The short break between quarters felt less like a rest and more like a frantic gasp for air in the middle of a storm. Huddled on the sideline, the Dasmariñas players were a tableau of exhaustion. The stale, humid air of the arena held the heavy weight of mounting pressure, and the scoreboard's grim display haunted the anxious silence of their huddle: Trece Martires 20, Dasmariñas 17. The first quarter had tested their limits, but it was only a prelude.

Coach Gutierrez stood before them, his eyes scanning each face, measuring their fatigue and their resolve. His voice was steady, cutting through their ragged breathing and the distant roar of the crowd.

"He's a force of nature, we get it," he said, his gaze fixed on Gab and Cedrick. "Matumba's pace and strength are staggering, but he is human. He bleeds, he gets tired. We are not fighting him one-on-one. We are fighting him five-on-one. Every time he touches that ball, he needs to feel a crowd. We contain him with our bodies, we frustrate him with our intelligence. This quarter, we make him earn every single point. We make it ours."

Tristan squeezed the sweat-soaked towel in his hands, the coarse fabric grounding him. He looked at the drained faces of his teammates. "We control what we can control," he said, his voice low but firm, forcing them to meet his eyes. "We control the ball. We control our effort. We fight for each other on every single possession."

The buzzer sounded, ending their brief sanctuary. The second quarter was here—the ten minutes where a championship could be lost long before the final horn.

Dasmariñas trotted back onto the court with a revised lineup, hoping to counter Trece Martires' size with speed and fresh legs: Tristan at the point, John Manalo at shooting guard, the swift Daewoo Kim at small forward, with the unenviable task falling to Gab Lagman and Cedrick Estrella to anchor the paint. Trece Martires returned with the same potent five that had given them the lead.

Possession belonged to Trece Martires to start the quarter. Tracy Romeo walked the ball up the court, a predator surveying his territory. The play was obvious before it even began. He fed the ball into the low post, right into the monstrous hands of Ibeke Matumba.

Gab planted his feet, lowering his center of gravity, preparing for the collision he knew was coming. Matumba took one hard dribble, his shoulder driving into Gab's chest like a battering ram. Gab grunted, sliding back a foot, the sheer force rattling him. Cedrick came over to help, but Matumba, feeling the double team, spun with an agility that defied his size. He rumbled through the lane, absorbing the contact as both Dasma big men swiped at the ball, and threw up a layup that banked in.

The referee's whistle blew. Foul on Gab. The basket counted.

A collective groan escaped the Dasmariñas bench. Gab shouted in frustration, his body sagging under the weight of the onslaught. "Hold the line! Make him work for every inch!" he yelled to no one and everyone.

Matumba stepped to the charity stripe, his expression unreadable, and calmly sank the free throw. The scoreboard now read Trece Martires 23, Dasmariñas 17.

The next few minutes were a brutal lesson in physicality. Every missed Dasmariñas shot seemed to be a gift to Matumba, who snatched rebounds with his monstrous hands, denying them any second-chance opportunities. Cedrick and Gab fought desperately for position, their bodies absorbing blow after blow.

"We have to get a body on him!" Cedrick panted to Gab during a dead ball, sweat and frustration mingling on his face. "One of us has to sacrifice for the box out!"

Drenched in sweat, Ian watched helplessly from the bench, his hands gripping a towel so tightly his knuckles were white. He felt a silent, desperate wish to be out there, to give his brothers a reprieve from the relentless pressure.

Tristan tried to orchestrate a scrappy offense under duress. He weaved through double teams, pushing the tempo, and found John Manalo on the wing. John caught the pass and fired a quick jumper. It looked good in the air, a momentary spark of hope, but it rattled around the rim and bounced out violently.

Matumba grabbed the rebound and, in one motion, threw a court-length pass to a streaking Tracy Romeo. The fast break was unstoppable.

Coach Gutierrez had seen enough. He signaled for a timeout, his face a thunderous mask. He gathered the team as they trudged to the sideline, their shoulders slumped.

"The paint is melting," he said, his voice sharp. "We're playing his game, not ours. Cedrick, Gab, you have to switch more aggressively on their screens. Tristan, slow it down. One good, smart possession is better than three rushed ones. Settle. Breathe."

Breathing heavily, Tristan met his coach's fiery gaze and nodded. "We fight smarter. Defense first. Then offense."

John, his face grim with the memory of his miss, gave Tristan a resolute fist bump. "My bad, Cap. No more easy points for them. It's time to clutch up."

Whatever was said in the huddle, Trece Martires seemed to have overheard and decided to mock it. They came out of the timeout and unleashed a furious, soul-crushing offensive rally. Matumba muscled his way to two consecutive putbacks, scoring four straight points over the exhausted frontline. JP Simon drove hard into the lane, drawing contact and sinking both foul shots. Then, to cap the run, Jace Yap, left open for a split second, unleashed another flawless three-pointer that silenced the entire Dasmariñas section.

Score: Trece Martires 35 — Dasmariñas 21.

A wave of despair washed over the Dasmariñas bench. On the court, the players huddled together, breaths ragged, the fourteen-point deficit feeling like a hundred. Gab leaned his head on Cedrick's shoulder, his voice a low, fierce whisper.

"He's making me feel weak out there, Ced. I've never felt that before. But we don't break. You hear me? We. Do. Not. Break."

Cedrick shook his head, wiping sweat from his eyes. "It's rough… damn rough. But we're not broken."

Tristan, calling for the ball, caught Marco's eye on the sidelines. It was a silent, desperate plea for reassurance. Marco didn't just nod; a defiant, almost feral grin spread across his face, his eyes burning with a shared determination that said, I'm with you 'til the end. Let's go down swinging.

That look was all the fuel Tristan needed. Daewoo, gifted with relentless energy, became a blur of motion, darting into the paint and drawing defenders like moths to a flame. As the defense collapsed, he dished the ball swiftly to John Manalo, who, under intense pressure from a closing defender, rose and sank a contested jumper to finally stop the bleeding.

Score: 35 — 23.

A small cheer, more relief than joy, came from their fans. Tristan pushed the tempo again, but this time with purpose. "Faster cuts!" he barked. "Keep them guessing!"

Felix Tan, coming off the bench, threw his body into the fray, helping to double-team Matumba, trying to slow the behemoth's surge. "Use your body, not your hands!" Gab's voice grew louder, coaching from the court.

With ninety seconds left in the half, Dasmariñas played with the fierce urgency of a team with nothing left to lose. Tristan and John executed a perfect pick-and-roll, slicing through a gap in the defense. John's pull-up jumper kissed the net, sparking a genuine round of applause.

Score: 35 — 26.

On the next possession, Matumba rose again, answering with a thunderous dunk that seemed to mock their efforts. But Dasmariñas didn't flinch. With thirty seconds left, Tristan read Tracy Romeo's eyes, anticipated a pass to the wing, and shot the gap. His fingers deflected the ball. He scooped it up and darted down the court. He drew two defenders and found Daewoo spotting up on the wing. Without a moment's hesitation, Daewoo launched a clutch three-pointer. The arena held its breath.

Swish.

Score: 38 — 31.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the brutal second quarter. Dasmariñas walked towards the locker room, not defeated, but defiant.

Inside their sanctuary, the coach let them catch their breath. "That run at the end," he said, his voice ringing with pride. "That's who we are. That is the fight in our blood. Matumba is a mountain, but a mountain can be climbed. One step at a time. We just took three big steps. Focus on defense, be patient on offense. Every possession matters."

Tristan, draining a bottle of water, looked at his weary brothers. "This is the test," he said, his voice steadfast. "Right now. This is where we decide who we are. We rise from this, or we let it bury us."

The locker room was filled with the quiet sounds of a team refusing to break.

"We'll climb it together," Marco said, taping his ankle. "No backing down."

Gab, an ice pack on his shoulder, met Tristan's eyes. "The harder the fight," he said, a weary smile on his face, "the sweeter the victory."

Aiden chimed in, "Our comeback starts now."

The championship was far from over. Dasmariñas National had been beaten, battered, and bruised. But they had chosen to fight, with every beat of their collective heart.

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