The halftime buzzer had faded, but the energy in the King Dome had not. It had curdled into a thick, suffocating tension. The score was Dasmariñas 49 — QC 47. A two-point game. The "Ambush" had worked, but the "King" was awake.
As the teams walked back onto the floor, the change in atmosphere was palpable. There was no more dancing in the warm-up lines. There were no more smiles. The Quezon City High looked like a pack of wolves that had just been slapped; they were angry, focused, and dangerous. Joco Palencia walked to the center circle, his eyes devoid of the arrogance that had defined the first quarter. In its place was a cold, flat, murderous intent.
Tristan Herrera walked to meet him. He felt lighter, faster, stronger. The System stats—the Physicals, the Attributes, the Skill Badges—were humming beneath his skin like a second nervous system. He wasn't just a player anymore; he was a precision instrument of basketball warfare.
"You poked the bear, General," Palencia said, his voice low as they stood near the hash mark. He wasn't trash-talking. He was stating a fact.
"I didn't come here to poke bears," Tristan replied, his voice calm, his Skill Badge Floor General mind already scanning the QC defensive formation. "I came here to hunt them."
The referee blew the whistle. The third quarter—the quarter of champions—began.
Palencia took the inbound. He didn't pass. He didn't call a play. He waved his teammates to the corners.
"Iso," he said, staring at Tristan.
The crowd rose. They knew what this was.
Palencia dribbled, a slow, rhythmic thud-thud-thud. He lulled Tristan to sleep, then exploded.
He drove left, hard. Tristan, with his Speed and Agility, slid his feet perfectly, cutting off the lane.
Palencia didn't panic. He planted his left foot, spun back toward the middle, and into a fadeaway jumper from the free-throw line. It was the shot he had learned watching Coby Bryant on a fuzzy TV in Barangay Central.
Tristan contested, his hand right in Palencia's face.
It didn't matter.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — QC 49
"Tie game," Palencia whispered as he ran back.
Tristan took the ball. He felt the flow. The Zone was still there, a quiet room in his mind.
He crossed half-court. Palencia picked him up at the logo, pressing, hand-checking.
Tristan used his Skill Ankle Breaker.
He hit Palencia with a double-crossover—right, left, right—so fast the ball was a blur. Palencia bit on the final move, his weight shifting just an inch too far.
Tristan exploited the inch. He drove. The QC center, Marcus Lee, stepped up to block.
Tristan didn't stop. He activated Skill Slithery Finisher and Giant Slayer. He gathered the ball, euro-stepped around Lee's massive frame, and finished with a scoop layup that kissed the top of the glass.
Score: Dasmariñas 51 — QC 49
Palencia was already back on offense. He was playing at a frenetic pace. He caught the ball on the wing.
He didn't dribble. He used a triple-threat position. He jab-stepped. Tristan didn't bite.
Palencia jabbed again, then rose up for a contested three-pointer with Tristan draped all over him.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 51 — QC 52
"He's unconscious," Marco muttered from the wing. "He literally cannot miss."
Tristan brought it up. He saw Palencia overplaying the right hand.
Tristan faked a drive right, then hit a nasty snatch-back dribble. Palencia tried to recover, lunging forward.
Tristan calmly stepped to the side, creating three feet of separation. He was 26 feet out.
His Mid-Range... but his Three-Point was now elite thanks to the badges.
He fired.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 54 — QC 52
The crowd was losing its mind. It was a shootout. A heavyweight slugfest.
Palencia was fuming. He wasn't used to someone answering him shot for shot. He drove into the paint, drawing Gab and Ian.
He faked a pass, freezing the bigs, then went up and under for a reverse layup.
Dasmariñas 54 — QC 54.
Tristan ran a pick-and-roll with Ian. Palencia fought over the screen.
Tristan split the defense, driving down the middle. He saw the QC defense collapse. He could have passed to Marco.
But the Mamba in Palencia had awakened something in Tristan.
He didn't pass. He stopped on a dime at the elbow, let the defenders fly by, and hit a calm, bank-shot jumper.
Dasmariñas 56 — QC 54.
Palencia brought the ball up. He crossed over Daewoo (who had switched), broke his ankles, and hit a pull-up three from the wing.
Dasmariñas 56 — QC 57.
Tristan brought it back. He isolated Palencia again.
"You can't guard me," Tristan said, his voice cold. It was the first time he had trash-talked.
He drove, stopped, pirouetted, and hit a Dirk-Nowitzki one-legged fadeaway.
Dasmariñas 58 — QC 57.
Palencia didn't speak. He just took the ball, drove the length of the court in three seconds, and dunked over Ian Veneracion. A poster. A statement.
Dasmariñas 58 — QC 59.
Tristan didn't blink. He took the inbound. He pulled up from 30 feet.
Swish.
Dasmariñas 61 — QC 59.
The game had ceased to be a team sport. The other eight players were just spectators with the best seats in the house. Marco stood in the corner, hands on his knees, watching. Gab was boxing out, but mostly watching. Even Coach Gutierrez had stopped shouting instructions. He was just watching two masters paint a masterpiece of violence.
"They are..." Aiden whispered from the stands, gripping his mother's arm, "they are ascending. This isn't high school basketball. This is... this is art."
Palencia was breathing hard now. His jersey was soaked. He had scored 14 points in the quarter already.
He called for a screen. He didn't use it. He rejected it and drove baseline.
He was trapped by Tristan and Ian.
Palencia jumped. He was in the air, with nowhere to go.
In a display of pure, impossible athleticism, he double-clutched, switching the ball from right to left to right again, avoiding Ian's block, and flipped the ball over his shoulder.
It spun on the rim... and dropped.
Dasmariñas 61 — QC 61.
Tristan was tired, too. His Stamina was being tested. But his mind was clear.
He dribbled up. He saw Palencia sagging, just a bit. Trying to catch his breath.
Mistake.
Tristan accelerated.
He blew past Palencia. He got into the lane. The QC bigs were terrified of fouling. Tristan hit a floater.
Dasmariñas 63 — QC 61.
Palencia came back. He didn't drive. He used a series of jab steps to back Tristan up, then pulled up for a long two.
Clang.
It missed!
Ian grabbed the rebound. "PUSH IT!"
Tristan got the ball. Fast break.
He saw Marco running the wing. Palencia was chasing Tristan down.
Tristan looked at Marco. Palencia shifted his weight to intercept the pass.
Tristan kept the ball. He went all the way for the layup.
Dasmariñas 65 — QC 61.
A 4-point lead. The biggest lead of the quarter.
Palencia was furious at himself. He demanded the ball.
He came down and hit a contested three-pointer with Tristan's hand in his eye.
Dasmariñas 65 — QC 64.
"You can't break me," Palencia snarled.
Tristan ignored him. He ran a play. A complex weave.
He got the ball back with 5 seconds on the shot clock. He was cornered.
He spun baseline, faded away, and banked it in.
Dasmariñas 67 — QC 64.
Palencia drove, drew a foul on Gab.
He hit both free throws.
Dasmariñas 67 — QC 66.
Tristan brought it up. He saw Daewoo cutting. He hit him with a pass.
Daewoo went up... and was blocked by Marcus Lee.
QC recovered the ball.
Palencia pushed. He found Padrigao in the corner.
Padrigao missed the three.
Tristan grabbed the rebound.
The pace slowed. Both stars were gasping. The score was Dasmariñas 67 — QC 66.
Tristan held the ball at the top.
"Motion!" he called, his voice raspy.
The team moved. Screens. Cuts.
Tristan used a screen from Ian. He got a switch. He was guarding the 6'8" Marcus Lee.
Tristan danced. Tight Handles.
He crossed Lee over, step-back.
He fired a three.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 70 — QC 66
Palencia answered instantly. He didn't even run a play. He just ran down the court and pulled up from the logo.
It was a reckless, angry shot.
And it went in.
Score: Dasmariñas 70 — QC 69
Tristan walked the ball up.
"One shot," he signaled.
He waited. 10... 9...
Palencia was on him, pressing, sweating, eyes wild.
Tristan drove. He got into the paint. He jump-stopped.
He pumped faked. Palencia flew by.
Tristan stepped through and laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 72 — QC 69
QC held for the last shot.
Palencia stood at half-court. He looked at the clock.
15... 14...
He started his move.
He drove right. Tristan cut him off.
He spun left. Tristan was there.
Palencia stepped back. Tristan stepped with him.
5... 4...
Palencia was trapped. He had nowhere to go.
He looked at the rim. He looked at Tristan.
He jumped. He leaned into Tristan, creating contact, and threw up a prayer from 25 feet.
The whistle blew.
Foul.
Tristan couldn't believe it. He had been straight up.
"That's a foul?!" he yelled.
The referee nodded. Three shots.
Palencia landed, a smirk returning to his face. "Veteran move, General."
The crowd was deafening. Palencia stepped to the line.
0.5 seconds on the clock.
First shot. Swish. 72-70.
Second shot. Swish. 72-71.
Third shot.
He bounced the ball. He looked at Tristan.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 72 — QC 72
Ian inbounded to Tristan.
Tristan took one dribble and heaved a 70-foot prayer.
It hit the backboard and rimmed out.
The buzzer sounded.
End of Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 72 — Quezon City 72
The two teams walked to their benches. The score was tied.
Tristan Herrera and Joco Palencia had just played perhaps the greatest quarter of individual basketball in Palaro history.
Palencia had scored 23 points in the quarter.
Tristan had scored 21.
They had traded blow for blow, shot for shot, move for move. Neither had blinked. Neither had broken.
Tristan collapsed onto the bench, burying his face in a towel. His lungs felt like they were burning. His legs were shaking.
"Water," he gasped.
Daewoo handed him a bottle. "You... you're amazing, Cap. You matched him. Step for step."
Tristan looked up, his eyes red, his face slick with sweat.
"I didn't match him," Tristan rasped. "I let him tie it."
He looked across the court. Palencia was sitting on the QC bench, staring right back at him. The King looked tired, but he was smiling. He was enjoying this.
"He's loving it," Marco said, sounding terrified. "He thinks he has you."
Coach Gutierrez knelt in front of Tristan.
"Listen to me," the coach said, his voice intense. "You just went twelve rounds with the heavyweight champion of the world. And you are still standing. You are tied. That is a win."
"It doesn't feel like a win," Tristan said.
"It will," Coach G said. "Because now... now we change the game."
He stood up and addressed the team.
"Palencia has scored 23 points in ten minutes. He has taken every single shot for them. He is exhausted. He is running on fumes and adrenaline."
The coach's eyes narrowed.
"Tristan. You are the Floor General. I know you do. I've seen you use it. You've been matching his scoring. Now... I want you to stop."
Tristan looked up, confused. "Stop scoring?"
"Stop trying to beat him 1-on-1," Coach G said. "He wants a duel. He thrives on it. It feeds his ego. We are going to starve him."
He pointed to Marco, Ian, Gab, and Daewoo.
"In the fourth quarter... Tristan, you become the distributor. You drive, you draw him, and you pass. We are going to make him play defense on rotation. We are going to make him chase the ball. We are going to make him work through screens. We are going to use your passing to break him."
He looked at Marco.
"The Dagger. It's time."
Marco stood up, wiping his face. "I'm ready, Coach."
"Tristan draws the fire," Coach G said. "Marco... you deliver the kill shot. We stop playing 'Jocoball.' We start playing Dasmariñas basketball. Are you with me?"
Tristan stood up. He looked at Palencia one last time.
The King was still smiling.
Tristan didn't smile. He just engaged his Badge Floor General skill. The blue lines of the court lit up in his mind. The passing lanes glowed.
You want a duel, Joco? Tristan thought. Fine. But I'm not bringing a gun anymore.
I'm bringing an army.
"DASMA ON THREE!"
"ONE! TWO! THREE!"
"DASMAAAAA!"
The fourth quarter. The Championship. Ten minutes left.
Tie game.
It was time to end it.