The hardwood felt alive.

Miho shifted his weight.

Not rushed. Not forced.

Just inevitability in motion.

Lucas mirrored again… but the strain in his muscles was no longer invisible. His calves trembled. His breath hitched. His pupils were locked on Miho's center of gravity.

Miho's eyes didn't waver.

He knew.

He'd forced Lucas into a state where his body was not reacting… but chasing.

The finishing move was coming.

The arena didn't breathe.

Vorpal's Reaction

Evan's voice clicked sharp in his mind, the read already complete:

"He's going to collapse the lane. He'll either Euro or spin into a kick-out."

Ryan's smirk faded, replaced by a hunter's stillness:

"This is the strike. The next movement decides the possession."

Brandon shifted his stance, massive frame settling just a fraction lower:

"He's coming to the rim. I'll be the wall."

Louie's bouncing stopped, completely frozen:

"C'mon Lucas… don't fold. Don't fold now."

Ayumi's hand tightened around her clipboard, fingers whitening:

"Lucas… stay with him… please…"

Charlotte leaned forward, eyes cold and shining:

"Miho's not looking at Lucas anymore… he's already solved him."

And Ethan—

Ethan's heartbeat slowed to a deliberate, controlled pace.

His eyes didn't lock onto Miho, nor Lucas, nor the ball.

He saw the empty space.

The space where the play would resolve.

He stepped forward just once.

No call. No shout. No signal.

Just intent.

The Collision

Miho accelerated.

The world snapped.

The ball didn't bounce loud, it whispered. A silk-thread dribble, brushing earth.

His foot stabbed toward Lucas's left hip step-through angle perfect.

His shoulder dipped, weight shifting like liquid steel.

Lucas mirrored.

Absolute Mimicry flickered like lightning blooming behind bone.

But Miho's final layer wasn't mechanical motion.

It was timing.

He delayed

a fraction.

A fracture.

A silence in movement.

Lucas moved too soon.

His mimicry completed the motion before Miho did.

His foot planted half a beat early.

His balance compromised.

Miho slid past his shoulder like moonlight gliding over water.

The crowd's breath caught.

Ayumi's eyes widened, voice cracking with horror:

"Lucas—"

Lucas felt the slip.

"No don't fall recenter, recenter!"

His ankle rolled.

His weight stumbled.

He reached

Miho was gone.

A blur, carving toward the paint.

Brandon stepped up, chest broad, stance flawless

The anchor of Vorpal's defense.

Miho didn't hesitate.

A single upward glide no jump, just lift.

His hand extended behind him ball tucked like a painter preparing a final stroke.

Brandon's feet braced.

Ethan moved.

Not from instinct

but from inevitability.

His foot cut the angle, body weaving through collapsing geometry, sliding exactly into the intersect point of Miho's finishing lane.

The world tightened to a single point.

Miho's eyes met Ethan's.

For the first time

Miho's expression shifted.

Not anger.

Not panic.

Recognition.

Ethan's voice came quiet, steady, carved from the kind of will that does not break:

"Here."

Not a warning.

A declaration.

The court shuddered.

The ball paused, suspended in Miho's palm, tension coiled so sharply the moment could snap and rewrite the game.

Lucas, regaining balance behind them, chest burning, eyes sharp and bright again, gasped out a breath between gritted teeth:

"Ethan… you read it… before any of us…"

Miho's fingers tightened on the ball.

Vorpal's formation compressed, five players moving as one pulse.

Miho didn't blink.

He didn't need to finish the move himself.

The moment Ethan stepped into the path, sealing the lane with perfect anticipation, Miho's body changed.

Not halted.

Not startled.

Just redirected.

The ball rolled from his fingertips with the softness of silk releasing a secret.

No-look.

No telegraph.

No pause.

The pass left his hand before his eyes acknowledged the target.

Davis Conner was already rising.

The Arena Didn't Understand Until It Was Already Done.

Brandon's hand came up late.

Ryan's foot planted too far.

Lucas lunged balance still half-broken.

Evan eyes wide knew exactly what happened.

"He used Ethan's rotation as bait—!"

Louie's voice cracked, high and strained:

"No, no, no!"

Ayumi's clipboard hit her knee, knuckles white:

"They forced our anchor to overcommit!"

Charlotte's voice was cold, analytical, brutal:

"That wasn't misdirection. That was calculation. He wanted Ethan to read the drive."

The air collapsed.

Davis caught the ball midair, hands massive, momentum rolling through his frame like boulders down a mountain slope.

Brandon went up to contest

But Davis had height.

But Davis had angle.

But Davis had the timing Miho fed into him.

He hammered it.

The rim didn't rattle.

It thundered.

BOOM.

Backboard shook.

Crowd detonated.

EASTGATE BENCH (exploding):

"THAT'S HOW WE PLAY!"

Davis landed heavy, shoulders rolling, chest heaving, eyes fixed ahead not celebrating.

Miho landed lightly behind him, as quiet as snowfall.

He didn't smile.

He didn't pump a fist.

He simply walked back on defense.

Like it was the expected outcome.

Lucas exhaled, breath ragged.

"I… hesitated. My step lagged."

Ryan's jaw tensed, expression turning sharp and humorless:

"We got read like an open diary."

Brandon's hands flexed once. No frustration. Just acknowledgment.

"He used the help rotation against us."

Evan nodded slowly, sweat rolling down his cheek.

"That wasn't just court vision… it was predictive passing."

Louie swallowed hard.

"So this is Eastgate's second layer…"

Ayumi closed her eyes just for a heartbeat.

"They're aiming for Ethan's brain. Not his body."

And Ethan—

Ethan's expression didn't shift.

His breathing stayed level.

He walked the ball up the court, slow, steady, controlled.

He didn't force speed. He didn't rush.

His voice came low, calm, anchored:

"No panic."

He looked at Lucas.

"Your rhythm isn't broken. You're still in it."

Lucas met his gaze breath rough but eyes burning alive.

"I'm not done."

Ethan nodded once. A single affirmation.

"We adapt."

He crossed half-court.

The scoreboard glowed:

VORPAL 27 – EASTGATE 19

The scoreboard blinked, but the numbers felt heavier than the air. Miho's no-look had left a mark—not just on the score, but on the rhythm of the game.

Ethan and Lucas stepped into their Two-Man Mirror Offense, a play designed to trap the opponent in anticipation, force hesitation, and exploit the smallest crack in spacing. It was their signature, a synchronized pulse of thought and motion.

Lucas shifted into position, eyes locked on Miho. Absolute Mimicry fired instantly, trying to read micro-patterns, the subtle tilt of the shoulder, the angle of release, the flick of the wrist. His hands followed, tracing the invisible lines of Miho's rhythm.

Ethan mirrored him on the weak side, his Jordan Shooting Form ready, Kobe Fadeaway timing encoded in his stance. Everything they did was a signal, a lure, a shadow waiting for Miho to blink first.

But Miho… moved like a ghost outside their code.

No telegraph. No hesitation. No overcommitment. Every twitch of his body was precise. Every shift of weight a trap disguised as normalcy.

He stopped the mirror before it could form. Lucas attempted a fake drive, sliding into the passing lane to create a split. Ethan cut across, ready to pull the defender with him, to pull space into their hands.

Miho's eyes flicked not to the ball, not to the trap but to the empty pocket of space that would have opened if they succeeded.

Then, like a snapping wire, he adjusted. Shoulder dipped just enough to bait Lucas, feet angled to deny Ethan's path, hands ready to intercept or lure.

Lucas's mind raced. He's bending the offense before it even exists… he's reading our pulse before we set it.

Ethan's own voice in thought was cold and sharp. This isn't just defense. This is preemptive offense. He predicts, he manipulates, he neutralizes. Every mirror reflection we cast, he warps.

Brandon and Ryan shifted instinctively, covering the weak angles, but even their awareness wasn't enough to force Miho into a misstep.

The ball swung briefly, searching for options, but the Two-Man Mirror Offense collapsed under the weight of Miho's control. Lucas's hands flicked in anticipation, but he couldn't break the code.

Miho moved.

The defense remained intact. The play fizzled.

VORPAL's pulse hit a stutter.

Evan's voice, low but urgent, cut through the tension:

"Reset. Don't force it. Let him make the first mistake."

Louie's fists clenched in frustration, but he shouted anyway:

"Come on! We've done this a thousand times!"

Ryan smirked despite himself, scanning Miho:

"Damn, this kid reads like an open book… except the book's already written in a code we don't have."

Brandon's hands flexed, silent agreement in the motion:

"We'll adjust. He can't do this forever."

Ayumi whispered from the sideline, clipboard pressed tight to her chest:

"He's stopping the mirror… he's stopping them before it even forms. That's… genius."

Charlotte nodded beside her:

"Not just genius predatory. He's a hunter inside the game, and our team is the prey if we're not careful."

Ethan exhaled once, sharp and controlled. Not panic. Not frustration. Awareness. Strategy recalibrating.

Two-Man Mirror Offense failed.

Score: VORPAL 27 – EASTGATE 19.

The court waited. The next possession would demand even more.

Miho's smirk was faint but present, eyes cold, almost amused at the challenge he had just survived.

The war was far from over but the message was clear.

He was ready. And so, they had to be too.

To be continue

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