They didn't just get uniforms.
They got upgraded.
Within days, Castillian received new training equipment — precision-weighted basketballs, resistance gear, advanced shooting aids, and monitors that tracked every stat imaginable. Then came the grand reveal: Emperyo Holdings had built them their own private training space on the edge of campus — a sleek, glass-paneled facility that gleamed like a shrine to ambition.
Inside, digital shot analyzers projected trajectories in real-time. The floors were regulation-grade maple, polished to a mirror finish. The recovery rooms were lined with cryo units and massage tables. A subtle golden insignia of Emperyo x Castillian marked the entrance like a declaration.
Lynx whistled low, spinning in place. "Our new playground, gentlemen."
Uno ran his fingers across a digital console. "This thing tracks jump height and landing balance. Even NASA doesn't monitor this much."
Jairo was already testing the machines like a kid in a candy store, yelling, "We're gonna destroy everyone!"
Felix only nodded, quietly inspecting the gym with hands behind his back — like a knight walking through a freshly built armory.
Prof. Damaso, sipping his usual coffee, surveyed the place with a raised brow. "Well," he said dryly, "at least now you look like you know what you're doing."
When the day came that they finally wore their new uniforms in that new facility, everything stilled.
The laughter stopped. The teasing quieted. Even Lynx, who never ran out of things to say, simply stood and stared at their reflection in the mirrored wall.
The crimson and gold gleamed under the white lights — every thread catching fire with motion. For once, they didn't look like underdogs pretending to belong.
They belonged.
Castillian — once dismissed as an unorganized mess of misfits — now looked like a team carved from purpose. The same energy still burned in their eyes, the same madness in their rhythm, but it was sharpened now, refined by ambition.
And at the center stood Mico Cein Esguerra — chest rising and falling with quiet pride.
Something in him shifted then.
It wasn't just about survival anymore. It wasn't about proving they could stand beside real teams.
It was about destiny.
And for the first time, Mico didn't feel like he was holding the team together. He felt like they were ready to take the world apart.
---
The Dragon Crown Invitational (龙冠邀请赛) was the kind of tournament people whispered about — not dreamed of. It wasn't just a game; it was mythology. An elite battleground held every year in Hong Kong, where Asia's best university and youth-pro teams clashed under spotlights that could make or break futures.
The event was ruthless in reputation. Fast tempo. Tactical defenses. No room for hesitation.
The kind of arena where one bad pass could erase your name, and one perfect play could etch it into legend.
For most teams, it was a distant star — unreachable. For Castillian, it was an impossibility.
Until it wasn't.
The morning it happened, Mico walked into the faculty office expecting another logistics meeting. Instead, Prof. Damaso was sitting with two men in charcoal suits — Emperyo Holdings representatives — and a thick envelope on the table.
"Mico," the professor said, tone unreadable. "You might want to sit down."
Inside the envelope was a document embossed with twin seals — one bearing the crest of Casa de Imperium University, and the other stamped in metallic gold: [ Dragon Crown Invitational (龙冠邀请赛) ]
At the bottom, in crisp black ink, was a single line that made Mico's breath catch.
[ Invited Team: Casa de Imperium – Castillian ]
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"That's… impossible," he muttered.
The representative from Emperyo smiled faintly. "Not impossible, Captain. Just… accelerated."
Lynx barged into the office right after, skateboard under his arm. "What's this? We're going to Hong Kong?"
Mico still hadn't found his voice.
Uno leaned over his shoulder, reading the document upside down. "Wait — the Dragon Crown? The one with live broadcasts and international scouts?"
Felix exhaled slowly. "That's… not just a tournament."
"It's a crucible," Jairo added, his grin already forming. "And we're going in."
Prof. Damaso rubbed his temples. "Emperyo says they can handle all travel and documentation. Somehow, they pulled the right strings."
Mico finally looked up, eyes still wide. "But why us? We're not even a university team — we're a student club."
"Not anymore," said the representative smoothly. "You're Emperyo's chosen representatives of Casa de Imperium. You've become… the face of something larger."
The room fell silent.
Outside, the afternoon light spilled through the blinds, catching the edge of the invitation like gold fire.
The Dragon Crown Invitational — twelve teams. Eleven from the strongest programs across Asia. And one from a group once dismissed as a joke.
Lynx broke the silence first, smirking. "Guess the world's about to witness our madness firsthand."
Uno grinned. "Correction: our glorious madness."
Felix's calm voice followed, "Then we better earn the right to stand on that court."
Jairo flexed. "We're going to make Hong Kong shake."
Mico, still holding the letter, let out a slow breath — equal parts disbelief and determination.
"This is it," he said. "We wanted to be legends?" He looked at his teammates — his disasters, his family, his force of nature.
"Now we'll see if legends can survive dragons."
---
The change in Mico Cein Esguerra wasn't loud. It didn't arrive with shouting or grand speeches. It started quietly — in the echo of bouncing balls long before sunrise, in the steady squeak of sneakers when the rest of the gym was still dark.
He had always been disciplined — the captain who cleaned up after everyone else's mess — but after the Dragon Crown invitation, something deeper took root. It wasn't just leadership anymore. It was resolve.
The invitation had come wrapped in gold, but Mico saw the strings behind it. Emperyo had influence, and influence came with expectations. They wanted Castillian to shine, yes — but on their terms. Mico wasn't about to let that happen. If they were going to stand on an international court, they would do it on their own identity.
From that day forward, Mico became a ghost that haunted the gym.
First in. Last out. Always with his clipboard, always taking notes, always watching.
He dissected their past games until dawn — marking their weaknesses, studying frame by frame. He gathered footage of the other eleven teams, memorizing rotations, defense patterns, and the rhythm of their best players. He didn't have the resources of a professional coach — but he had obsession.
Lynx found him one night, alone in the bleachers, drawing plays under the faint glow of a court lamp.
"You're gonna burn out, Captain," he said.
Mico didn't look up. "Not before we make history."
Training shifted too. No more casual practices, no more lazy excuses.
He made Lynx run drills until his overconfident grin turned into concentration. "You can't just score every possession," Mico said. "Learn to create."
He pushed Uno to chase precision instead of perfection. "Style without control is noise."
He turned Jairo's boundless energy into pressure — teaching him how to suffocate offenses with traps and rotations. "Don't chase the ball," Mico told him. "Make it chase you."
And Felix… Felix didn't need words. He understood. He simply followed Mico's lead, reinforcing the captain's vision with silent stability.
Even Prof. Damaso, usually detached with his coffee and sarcasm, began to take notice.
"He's not just leading now," Felix said one afternoon, watching Mico adjust the team's formation with surgical precision. "He's building something."
The professor nodded slowly. "He's turning their madness into method."
For the first time, Castillian wasn't just messy — it was calculated mess.
And every drop of sweat that hit the hardwood was a silent promise from Mico: They wouldn't just show up in Hong Kong. They would belong there.