The campus was buzzing that morning. Every corridor, every bulletin board, and every open plaza carried the same bright poster in bold gold letters:
Imperial Collegiate League — REGISTRATION NOW OPEN.
The air itself felt heavier, charged with ambition and caffeine. Every department had their own representatives rushing around — IT, Architecture, Engineering — each holding folders, forms, and dreams that smelled like adrenaline.
Inside the Castillian's room, the team huddled around their desk, looking at the final version of their registration papers. Names printed neatly, team details double-checked, player IDs attached in the corners.
Mico slid the last page into the envelope and looked at his team. "All done," he said. "We just need someone to submit it."
Before anyone could move, Lynx raised a hand. "I'll go."
Uno blinked. "You?"
"Yeah." Lynx's tone was calm — almost too calm. "I want to… experience it."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "Experience?"
Lynx gave a half-grin, tapping the envelope with his finger. "The feeling of turning in our first official tournament. Like… making it real."
Mico didn't argue.
He just gave Lynx a small nod. "Don't lose it," Mico said.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Lynx replied, already stepping out the door.
At the Registration Hall
The hall was crowded — players in matching jackets, student managers with clipboards, and volunteers sorting through stacks of documents taller than their patience.
Lynx squeezed through the line, the envelope clutched under his arm.
For once, he didn't look like the loud, cocky guy who'd skateboarded into practice late or challenged guards to one-on-one matches.
He just looked… focused.
His sneakers squeaked lightly on the polished floor as he reached the desk labeled BASKETBALL DIVISION REGISTRATION.
The clerk, a thin woman with glasses and the speed of a printer, barely looked up.
"Team name?" She asked, flipping through her sheets.
"Castillian," Lynx replied.
She nodded, reaching for his papers. "Casa de Imperium affiliate?"
"Yeah."
"Department?"
"Mixed — Engineering, Architecture, and… uh…" He trailed off. "Uno."
That earned him a glance. "Right."
The clerk started checking the pages, stamping one after another. Everything was smooth — until she paused near the bottom.
Her pen hovered. "Coach signature?"
Lynx blinked. "...What?"
The woman looked up. "It says here 'Coach/Representative.' You need one. Where is your coach?"
For a split second, Lynx's confidence — that unshakeable smirk, that fire in his eyes — flickered.
Coach?
They had Mico, sure, but… Mico wasn't a coach. He was their captain. Their planner. Their mess manager.
Lynx's mind went blank. He stared at the paper as if the answer would appear between the lines.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears — not from panic, but from a strange, heavy realization.
This was real. This wasn't street ball, or pickup games in hidden courts, or bets under dim lights. This was official.
And for the first time, Lynx didn't know what to say.
He swallowed, opened his mouth to respond — and nothing came out.
Just silence.
Just that single question echoing in his head: What coach?
"Coach's signature?" The woman's voice was polite, but firm — the kind that tolerated no nonsense.
Lynx blinked at her, words tumbling in his brain like a jammed machine.
No coach. No signature. No plan. No game.
He could almost hear Mico's voice in his head —
"Always prepare for every variable, Lynx."
Well, Mico, he thought bitterly, we didn't prepare for this.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "So, you don't have a coach?"
Lynx's mouth opened before his brain caught up.
"Of course we do!" He blurted out. "We just— uh— forgot to get his signature! You know how it is— first team, everyone excited, forgot the small details— totally normal, right?"
The woman gave him a long look, pen tapping the desk. "Uh-huh."
Lynx laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll… just get it right now! Be back in ten! Or five! Maybe four!"
Before she could say another word, Lynx bolted out of the hall, his sneakers screeching against the tiles as he sprinted toward the gym.
Back at the Castillian Room
Mico was reviewing their updated training notes when the doors slammed open.
Lynx's voice exploded through the room. "WE NEED A COACH!"
Everyone froze.
Uno, mid-sip of his drink, nearly choked. Felix stopped stretching. Jairo, who was halfway through a layup, missed entirely.
Mico didn't even look up from his notes. "We what?"
"A coach!" Lynx repeated, breathless, waving the registration papers like a distress signal. "They said we can't register without a coach signature! I told them we already have one, but—"
"You told them what?" Mico finally looked up, his calm expression slowly giving way to disbelief.
"That we already have a coach! Because—uh—we do, right?" Lynx's grin wavered. "Right?"
There was silence.
The kind of silence that made Uno quietly set his drink down, like it might explode.
Mico exhaled through his nose. "...We don't have one."
Lynx blinked. "We don't—? You forgot to—?"
"Yes."
"YOU FORGOT TO—"
"Technically," Mico interrupted coolly, "I didn't forget. I just… prioritized the team before the paperwork."
Uno groaned, leaning against the wall.
"Captain, that's literally the definition of forgetting."
Felix crossed his arms, ever calm. "So what now? We need a signature from a real coach. Someone with credentials."
Jairo scratched his head. "Can't you just sign it, Mico? You basically are our coach."
Mico shook his head. "Not officially. Casa requires registered staff or certified trainers to act as coach representatives for ICL teams. It's a formality."
"Formality that might kill our registration," Uno muttered.
Lynx dropped onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "Great. First official tournament, and we're already disqualified because we don't have a couch— I mean, coach!"
Felix chuckled softly. "At least you're consistent."
"Not helping!" Lynx groaned.
Mico rubbed his temple, thinking fast. He hated rushing decisions, but the clock was ticking — and Lynx looked like he might combust if left unsupervised.
"Alright," he finally said, standing up. "We have one hour before the registration closes."
Uno blinked. "You're not serious."
"I'm always serious," Mico replied. "We'll find one."
"Find a coach? In one hour?" Jairo asked.
"Yes." Mico's eyes sharpened. "Someone who'll sign our papers. Someone who can represent us officially."
"And if we can't?" Lynx asked.
Mico's smirk returned — calm, confident, dangerously sure.
And just like that, the Castillian's next mission began — not on the court, but in the bureaucracy of Casa de Imperium itself.
Because in the world of Mico Cein Esguerra, problems weren't obstacles. They were puzzles.
And this time, the puzzle was named "Coach."
They had forty-seven minutes left before the registration office closed.
Mico was pacing, Uno was catastrophizing, Lynx was in the middle of a silent breakdown, and Jairo had started praying to any sports deity that would listen.
Then Felix — calm, collected, annoyingly unbothered Felix — finally spoke. "I know someone."
Everyone turned to him like he'd just announced free food.
Mico's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"Professor Alaric Damaso," Felix said. "He used to be part of Casa's athletics division before he transferred to the Philosophy department."
"Philosophy?" Uno asked. "As in… logic, ethics, and confusing essays?"
Felix nodded. "Philosophy of Logic, specifically."
Lynx frowned. "How's that gonna help us shoot better?"
"It won't," Felix admitted, "but he's registered faculty, has a background in sports, and— most importantly— he's on campus."
That was all Mico needed to hear. "Lead the way."
Twenty Minutes Later – Faculty Building, Room 203
Felix knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing.
"Maybe he's not here?" Uno whispered hopefully.
Then the door opened — slowly, dramatically — revealing a tall, bespectacled man holding a half-empty coffee mug and an expression that screamed existential fatigue.
Prof. Alaric Damaso blinked at the group of five standing outside his office. "…This isn't another group project plea, is it?"
Felix smiled. "Not exactly, sir. We need a coach."
Alaric squinted. "I teach logic, not layups."
"We know," Mico said quickly, stepping forward. "But you used to be an athlete. Casa records list you as part of the intramural basketball lineup, 2009–2011. You qualify as an official coach for the ICL."
The professor stared at him. "…You actually checked that?"
"Yes," Mico replied simply.
"Why?"
"Because desperation improves research skills," Uno muttered.
Lynx, unable to stay still, stepped forward. "Sir, please! Just sign our paper. We can't register without a coach and the deadline's in—" He checked his phone. "—sixteen minutes!"
Alaric took a slow sip of coffee. "Let me get this straight. You're asking me to legally attach my name to a team I didn't train, don't coach, and don't supervise— just so you can play basketball?"
"Yes," everyone said in perfect unison.
The professor blinked. Once. Twice.
Then sighed, setting down his mug. "Why do I feel like I'm about to regret this?"
Five minutes later
The paper was spread across his desk.
Mico handed him a pen. Felix looked relieved.
Uno whispered, "We're actually doing this."
And Lynx… Lynx was vibrating with excitement like a kid at Christmas.
Alaric skimmed through the form, muttering under his breath. "Team name… The Castillians. Appropriate. Motto… none. Strategy… 'we'll figure it out.' That's… encouraging."
He paused at the bottom, pen hovering over the signature line.
"Before I sign this," he said, looking up, "what exactly am I agreeing to?"
Mico answered, tone level. "To be our coach of record. We handle everything else."
"And my role?"
"Attend games. Sit on the bench. Drink coffee. Exist."
Alaric leaned back in his chair, staring at them all.
Five young faces — full of drive, hope, and mild stupidity — staring back at him with impossible sincerity.
He sighed again. "You realize this makes me responsible for your collective behavior, right?"
"Yes, sir!" Lynx beamed.
"That's what worries me."
Still, he signed. A quick, clean flourish of ink that sealed his fate.
Ten minutes later
Lynx stormed in first, waving the now-signed paper triumphantly. "WE GOT A COACH!"
Uno blinked. "We did?"
"Yup!" Lynx grinned. "Meet Professor Alaric Damaso — the philosophical legend who believes in coffee and regret!"
Felix followed behind, looking pleased.
Mico gave a rare half-smile. "Good work. Registration secured."
"Wait," Jairo asked, "so… he's actually gonna coach us?"
Felix shrugged. "In theory."
---
Meanwhile...
Prof. Damaso sat back down, staring at the empty line where his peace of mind used to be.
He muttered to himself, "They begged, I signed, and now I'm a coach. Again."
He took another sip of coffee and looked at the whistle on his desk — dusty, untouched since 2019.
With a tired smile, he picked it up and muttered, "Guess I'm back on the court of madness."
He blew the whistle experimentally. It didn't make a sound.
He nodded approvingly.
"Perfect."
---
Mico's Margin:
[ Professor Damaso might not be the coach we wanted.
But he's definitely the one the universe laughed hardest at before giving us. ]