The call came right after lunch — a short message from Prof. Damaso:
[ Mico. My office. Now. Don't panic — it's good news. ]
Mico arrived still half-suspicious. The professor was seated behind his desk, a mug of coffee in one hand and an unreadable grin on his face. Across from him lay a thick folder stamped with a gold insignia that shimmered under the light.
"Sit," Damaso said, gesturing at the chair. "Apparently, Castillian's mess has caught the eye of the gods of capitalism."
Mico frowned. "...You mean?"
"Someone wants to sponsor you," the professor said, sliding the folder forward. "A real sponsor. Not a juice stand. Not a pizza coupon deal. Emperyo Holdings."
The name alone was enough to make Mico's heart skip. Emperyo Holdings — one of the biggest conglomerates in the world. They had their hands in everything from sports franchises to real estate to luxury branding. The kind of company that didn't waste time on flukes.
Mico tried to keep his voice level. "You're serious?"
"Deadly," Damaso said, smirking. "They sent this over this morning. Said they were 'impressed by Castillian's spirit and potential.' Whatever that means."
He opened the folder and showed Mico the neatly printed document. Every page smelled of fresh ink and corporate perfume.
At first glance, it looked… legitimate. Polished. Professional. Mico read through it slowly, tracing each line with his finger as though the letters might vanish if he blinked too fast.
The offer was everything a rookie team could dream of — full financial backing, scholarships, equipment, travel coverage, even access to private training facilities. For a moment, Mico could already see it — the team with proper gear, real practice space, no more borrowing worn-out balls from the storage room.
He couldn't help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Looks like we're finally being treated like a real team," he muttered.
Damaso raised his coffee cup. "Finally, someone noticed our chaos has potential."
When Mico brought the contract to the team later that day, the reaction was instant and explosive.
Lynx: [ We're getting paid to be ridiculous? ]
Uno: [ Correction — we're getting sponsored to be ridiculous ]
Jairo: [ Do we get our names on posters now? ]
Felix: [ Do they offer dental? ]
Mico tried to stay composed while the others lost their collective minds, passing the contract around like a trophy.
But when he sat back down to reread it that night, something in his chest wouldn't let him relax. He'd been taught — both as a captain and as a human being — to read between the lines.
He read every word twice.
And the more he did, the more the edges began to blur between excitement and unease.
There were clauses that looked… vague. Too vague. Especially under the "Representation" and "Partnership Outcomes" sections — legal phrases that sounded harmless but didn't say much.
He flipped back and forth between pages, frowning. "Representation" in what capacity? "Partnership outcomes" measured how?
Everything else was clean. But those words—those soft, ambiguous words—itched at the back of his mind.
Still, this was Emperyo Holdings. A real chance. A real shot at legitimacy.
Maybe he was just being paranoid.
When Prof. Damaso asked later that week if he'd made a decision, Mico nodded.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "The team needs this."
He signed it. His pen moved across the page with careful precision, his signature steady even as his pulse raced.
Damaso clapped him on the back. "Congratulations, Captain. You've just turned madness into a brand."
The others erupted into cheers when they heard the news. Lynx threw his arm around Mico's shoulders and shouted, "Finally, Captain Corporate!"
Uno was already planning how to pose for their "first sponsored team photo."
Felix nodded solemnly, like it was the start of a sacred journey.
Jairo shouted, "FREE SHOES, BABY!" loud enough for the entire dorm wing to hear.
Mico smiled, just a little. He wanted to share their excitement.
But as he folded the signed copy and slipped it into the folder, his thumb brushed against the words "subject to partnership outcomes."
He couldn't shake the feeling that something — somewhere — was quietly watching them.
And that Castillian had just stepped into a bigger game than basketball.
Within days, Castillian transformed.
Boxes arrived like gifts from the heavens — sleek, matte-black crates stamped with the Emperyo insignia, each one holding something new and shiny. Premium basketballs, high-performance shoes, compression wear with cooling tech, custom uniforms stitched with their names. Even their old training gym — once a squeaky-floored echo chamber — was refurbished overnight with upgraded lighting, sound systems, and Emperyo-branded banners on the walls.
For a team that had built itself from mismatched shirts and borrowed sneakers, it was unreal.
Lynx tossed a new jersey over his shoulder like a cape. "From playground to prime time, baby."
Uno examined his reflection in a chrome locker door. "I was born for this aesthetic."
Jairo tested the bounce of their new basketballs. "They sound rich. Can you hear that? Rich!"
Felix, ever calm, just said, "It feels… nice."
Mico stood in the middle of it all, hands in his pockets, watching his team lose their minds with genuine joy. For the first time, he let himself relax — just a little.
Within the week, Emperyo's representatives arrived at Casa de Imperium University, armed with design catalogs, measurement sheets, and samples of high-grade fabric. They spoke in crisp tones, all smiles and professionalism.
"Color palette options range from obsidian to imperial gold," one of them said, holding up a board of fabric swatches.
"Logo placement should complement the body line," another explained while measuring Lynx's shoulder width.
Castillian, a team once defined by pure madness, was now sitting through a corporate design consultation.
Lynx flirted with the rep taking his measurements. Uno kept suggesting "a touch of glitter — tastefully, of course." Jairo asked if their team motto could be printed on the back: [ We thrive in the mess. ]
Felix politely asked for looser fabric around the arms. And Mico… Mico just tried to make sure no one set anything on fire or offended the sponsors.
Prof. Damaso, sitting nearby with his coffee, muttered, "I feel like I'm watching wolves being fitted for tuxedos."
The team laughed, posed, and admired their new gear — yet, deep down, Mico couldn't shake a faint echo in his mind.
They were being polished. Presented. Packaged.
And for the first time since signing that contract, he began to wonder — who exactly was shaping Castillian's madness into something marketable?
Mico took the lead that afternoon, seated at a long table surrounded by color samples and fabric swatches. If they were going to wear something that carried their name, it had to mean something.
He didn't want them to look like walking advertisements — he wanted their uniform to speak who they were. Bold. Modern. Unapologetically Castillian.
He picked deep crimson and gold as the base — courage and ambition stitched into every thread. A black accent stripe ran diagonally across the torso, sharp and assertive, like a scar turned into art.
Across the chest, CASTILLIAN stood in clean metallic lettering — proud but not pretentious. The Emperyo logo rested quietly near the hem, visible but never intrusive.
Lynx, hovering beside him, leaned in. "Too simple. Needs soul." He pointed to the design board and suggested custom numbers with faint geometric patterns — a subtle texture that shimmered under light. "So when we move," he said, "it looks alive."
Mico hesitated, then nodded. "Approved."
Felix checked the fabric's weight and stretch. "It breathes well. Won't trap heat."
Uno examined the mock-up and grinned. "Style with swagger — minimal but magnetic."
Jairo tugged at the sample shorts and said, completely serious, "As long as they don't rip when I dunk, we're good."
Prof. Damaso muttered from his chair, "Truly, the mark of professional athletes."
By evening, they had the final blueprint. The inside collar bore a hidden print of their motto, "Losing is a sin."
When the finished uniforms arrived a week later, the team gathered in the locker room in stunned silence. The crimson gleamed beneath the lights, gold lines tracing each curve and edge with sharp confidence.
Emperyo didn't stop there — matching black-and-gold warm-up jackets, gym bags, and specialized sneakers followed, each engraved near the heel with their initials.
For the first time, Castillian walked into practice not as a group of mismatched underdogs — but as a unit. Their madness was now wrapped in elegance.
Lynx spun the basketball on his finger and smirked. "We look like trouble."
Felix corrected softly, "We look like champions."
Mico glanced at his reflection — tired eyes, steady posture, the Castillian crest gleaming on his chest — and allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
They finally looked like the team he always believed they could be.