The final buzzer had barely faded when Castillian turned the court into a victory parade.
They walked off as if the scoreboard didn't exist — heads high, grins wide, and confidence radiating like they'd just been crowned kings of Casa de Imperium. The crowd fed off their energy. Cheers erupted, chants of "CAS-TIL-LI-AN! CAS-TIL-LI-AN!" echoed through the bleachers. No one cared that they'd lost by two points. If anything, they felt like winners who'd forgotten to check the score.
Lynx Suárez was the first to get mobbed. Students rushed at him with notebooks, jerseys, and even empty coffee cups. Someone shoved a phone in his face for an autograph, and he signed it with a doodled heart: [ For my future fans — all of you. ]
Uno Pérez, naturally, had his own fan club forming a queue — not for autographs, but for selfies. He changed poses every shot, adjusted the lighting mid-pose, and even made a passing player hold his phone at a better angle.
"Wait, wait — one more," he said, flipping his hair. "The lighting is tragic."
Felix Montes was on the opposite end of the spectrum. Silent, calm, and graceful, he quietly handed out water bottles to both fans and opponents. Every person who thanked him got a polite nod and a small bow, like he was wrapping up a kung-fu movie rather than a basketball game.
Jairo Roman, meanwhile, had turned the gym into a festival. He was giving out high-fives like candy — to fans, to random passersby, even to the janitor sweeping the corner.
"Teamwork!" He yelled.
The janitor blinked. "Uh… sure, kid."
"YES, ENERGY!" Jairo shouted, running off to reenact his dunk for a crowd of freshmen doing slow-motion commentary.
And then there was Mico Cein Esguerra.
Their captain. Their sanity. Their last tether to logic.
He stood in the middle of the mess — drenched in sweat, clipboard in one hand, disbelief in the other.
He tried to call them over. "Team! Over here! Debrief—!"
Lynx was too busy signing someone's phone case. Uno was halfway through a flirtatious conversation that involved the phrase "natural charisma." Jairo was yelling something about "rebirth through defense!" Felix, surrounded by two student reporters, was being asked about his skincare routine.
Mico just stood there, blinking. His jaw tightened. His clipboard tilted dangerously.
Prof. Damaso appeared beside him, coffee in hand, looking utterly unbothered. "You're the captain," he said, sipping calmly. "You should probably… control them."
Mico glanced around at his so-called team — signing, flexing, posing, inspiring chaos in every direction.
"Control them?" He said flatly. "Professor, I can barely define them."
The professor hummed thoughtfully. "Then perhaps don't control them. Just… guide the storm."
Mico sighed. "Guide the storm. Great. Maybe I'll get struck by lightning while I'm at it."
Prof. Damaso smiled faintly. "That's the spirit."
And as the camera flashes went off, the crowd cheered louder, and the team that lost by two points celebrated like champions, Mico realized something horrifying —
This wasn't a fluke.
This was normal.
Castillian didn't just play basketball. They performed it. And as far as everyone watching was concerned, they were already the most unforgettable team in the league.
---
By sunrise, Casa de Imperium had already turned Castillian into legends — or memes.
The university intranet was on fire.
Clips, screenshots, and reaction posts flooded CasaFeed, the school's internal social hub. Someone had spliced together Lynx's fadeaway three with dramatic orchestra music and slow-motion filters, captioned: [ When madness becomes art. ]
Uno's failed no-look pass — the one that flew into the stands and nearly hit a photographer — became an instant meme template called "Castillian Confidence." Students used it for everything, from exam week jokes to love confessions gone wrong.
Felix's calm, stoic expressions were edited into motivational posters plastered all over student group chats: [ Be calm like Felix. ] One version had him holding a towel with the words Inner peace. Outer rebounds.
Jairo's dunk, the one that broke the buzzer, was turned into a looping GIF titled "Energy Manifested." It became the universal reply for every student who got an A, scored a date, or found an empty seat in the library.
And then there was Mico. Poor, patient, eternally exasperated Mico.
His facepalming moment from the bench — caught perfectly in HD by a student journalist — had gone viral. The caption?
[ Saint of Patience ]
It spread so fast that within hours, it became a sticker, a reaction emoji, and even someone's profile picture.
By lunchtime, Castillian wasn't just the talk of the campus. They were the talk of every Casa network across the Imperium system.
Students from Casa de Vi reposted the game highlights with the caption: [ Find you someone who believes in you like Mico believes in his team. ]
Meanwhile, at Casa de Aequalitas , someone uploaded a fan edit titled [ The Art of Losing Beautifully — Castillian Highlights Vol. 1 ] It had over 20,000 views in less than a day.
The Castillian boys had accidentally done the impossible — they turned a two-point loss into a cultural phenomenon.
Prof. Damaso summarized it best during his morning class, sipping his coffee while a student showed him a meme of himself in the background.
He squinted, then nodded approvingly. "Immortality," he said. "Through nonsense."
---
By midweek, walking through the halls of Casa de Imperium felt less like being students and more like being minor celebrities on tour.
Everywhere they went, people clapped, whistled, or yelled "CASTILLIAN!" like it was a war cry. Professors started slipping basketball references into lectures — one even joked about "analyzing Castillian's tactical entropy as a case study in controlled chaos."
Even the janitor got in on it. He started wearing a red headband labeled "Team Castillian." When Jairo saw it, he saluted him like a general meeting a fellow soldier.
Lynx, of course, thrived. He wasn't a student, but that didn't stop him from parading around campus like he owned it. He'd stroll through the main walkway, sunglasses on, spinning a basketball on one finger.
When people asked for selfies, he'd grin and say, "Sorry, I charge per charisma." When a professor jokingly asked why he was even there, he replied, "Public service — inspiring academia."
Uno wore his jersey under his uniform now — every single day.
"Just in case someone asks for a photo," he said, striking poses near the vending machines.
He also started carrying a small mirror, claiming it was "for pre-autograph grooming."
Jairo, meanwhile, began bringing an actual basketball to class.
"In case of emergencies," he'd say with full sincerity.
He'd bounce it absentmindedly during lectures until the teacher confiscated it — twice.
Felix stayed calm, collected, and unbothered… mostly. But people noticed small things — how he now carried a second pen in his pocket for autograph requests, how he'd nod at fans instead of avoiding eye contact, how he'd sometimes smile — a rare, serene smile that somehow made the crowd go even wilder.
And Mico? Mico tried so hard to act like everything was normal. He kept his head down, followed his schedule, and pretended not to hear the constant whispers of "That's him! That's the captain!"
Until one morning, as he crossed the main quad with his bag slung over his shoulder, a voice shouted from across the crowd:
"CAPTAIN MICO! WHEN'S THE NEXT GAME?!"
The whole courtyard turned toward him.
Mico froze, then let out the longest sigh in recorded campus history.
"As soon," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "as I figure out how to control four natural disasters."
Lynx appeared beside him out of nowhere, draping an arm over his shoulder. "Correction, Captain," he said with a grin. "Five. You forgot yourself."
Mico didn't even argue. He just kept walking — because deep down, he knew Lynx was probably right.