Extra Basket-Chapter 189 - 176: Forest vs Vorpal (1)

7 – 2. Forest.

The arena pulsed with noise. Lights beamed down like spotlights on a stage. But to Lucas Graves, it all blurred.

He stood near the sideline, catching his breath, sweat trailing down his temple.

Across the court, Forest huddled briefly—calm, composed, almost confident.

Lucas stared at the hardwood beneath his feet, the ball cradled in his hands.

(Why do I think... I’m not stronger compared to before...?)

His grip tightened.

(Or maybe... it’s just my thought. Maybe I’ve convinced myself I’m stronger... just because I have this power...)

He glanced at Elijah again, who now stood with his teammates, bumping fists, calm like a man who’d already seen the ending of the story.

Evan passed him the ball.

He crossed half-court.

(I trained my eyes to see everything. My body to match it. But maybe... that’s the flaw.)

He scanned the defense.

Forest was back in their hybrid zone—Elijah at the top, ready to pounce on any hesitation.

Lucas faked left.

Dribbled right.

He mimicked Elijah’s earlier motion—same crossover, same footwork.

Elijah bit—half-step forward.

Lucas slipped it to Aiden cutting baseline.

But Mason rotated. Clean. Steal.

Again.

Fast break.

Another two.

9 – 2.

And with every second, the confidence he’d built all season began to unravel.

He stood at the free throw line during the reset, alone in a sea of motion.

The crowd chanted for Forest.

Elijah glanced back once more calm, unreadable.

Lucas looked down at his hands.

(Is this really who I am now?)

But then—his eyes sparked again.

Something inside him reignited.

He clenched his fists tighter, ball in hand, fingertips digging into the seams.

(No. I didn’t come this far to question myself now.)

(Ethan wouldn’t want that from me... remember the training... the experience I honed... the early mornings, the sore legs, the thousands of shots...)

Across the court, the Forest players were already jogging back to their side, relaxed but alert, underestimating what was building in Lucas’s chest.

On the sideline, Ayumi sat quietly on the bench, her clipboard on her lap—but her eyes never left Lucas.

She saw the shift in his stance. The tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders no longer sagged.

She leaned forward slightly.

Softly, almost like a prayer, she murmured—

"Good luck, Lucas..."

Coach Fred, standing beside her, glanced up at the scoreboard.

9 – 2.

The numbers glowed coldly.

He rubbed his chin. His brows furrowed.

(Are we going to lose...? Is it starting again?)

Then his eyes found Lucas.

No longer the kid doubting himself a moment ago.

Now, standing upright. Focused. Fire building.

Coach Fred’s heart steadied.

(No... We have Lucas.)

The referee handed the ball to Evan for the inbound.

Lucas stepped up, hand raised.

Evan looked him over. "You ready?"

Lucas didn’t speak.

He just nodded and the look in his eyes was enough.

(I’m done being a shadow.)

(This is my game now.)

He caught the inbound pass.

He dribbled forward, slower this time.

Studying.

Reading.

Forest tightened their defense, Elijah adjusting the top line, motioning with his hand.

Lucas’s eyes locked on him.

He remembered the crossover from earlier.

He mimicked it again.

Then—twist.

This time, he didn’t finish the same way.

He faked the crossover, planted, then spun off his pivot foot in the opposite direction.

A completely new move.

It wasn’t Elijah’s.

It wasn’t anyone’s.

It was his.

Lucas Graves’ own creation.

He burst into the paint.

The center lunged.

Lucas floated the ball, a soft runner off the glass.

Swish.

The bench leapt up.

Ayumi gasped.

Coach Fred clenched his fist.

9 – 4.

Lucas turned back, not to celebrate—but to lock eyes with Elijah again.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t gloat.

But his gaze said it all.

Unmoved, Elijah tilted his head slightly, a single eyebrow raised.

Then, with a grin that never reached his eyes, he muttered—

"Hoh... It seems like I need to adjust my pattern real quick."

His voice was low. Calculated. Like someone who had seen storms before—and welcomed them.

Elijah Rainn – The Forest Watcher.

He wasn’t called that for nothing.

A master of observing rhythm. Of reading flows.

And breaking them.

He tapped the side of his head.

(So... the prodigy wants to bark back, huh?)

(Fine. Let’s see how long your fire lasts when the forest starts burning back.)

He turned to his squad.

Micah Vale—The Quiet Flame, silent as ever, gave a small nod.

Kael Moreno—The Trail Phantom, cracked his knuckles.

Tobias "Toby" Grey—Stonebark, rolled his shoulders, feet planted heavy.

Ayden Liu—The Quiet Sky, standing calm and centered at the baseline, blinked slowly, as if sensing the pressure change in the air.

All five of them...

Grinning.

Like predators who had just spotted movement in the brush.

...

Across the court, Vorpal Basket regrouped.

Lucas Graves stepped back on defense, wiping sweat from his brow, eyes sharp.

Behind him—

Evan Cooper (#9) scanned the court, jaw tight.

(Elijah’s tempo just changed...)

(He’s about to unleash something.)

Josh Turner (#8), the mid-range sharpshooter, slapped his palms together.

(C’mon... stop looking cool and start locking down.)

Ryan Taylor (#11) cracked his neck, low voice grumbling.

"I’m grabbing every board. I don’t care who jumps."

Brandon Young (#15), looming under the rim, whispered—

"Let them come. We hold the line."

And in the center of it all...

Lucas.

Heart pounding.

Knees slightly bent.

Eyes never blinking.

(The forest is moving... but so am I.)

The ball was in play.

Forest attacked. Quick passes. Elijah orchestrating everything like a maestro on fast-forward.

"Micah, cut!"

Micah sliced through the arc like a knife, Josh lost him in a blink.

Elijah no-look passed.

Kael crashed baseline.

Ayden sealed Brandon hard in the post.

Quick dish.

Lay-up.

11 – 4.

Just like that.

Lucas barely had time to blink.

Forest reset their defense in seconds.

Elijah grinned wide this time, arms spread.

"This is the difference between watching the stars..."

"...and knowing how to rearrange them."

Lucas’s eyes narrowed.

(Alright... If you’re the forest...)

(Then it’s time I learn how to burn through it.)

11 – 4.

Evan Cooper caught the inbound with precision.

A quick bounce. His sneakers screeched as he burst forward, crossing half-court in four rhythmic dribbles.

His left hand flicked up—a signal.

Lucas darted right, slicing through the defense like a knife through silk.

Josh curled hard to the elbow.

Ryan muscled into position, planting a shoulder into his defender for a brutal screen.

Brandon dove into the paint, low and wide, ready for the drop.

It was clean.

It was rehearsed to muscle memory.

It was Vorpal’s bread and butter.

But something was wrong.

Forest Basket wasn’t reacting...

They were anticipating.

Before Evan could even commit to a pass, Elijah was there—already leaning into Evan’s driving lane, cutting off his angle with a defensive stance that felt premeditated.

(What—he knew?)

Evan hesitated. The window closed.

Micah was lurking, slithering in the passing lane like a phantom.

Kael didn’t hesitate rotating out with blinding speed, his hand already reaching into the airspace Josh was curling into.

Ayden Liu, the immovable tree trunk, once again bricked Brandon’s roll. He didn’t budge an inch.

(They’re not just athletic...)

(They’re synchronized. Like a hive.)

Evan’s breath caught. He couldn’t drive. Couldn’t shoot.

With barely a heartbeat left, he snapped a pass out to Josh on the wing—

"Take it!"

Josh rose, defender draped over his shoulder.

Contested jumper.

A miss.

The ball bounced once off the rim—then disappeared into a sky of hands.

But only one came down with it.

Toby Grey.

Stonebark of Forest. Tower of silence.

He claimed the rebound like it was owed to him by bloodline.

And then—

It happened.

The break.

The court blurred.

Elijah ignited first, his sneakers carving arcs into the floor.

Kael sprinted wide, a red streak flaring at the corner of Evan’s eye.

Micah ghosted left—no sound, no presence, only threat.

Evan turned, legs already burning.

Too slow.

Elijah rocketed down the lane, the world narrowing around him.

Evan gave chase, lungs screaming, but he was a step behind.

Elijah took flight—

A sudden pump fake in the air—

Evan bit.

(No! He’s not shooting—!)

And the ball left Elijah’s fingertips—

Floating backward—

Right into Kael’s hands.

Kael slammed it home with violent grace.

KA-THUNK.

13–4.

The arena exploded.

Red lights flashed. Forest’s bench leapt in triumph. Their fans howled.

Vorpal’s bench?

Still.

Frozen.

A wall of silent disbelief.

But then—

A step.

Soft.

Firm.

Lucas Graves.

He walked forward slowly, as if the crowd noise couldn’t touch him.

His eyes didn’t blink.

Elijah turned back, jogging to his spot—

Then froze.

Half a second.

No words.

No breath.

Just that look.

That gaze.

(It’s him again...)

Because Lucas was staring at him—not with fear. Not with frustration.

But with ice.

No fear.

No confusion.

Only—

Calculation.

To be continue