He flicked another lazy pass to Landon.
Landon caught it, eyes shining now—reverent, steady, the look of a man who’d just witnessed a coronation and knew exactly who the new king was.
Only then—only after Phei had already walked away like the entire exchange had been beneath him—did Marcus finally recover.
He straightened slowly, hands shaking, chest still hitching like he’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
But the mont was gone.
The myth was dead.
The prince who used to be untouchable had just been publicly neutered in front of twenty thousand witnesses, live on stream, with slow-motion replays already going viral.
And the crowd?
They were still chanting.
"PHEI! PHEI! PHEI!"
Landon sliced through Darius like he was cutting warm butter, then snapped the ball to Brian without a second glance.
Brian didn’t hesitate.
He whipped it toward Phei like he was tossing over a lit firecracker.
The pass slapped into Phei’s palms and the gym did that thing where the volu doesn’t go up—it drops.
A collective, nervous inhale that sucked the oxygen thin, the exact sound a crowd makes when they know sothing straight-up disrespectful is about to drop and they’re all secretly begging to witness the cri.
Phei let the ball fall.
Once.
Twice.
That deep, hollow thud... thud lingered longer than it had any right to, bouncing in perfect ti with twenty thousand racing pulses.
Sneakers squeaked on the floor like nervous laughter. A girl in the front row scread his na like she was proposing. A guy two sections over just laughed—short, defeated, already knowing he was about to watch soone get publicly executed.
Danton stepped up first.
Wide stance. Arms out like he was guarding the last slice of pizza at a funeral. Jaw locked so tight you could hear his molars grinding from the cheap seats.
Phei leaned in—just enough to sell the explosion—then... didn’t.
He slowed. Deliberately. Almost lazily. Rolled the ball hand-to-hand, eyes sliding away from Danton like sothing more interesting had just happened in the student section (spoiler: nothing had).
Danton bit.
Hard.
Phei snapped the ball back—left, right, left—each bounce creeping closer to Danton’s shoelaces, creeping into his personal space like an unsolicited dick pic at 3 a.m. Danton shuffled. Guessed. Prayed.
Then Phei stepped inside his guard, brushed past shoulder-to-shoulder—barely a whisper of contact—and stopped dead.
Just... stopped.
Let Danton stumble forward into open air like a drunk missing the curb.
The crowd lost it—half scream, half hysterical laughter.
Phei turned slowly, waited patiently for Danton to scramble back into position like a kid who’d just fallen off his bike, then did it again—behind-the-back dribble so casual it dragged Danton sideways like he was tied to the ball with fishing line. Phei paused. Again. Let Danton reset just so he could dismantle him properly, piece by humiliating piece.
Brett rushed in to double-team.
Tragic decision.
Phei dropped his hips, sold the drive, lifted the ball high like he was about to lob it to Jesus. Brett flinched—just a tiny, involuntary twitch—and Phei punished it like a schoolyard bully.
The ball slipped through his own legs, popped into the opposite hand, vanished behind his back as he spun, circling Brett so cleanly Brett ended up hugging nothing but his own embarrassnt.
Phei lingered.
That was the murder weapon.
He stood right there—between both of them—dribbling softly—pat... pat... pat—while Danton and Brett scrambled to recover, eyes bugging, chests heaving, faces turning the color of fresh humiliation.
He let them see him.
Let the silence stretch until the student section was wheezing, phones out, capturing every second of the live autopsy.
Then—gone.
One step. Two. A sudden, casual burst that left both defenders reaching, colliding into each other like two drunk guys trying to high-five at the sa ti. Phei slid through the gap they’d accidentally donated.
The noise cracked open.
Anderson was next.
Planted near the arc—lower stance, smarter eyes. He’d seen the tape. He knew brute force was suicide. He waited. Patient. Reading hips, shoulders, trying to look like the one guy who might actually survive the night with his dignity intact.
Phei jogged at him.
Not fast. Not slow. Casual. Like he was walking up to ask for directions to the bathroom.
The dribble was steady, rhythmic, mocking—thud-thud-thud—each bounce saying you already lost, you just haven’t accepted the choreography yet. Phei angled left, right, left again, testing Anderson’s balance, mapping him out like a math equation with only one humiliating solution.
Anderson stayed glued—shuffling clean, confidence flickering back like a dying bulb—
—until Phei jumped.
Not a shot. Not a pass.
Mid-air, he lifted the ball like he was about to throw it ahead—sell so convincing Anderson’s hands shot up like he was surrendering to the principal.
And the ball dropped between Phei’s own legs.
He landed, gathered it instantly, and without breaking stride slipped it between Anderson’s legs—clean, surgical, soul-crushing.
The crowd detonated.
Phei didn’t chase forward.
He went around.
A full, slow, mocking circle—one humiliating orbit as Anderson spun in panicked circles trying to locate both man and ball and failing spectacularly at both. By the ti Phei completed the loop, the ball was already back in his hands, Anderson stumbling, red-faced, cooked so thoroughly the smoke was practically visible.
Phei clapped once.
Slow.Mocking. A sarcastic golf clap for effort.
Then he accelerated.
Only one man left.
Marcus.
The stadium squeezed shut.
Marcus stood near the paint—squared up, serious now. No trash talk. No theatrics. Just raw, desperate focus. He knew this was the mont that decided whether the Heavenchild legacy survived the night or beca a lifelong punchline.
Phei slowed to a walk.
Dribbled.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Each echo punched Marcus in the sternum like a countdown to execution. Phei’s eyes locked on him—sharp, present, the playfulness gone, replaced by sothing colder, older, almost indifferent.
The crowd hushed. Sensing the shift.
Phei leaned forward.
Then jogged.
Then ran.
The ball snapped faster—harder—the rhythm accelerating as Phei closed the distance. Marcus dropped lower, arms wide, ready—
—and Phei exploded.
Three long strides. Violent gather. Phei’s toes rolled off the hardwood with an almost polite goodbye—not a violent push, just a calm departure.
He’d launched from so far out any sane coach would’ve scread turnover.
The ball ca back. Arm cocked. Body rising. Shadow swallowing the lane.
The crowd stood as one.
Marcus looked up.
Phei kept climbing.
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