Chapter 360: Humiliating: THE PRINCE DENIED

The Heaven Reapers reset.

Marcus took the inbound, jaw locked so tight the muscles along his neck stood out like steel cables under silk. He dribbled upcourt with deliberate menace—right hand, casual pace that screamed ownership, every bounce a proclamation:

this court is mine, this game is mine, this moment is mine.

The stadium still buzzed from the previous sequence, but now the noise had teeth. Everyone knew what was coming. Everyone wanted blood—some for Marcus, some against him, most just for the spectacle of the Earth Prince being tested.

Phei shadowed him from the side—not in front, never in front. Half a step behind, close enough to smell the expensive cologne warring with the faint, acrid tang of humiliated sweat. He watched Marcus’s wrist.

Always the wrist. Never the ball. The ball was a servant; the wrist was the master.

Marcus

shifted

left.

The instant that wrist turned outward—telegraphing the crossover with the arrogance of a man who had never once been truly challenged—

Phei’s hand snapped in

.

Not a wild swipe.

A pinch

rather.

Thumb and index finger clamped the top of the ball mid-bounce like a vice forged from divine contempt.

The leather simply stopped obeying Marcus.

It froze in place—mid-air, mid-revolution—then reversed direction in one fluid, impossible pull, rolling back into Phei’s own dribble as though it had always belonged there, as though gravity and momentum had knelt and asked permission first.

Marcus froze there in place. Palms open. Empty. Half a second of perfect, crystalline stillness while the crowd’s gasp arrived late—ragged, disbelieving, the sound of people realizing the robbery had already happened before their eyes even caught up.

Phei didn’t run.

He

waited.

Danton rushed in to pressure, face flushed with the fury of a man watching his bloodline’s golden boy get publicly castrated on live broadcast. He lunged like a starving wolf, fingers outstretched like claws, pride bleeding from every pore.

Phei

dribbled

lazily in front of him—ball bouncing high, deliberately exposed, daring Danton to take what was clearly his by right of birth.

Danton lunged.

Phei let him come.

At the exact millisecond Danton’s hand reached—fingertips brushing leather—Phei lifted the ball upward with the languid grace of a god flicking away an insect. Danton’s fingers scraped nothing but air.

As Danton’s momentum carried him forward, overcommitted and off-balance, Phei slid past his hip and

hooked the ball behind Danton’s back

in one languid drag of long fingers.

One step. One bounce.

The ball was already back under Phei’s control before Danton even finished spinning.

Danton whirled around—already beaten, already knowing it in the marrow of his bones.

The crowd’s roar deepened, recognition setting in like frost on stained glass. This wasn’t luck. This was execution.

Kyle and Brett closed in together—shoulder to shoulder, desperation wearing the mask of coordination, two princes reduced to foot soldiers in a war they no longer understood.

Phei

dribbled

toward them deliberately, narrowing the space, inviting the trap like a predator allowing prey to think it has the advantage. Three bounces—normal rhythm, almost polite. On the fourth bounce he killed it—palm deadening the ball so completely it stuck to his hand for a fraction too long, defying physics with casual, godlike arrogance.

Kyle reached. Brett hesitated—split-second fatal error.

Phei rolled the ball off his palm, letting it fall behind his leg, then snapped it back forward with the opposite hand in a single, contemptuous flick. Kyle grabbed empty space. Brett collided into his teammate’s shoulder.

Both stumbled, momentum turning them into clowns in matching jerseys—Legacy royalty reduced to slapstick in front of twenty thousand witnesses.

The crowd erupted—this one was obvious, obscene, humiliating in its simplicity.

Phei shook his head once.

Disappointed.

The gesture was small, almost parental. It cut deeper than any trash talk ever could.

Brian cut toward the net, hands already up, perfect lane opening like a gift from the basketball gods themselves.

Phei lifted the ball as though he were about to pass—shoulders turning, eyes locking on Brian with theatrical focus. Brian’s fingers spread wide, ready to receive glory, ready to reclaim some shred of dignity for the Reapers.

At the last possible instant—right before release—Phei pulled the ball back into his dribble. It rolled across his forearm, down his wrist, and settled back into his palm with the lazy grace of a cat deciding not to jump.

The crowd screamed—half laughter, half disbelief, the sound of people watching a public execution carried out with impeccable manners.

Phei didn’t apologize.

He didn’t even smile.

He simply turned back toward the five boys who had once ruled this court like gods.

Now they looked very mortal.

Marcus stepped up again. Jaw tight. Angry now—real anger, the kind that cracks porcelain smiles and leaves blood on the shards.

Phei slowed.

Every third humiliation, he didn’t accelerate.

He decelerated.

Speed looks athletic.

Slowing down looks divine.

He dribbled once—soft, deliberate.

Glanced at Brian.

Glanced at Landon.

Then went right back to Marcus.

The message was unmistakable.

I know every option.

I choose this one.

Marcus lowered, ready—desperate to reclaim something, anything.

Phei waited until Marcus leaned in—just slightly.

Then he took one short step forward, snapped the ball low to the opposite hand, and immediately stepped back.

No drive.

No finish.

Just pure, surgical disrespect.

Marcus lunged forward instinctively—overcommitted, off-balance, chasing a ghost that had already vanished.

He had to scramble back, feet tangling, pride hemorrhaging in real time.

The crowd laughed—loud, cruel, delighted.

Phei didn’t score.

He refused to score.

This wasn’t basketball anymore.

This was

ritual humiliation

.

The five boys—Marcus, Danton, Kyle, Brett, Anderson—kept coming.

Marcus stepped up again. Jaw locked so tight the veins in his temples pulsed visibly. Angry now—real, molten anger, the kind that shatters the mask of untouchable perfection and leaves the shards embedded in the skin.

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, eyes blazing with the fury of a prince who had just watched his throne turned to kindling while the one holding the torch smiled politely.

Phei slowed.

Every third humiliation, he didn’t accelerate. He decelerated.

Speed looks athletic. Slowing down looks divine.

Phei halted completely.

He dribbled the ball in place.

Once. Twice. Slow.

Each bounce a deliberate, mocking heartbeat—the leather caressing the hardwood with the tenderness of a lover who knows the affair is already over. The rhythm was glacial, almost meditative, every soft thud echoing like a countdown to the execution of Marcus Heavenchild’s myth.

Marcus crouched low, ready—chest heaving, stance textbook-perfect, every sinew taut like a bowstring pulled to snapping. Desperation leaked from him now, visible in the tremor of his shoulders, the slight quiver in his knees.

Phei waited until Marcus leaned forward—just a fraction, just enough to expose the raw hunger beneath the arrogance.

Then Phei took one languid half-step forward, snapped the ball low to his opposite hand with a flick so effortless it bordered on boredom, and immediately retreated.

Marcus lunged—instinctive, frantic—overcommitted so violently his momentum carried him two full strides past where Phei had been. His knee buckled on the recovery; he caught himself on one palm, fingers splayed against the floor like a man begging for mercy from the very court he once ruled.