start to hate you. But if you do this, I promise you, you will become the greatest player in all of Asia."
Tristan looked down at the black folder. Printed on the front in bright white letters were the words: PROJECT: ZERO.
"And what happens if I say no?" Tristan asked, looking back up at the cold coach.
"If you refuse, then you will just be a nice, good boy who plays high school basketball," Baldomero shrugged his shoulders lightly. "And because you are just a nice boy, the country of the Philippines will lose the big tournament. And the whole country losing will be completely your fault, because you had the magical power to change the future, and you were too scared to use it."
At 6:00 PM, the sun went down outside, but the lights inside the gym were as bright as the sun. It was time for the evening practice session. They were going to play a normal five-on-five game.
Tristan was put onto a team with the younger, quieter boys: Aiden, Ash Galang, Jonas Singson, and Larson Callao.
They were going to play against Joco Palencia's team. Joco's team had both Marco and Gab on it. Coach Baldomero had separated Tristan from his two best friends on purpose to see what would happen.
As Tristan walked onto the court, Coach Baldomero walked right past him.
"Prove that you can do it," Baldomero whispered into Tristan's ear.
The referee blew the whistle, and the game started.
Joco Palencia was playing very hard. He was still feeling happy and confident from winning the morning drill. He ran fast, got the ball, and quickly scored an easy point near the basket.
Now it was Tristan's turn. Tristan dribbled the basketball slowly down the length of the court.
As he crossed the middle line, he saw who was standing in front of him to defend him. It was Marco. His best friend.
Marco smiled a big, friendly smile. He bent his knees and slapped both of his hands loudly against the wooden floor. It was a challenge between friends. "Come on, Captain!" Marco yelled happily. "Show me this new, selfish ego of yours! Let us see what you can do!"
Tristan looked at Marco's smiling face. For a second, Tristan saw all the wonderful memories they shared. He remembered the jokes on the bus. He remembered eating pizza after big wins. He saw their strong bond.
But then, Tristan moved his eyes to the side. He saw Coach Baldomero standing on the edge of the court. The coach's arms were crossed. He was staring.
Tristan turned his eyes away from the coach and looked straight up at the metal basketball rim.
Tristan raised his hand and yelled for the big center, Jonas Singson, to come and set a screen block.
Jonas ran over and stood next to Marco like a wall. Marco fought hard to run around Jonas's heavy body.
Normally, when the big defender runs toward the guard, Tristan would pass the ball to the big man rolling to the basket. Or, he would throw the ball far away to Larson.
But Tristan did not throw it to Jonas. He did not throw it to Larson.
Instead, Tristan attacked straight at Marco's feet.
[Skill Activated: Tight Handles - Silver Level]
Tristan bounced the ball so fast and changed directions so sharply that Marco's brain could not keep up. Marco's feet tangled together. The shooter lost his balance and almost fell over.
Tristan ran right past his best friend and stepped into the painted area near the basket.
But waiting for him under the hoop was Gab. Gab was huge. People back home called him the "Wall of Dasmariñas" because no one could score over him. Gab stood tall, raising his long arms into the air to block the sky.
Should I pass the ball to Jonas now? Tristan's brain asked.
No, Tristan decided.
Tristan squeezed the basketball tightly and jumped as high as he could.
Gab jumped into the air at the exact same time. It was like two cars crashing in mid-air.
While flying in the air, Tristan had to move his body in an impossible way.
[Skill Activated: Acrobat - Silver Level]
Tristan twisted his spine. He slid his body underneath Gab's giant, blocking arm. He felt Gab's heavy body crash into his shoulder. It hurt. But Tristan did not close his eyes. He kept his eyes locked on the orange rim.
Just before he started to fall back down to the floor, Tristan flicked his wrist softly. The ball left his fingers.
TWEET!
The referee blew the whistle because Gab had hit Tristan in the air. That was a foul.
Tristan fell to the floor. Above him, the ball bounced against the glass and dropped through the net.
The basket counted. And Tristan would get one free throw.
Tristan landed hard on his feet. Marco had fallen down nearby. Usually, Tristan would immediately reach out his hand and help his best friend stand back up. But he did not. Jonas Singson held up his hand for a high-five to celebrate the great shot. Tristan did not slap his hand.
Tristan just walked slowly and quietly to the free-throw line. His eyes looked completely dead and cold.
Gab stood there with his mouth open. He looked incredibly shocked. "Who are you?" Gab asked quietly. "What happened to the real Tristan?"
Tristan caught the ball from the referee. He stood at the line. He spun the orange ball slowly between his hands.
"I am evolving," Tristan answered, his voice completely empty of emotion.
It was 10:00 PM. The day was over. The main lights were turned off in the sleeping rooms.
Tristan was lying flat on his back in the luxury bedroom upstairs. The bed was extremely soft. The blankets were thick and expensive. It was a very comfortable place to sleep, but Tristan felt incredibly lonely.
Across the room, Joco Palencia was already fast asleep, snoring loudly in the other expensive bed.
Somewhere far downstairs, in the cheap, hard rooms, Marco and Gab were probably sitting together, talking about how strange their captain was acting.
Tristan stared blankly up at the dark ceiling. Suddenly, his blue System screen floated into the air right above his face, glowing in the dark.
[Daily Report: Day 1 under Coach Baldomero]
[Ego Points Gained Today: +50 Points]
[Team Friendship and Chemistry: Dropped by -15%]
[Your Personal Scoring Power: Increased by +20%]
Looking at the blue numbers, Tristan felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was guilt. He missed laughing with the boys on the bench. He missed the beautiful, happy feeling of playing perfect team basketball where everyone shared the ball.
But then, he closed his eyes, and he remembered the game. He remembered exactly how it felt when the ball left his fingertips and flew over Gab's giant hand. He remembered the feeling of having absolute, total control over the game. He liked it.
Coach Baldomero was definitely a mean man. He liked to trick people. He was obsessed with winning. He might even be a little bit crazy.
But as Tristan pulled the heavy blanket up to his chin, he realized a very scary truth.
Coach Baldomero was right.
If Tristan wanted to beat the very best teams in the whole world, he could not just be a nice general who gave orders and helped people. He had to become a selfish, hungry, and dangerous warlord.
Outside in the dark, quiet hallway, Coach Baldomero was standing completely still. He was looking silently at the closed wooden door of Tristan's luxury bedroom.
The coach slowly reached into the pocket of his nice suit. He pulled out a small black notebook and a silver pen. He opened the book and turned to the page that had the name TRISTAN HERRERA written at the top.
Underneath the name, the coach smiled his thin, scary smile, and wrote one single sentence in the dark:
The monster is finally waking up.