Chapter 363: The Sermon 2

Kyle took the inbound this time—trying to be careful, trying to protect the ball, trying to do

anything

right.

He passed to Anderson.

One.

Anderson swung it to Brett.

Two.

Brian was already moving.

He read the pass before it left Anderson’s hands, cutting into the lane like a shark that had scented blood. Brett’s fingertips barely grazed the leather before Brian’s hand was there—deflecting, tipping, sending the ball spinning toward Landon.

Landon scooped it up without breaking stride.

The Reapers scrambled back—too slow, too rattled, too

human

.

Danton planted heavy in the post, the heat of his breath sharp against Phei’s neck, muscles flexing like coiled ropes as he tried to shove Phei backward into the baseline. The rubber soles squeaked in protest; sweat beads flicked off Danton’s brow and hit the floor with tiny wet slaps.

Phei felt the pressure ripple through his ribs—then let it slide past like water off oil.

He caught Landon’s pass with ease.

His heartbeat steadied to a slow, predatory thump. He dropped low, euro-stepped left in a whisper of canvas, the ball tapping the hardwood with soft, insistent pops that echoed louder than they should.

Kyle exploded from the weak side—sneakers screeching like brakes on wet asphalt, arms pistoning upward in a desperate bid to swat the shot. The rush of displaced air brushed Phei’s cheek; he could smell the mint gum on Kyle’s panicked exhale.

Mid-stride, Phei snapped the

pump-fake.

Sharp upward jerk of shoulders and wrists. The ball rising an inch before freezing.

Kyle launched fully

airborne—joints

popping audibly, hands clawing at empty space. His face contorted mid-flight, eyes wide with the sickening realization that he’d committed to nothing.

Phei reversed in the air—hips twisting with a soft creak—ball whipping behind his back in a slick, leather-on-skin snap.

Brett slid across last, big frame thumping down like a dropped crate, arms stretched wide.

Phei scooped low under the block, fingers rolling the ball with feather-light touch—reverse layup off the glass.

The orb kissed the backboard with a crystalline

ping

, spun lazily once, then dropped through the net with a silky swish.

Whistle pierced the air.

And-1.

Phei’s palm slapped the rim, iron vibrating under his grip with a low, resonant hum. He hung suspended a full heartbeat, legs dangling loose, the chain-link net tinkling softly below him.

A slow, razor-edged smirk curled his lips as he stared down: Danton hunched, chest heaving with ragged gasps; Kyle still floating in defeated limbo, arms limp; Brett’s palms open and empty, staring at them like they’d grown foreign.

The stadium was

standing

.

Every section. Every row. People on their feet, phones out, filming, screaming, witnessing.

Paige and Brielle had stopped pretending to be neutral—both staring with parted lips and flushed cheeks.

Marcus’s Angels had gone completely silent.

The rim’s aftershock buzzed through Phei’s arm like electricity. He released, landed with a quiet thud, bounced the ball once—its echo sharp and final—and turned away.

The paint reeked of their defeat now. Thick and undeniable.

The

Reapers inbounded

again.

Anderson to Marcus.

One.

Marcus to Kyle.

Two.

Kyle tried to drive—

Brian was there.

Not just defending.

Suffocating

. Hands everywhere, chest bumping hard, breath hot and ragged against Kyle’s ear. The press was crushing—Kyle’s hands pawed at the ball, trying to protect it, trying to find

anyone

open.

Brian

snapped.

Quick shoulder dip, hips twisting—he spun 360° in a heartbeat. Air whooshed past his face, gym lights blurring into streaks.

The ball stayed glued to his palm through the revolution.

Then, without looking, he whipped the Cyclone Pass.

A

no-look

bullet, whirling

end-over-end

like a thrown knife, curving mid-air with vicious spin. The pass hissed through the defense, grazing Kyle’s earlobe.

Kyle’s eyes widened. He stumbled, hands flailing at empty space.

Phei was already

streaking—feet

pounding the hardwood in perfect rhythm—catching the pass in full sprint.

Leather smacking

palm with a sharp crack.

The moment the ball touched skin, the Zone clicked on.

Pupils sharpening to pinpoints. Heartbeat dropping to a deep, deliberate thud. The world slowing until every bead of sweat on Marcus’s forehead hung suspended.

Time stretched like taffy.

Phei exploded past Marcus in a single stride—Marcus’s lunge too late, fingers clawing at jersey fabric that was already gone.

Anderson and Danton converged at the rim like freight trains, both leaping high, arms extended, the combined rush of their bodies displacing a wall of warm air.

Phei gathered at the free-throw line—knees bending deep, calves coiling with a low, muscular creak.

He

launched

.

Soaring clean from the stripe.

Body extending horizontal in mid-air.

The windmill came violent and full: right arm cocked back, ball swinging in a wide, punishing arc over both defenders’ heads. Anderson’s block attempt swatted nothing but a ghost. Danton’s hands slapped empty air with a hollow clap.

The ball slammed through the rim.

Poster dunk. Double-team style.

Iron groaning under the force. Backboard shuddering with a deep, resonant thump that vibrated up through the stanchion. The net snapped wildly, chains rattling.

BOOM.

Glass rattled. The floor trembled.

Phei hung on the rim a full second longer, biceps burning, letting the echo settle into the stunned silence.

Then he dropped with controlled power, landing in a crouch that sent a small puff of dust off the court.

He rose slow, chest heaving once, and roared—

"THAT’S MINE!"

—voice raw and triumphant, cutting sharp through the gym.

The stadium

detonated

.

Not cheering anymore.

Howling

. Feral. Religious. The sound of a city witnessing the death of one myth and the birth of another.

Marcus sprawled on his backside, palms slapping the floor in defeat. Anderson staggered back a step, wrists limp. Danton rubbed his forearm, staring at the swaying hoop like it had personally insulted him.

Brian jogged over, fist-bumping Phei mid-stride.

In her booth, Melissa had tears streaming down her face—laughing and crying at once, champagne forgotten.

Dravenna’s lips were moving, but no sound came out. She was calculating. Recalculating. Everything she thought she knew about this boy was being rewritten in real time.

Adriana’s thighs were pressed so tight together her knees ached.

Harold looked like he might be sick.

Phei bounced the ball once—its echo crisp, final—and turned upcourt, already scanning for the next target.

The air tasted like smoke and surrender.

Anderson iso’d at the top, dribbling slow, thinking he had a chance. Thinking the nightmare might be over.

Phei crouched low.

Every fake. Every crossover. Every twitch—

predicted before it happened

. The world reduced to a map of intentions, and Phei could read every line.

Anderson hesitated left.

Phei read it a full second early.

He lunged like lightning—hand darting in, stripping the ball clean mid-dribble.

Anderson froze.

Ball gone

.

Dignity gone.

Phei scooped it up, outlet to Landon in a flash. Landon hit Brian streaking ahead—Brian caught, one bounce, lobbed it high for Phei on the break.

Phei

euro-stepped

through the collapsing defense, pulled up from mid-range as Brett lunged for the foul.

Fadeaway

jumper—pure.

The ball snapped through the net as the whistle blew.

And-1.

Phei landed, arms out, soaking in the silence that followed.

Brett hung his head. Anderson stared at the floor like it owed him money.

Phei walked to the line calm as death, sank the free throw, then turned to the opponents’ bench with a single nod.

But there was one more.

One final statement to make before they entered the climax.

****

Phei stood motionless at the arc, the ball cradled in his palm like a captured star. No words. Only the faintest upward curl of his lips—a smile that carried the weight of forgotten empires.

The air around him thickened, grew heavy with unseen pressure; the stadium lights dimmed for a heartbeat as though the bulbs themselves bowed.

He rocked left once—slow, deliberate, a lazy tide pulling Marcus’s gaze.

Marcus lunged. Ferocious. Foolish. Knees buckling under the sudden vacuum of space.

Phei never shifted his feet.

The fake was not a movement; it was an edict.

Marcus’s body obeyed an illusion older than the game itself—arms flailing wide, propelled two full strides into oblivion like a puppet whose strings had been cut by divine indifference.

Landon materialized from shadow, shoulder crashing into Danton’s ribs with the force of collapsing stone. Danton folded inward, breath exploding from his lungs in a wet gasp.

The lane did not merely open.

It

parted

.

A chasm

carved by will alone.

Phei surged forward in a single, unbroken line of motion—crossover so swift the ball seemed to vanish and reappear on the opposite side of reality. Marcus’s fingers closed on nothing but the echo of wind.

Kyle hurled himself into the breach, leaping with desperate height, palms outstretched to deny the inevitable.

Phei gathered at the free-throw line without breaking stride—knees bending impossibly deep, body coiling like a serpent preparing to strike the heavens.

He

ascended

.

One arm drew back, the other cradling the ball as though it were a newborn sun.

The

tomahawk

descended like celestial judgment—arm whipping through the arc with unearthly grace, the rim bending inward before the impact.

BOOM.

The net tore free at one corner, chains clattering like shattered chains of fate. The backboard quaked with a deep, mournful groan that lingered in the silence.

Kyle crumpled

mid-air,

knees folding, landing in a heap as though gravity had remembered its cruelty only for him.

Phei remained suspended an instant longer than physics permitted—legs drifting, eyes burning through the haze—then touched down without sound.

He turned.

Walked backward one measured step.

Fixed the bench with a gaze that felt like winter arriving early.

"

Next

,"

he mouthed. Silent yet deafening.

A bell tolling the end of mortal contests.

The scoreboard flickered.

3-28.

First to fifty.

And the Heaven Reapers looked like they’d already lost everything that mattered.