The next day, the Buffalo arrived earlier than they ever had before.
The sun was barely up when the first lights inside the training facility flickered on.
The gym, usually loud with echoes of bouncing balls and music, was quiet—almost reverent. Shoes squeaked softly on polished wood. The smell of disinfectant still lingered in the air, untouched by sweat.
No one had called for an early practice.
No one had to.
One by one, the players walked in, some with headphones on, others in silence, all carrying the same invisible weight.
The loss. The chaos. The departures.
The questions that followed them home and waited beside their beds.
This was no ordinary practice day.
This was preparation for the Komodo Dragons.
The defending champions.
The standard of every team in their league.
Elias arrived early, as he always did.
He stretched at the corner of the court, methodical, deliberate. He listened to the rhythm of the room—the quiet determination in every movement, the tension beneath every breath. He had felt this before, years ago, when teams stood on the edge between believing and breaking.
Coach Ed entered with the assistant coaches, carrying tablets and folders instead of whistles. He didn't bark orders. He didn't rush anyone.
"Conference room," he said simply.
No one complained.
They filed in, jerseys already on, sweatpants rustling. The lights dimmed as the screen came alive.
The Komodo Dragons' logo filled the wall—bold, intimidating, unmistakable.
The room stiffened.
Coach Ed stood at the front, remote in hand. "This isn't about fear," he said calmly. "It's about understanding."
The footage began.
The Dragons moved with brutal efficiency. Crisp passes. Perfect spacing. Defensive rotations that snapped into place like steel traps.
On offense, they punished hesitation.
On defense, they suffocated confidence.
No wasted motion.
No panic.
"They look like machines," Santino muttered under his breath.
Coach Ed didn't pause the video.
The tape rolled on, showing fast breaks, half-court sets, defensive stands that crushed opposing teams' momentum.
Every clip ended the same way—frustrated opponents, confident Dragons.
Then the camera cut to the sideline.
Their head coach stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Coach Willams.
Former international player. Decorated veteran. A man who had seen pressure on the biggest stages and learned how to turn it into armor.
"When Willams took over," Coach Ed said, finally pausing the video, "everything changed."
He clicked forward.
"Before him, the Dragons were talented," Ed continued. "After him, they became disciplined."
The footage shifted—comparisons between seasons.
Defensive schemes tightened. Communication improved. Mistakes vanished almost entirely.
"He made them strong as steel bars," one of the assistants added. "Mentally and physically."
The screen froze on a possession where five Dragons moved as one, shutting down every option until the shot clock expired.
Silence filled the room.
Coach Ed took a breath.
"Now," he said, "watch closely."
He rewound the clip.
This time, he paused at an almost invisible moment—an extra step taken by the help defender, a fraction of hesitation from the weak-side wing.
"There," Ed said, pointing.
Some players leaned forward.
"That's a crack," he said. "Not a big one. But it's there."
The assistants chimed in, breaking down sequences frame by frame. A late closeout here. A predictable rotation there. Rare mistakes—but real ones.
"Perfect teams don't exist," Coach Ed said. "Just disciplined ones."
The video ended.
The lights came back on.
And the room exhaled.
Frustration sat heavy on their faces. Not fear—frustration. The kind that comes when you see how high the mountain really is.
Nemuel leaned back in his chair, running both hands through his hair. "How are we supposed to beat those guys?" he said aloud. "They're almost perfect."
No one answered immediately.
The question lingered, honest and unfiltered.
Elias stood up slowly.
The room turned toward him.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"We can beat them," Elias said calmly, "because they're almost perfect—but not one hundred percent."
Nemuel frowned slightly.
"They have what we have," Elias continued. "And what every team in history has."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"The ability to be defeated."
Some players straightened in their seats.
"They've stayed at the top too long," Elias went on. "And when you stay up there, you forget what it feels like to bleed."
The room grew quiet—but something shifted.
"They're human," Elias said. "They get tired. They get frustrated. They get careless when challenged in ways they don't expect."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes one by one.
"We don't beat them by trying to be perfect," he said. "We beat them by being relentless."
Victor nodded slowly.
"We pressure them," Elias continued. "We force them to think. We drag them into mistakes they don't like making."
Santino leaned forward. "You're saying… patience?"
"And belief," Elias replied. "In each other."
Nemuel swallowed. "You really think we can do it?"
Elias smiled—not wide, not confident—but honest.
"I know we can."
Something ignited in the room.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was a spark.
A spark of hope.
A spark of hunger.
The kind that burns quietly but refuses to go out.
Coach Ed watched the room carefully, then nodded. "Alright," he said. "Let's take that spark to the court."
The chairs scraped back. Shoes hit the floor.
As they walked out, the gym no longer felt cold or empty.
It felt alive.
The Buffalo weren't facing legends anymore.
They were facing men.
And men, no matter how strong, could fall.
The Komodo Dragons didn't know it yet—
But their armor had cracks.
And then the Buffalo were ready to strike.