Training stopped feeling like training. It felt like war preparation.
Mico had turned the once-chaotic gym into a forge, and Castillian were the weapons being shaped within it. Gone were the laughter-filled sessions, the playful arguments, the spontaneous one-on-one showdowns that once defined them. In their place came drills — relentless, precise, and merciless.
Timed scrimmages. Tactical conditioning. Silent plays that forced them to read each other's movements instead of relying on words. Mico's commands were few, but absolute. Every mistake meant a reset. Every hesitation meant another round.
They ran fast-break sequences until their lungs begged for mercy, then Mico called for one more. They practiced zone defense until Felix's calm façade cracked into quiet frustration. Even Jairo — all muscle and adrenaline — began to slow down, learning to anticipate instead of react.
Prof. Damaso would occasionally appear at the door, half-hidden behind a mug of coffee, observing the team like an amused scientist. "You boys are starting to look dangerously professional," he'd say.
No one had the energy to answer.
Lynx, however, couldn't stay quiet for long. After Mico made them repeat their transition play for the eighth time, Lynx finally snapped, throwing his head back with a groan. "You've gone from Captain to Drill Sergeant, you know that?"
Mico didn't even glance up from his clipboard. "Good. Maybe we'll start playing like one."
Felix chuckled softly under his breath. "You heard the general," he said, earning a death glare from Lynx.
But despite the exhaustion, something extraordinary began to happen.
Their rhythm — once messy and unpredictable — started to tighten. Passes connected with intent. Rotations flowed seamlessly. Their so-called "streetball chaos" evolved into orchestrated madness. Every no-look pass now had timing. Every broken play ended with someone in the right place at the right second.
And Mico? He no longer shouted during practice. He didn't need to. His silence carried authority; his presence alone kept everyone in line.
One night, as they wrapped up yet another late session, Lynx collapsed on the court, breathing hard, staring up at the ceiling.
"This is insane," he muttered. "You're insane."
Mico smirked faintly, gathering his notes. "That's how you survive in the Dragon Crown."
Do the team feels forced? With the strict training, with their cold Captain, with the heavy expectations?
No.
Because they are willing to do anything to be on the top. Just like their new motto said: Losing is a sin.
---
The gym was almost silent that night — no music, no shouting, no bouncing balls. Just the faint hum of the overhead lights and the smell of resin and sweat that clung to the floorboards.
Mico had called for one last huddle, though everyone was already exhausted from the week's nonstop grind. They gathered around him anyway — Lynx leaning on his ball, Jairo sitting cross-legged, Felix with his arms folded, Uno spinning a towel in his hands.
"Tomorrow," Mico began, his voice steady but low, "we're not just representing the university, or Emperyo, or even the China or the Philippines." He paused, letting the quiet settle around them. "We're representing us. The misfits who made something out of nothing. The team everyone said wouldn't last a season."
He looked at each of them — the streetball prodigy who didn't belong in any system, the showboat guard with too much flair for structure, the brute who learned control, the calm anchor who kept it all from falling apart.
His voice softened. "So let's make sure they remember the name Castillian — not because of who sent us there, but because of what we'll do once we're there."
For a rare moment, no one joked. No one rolled their eyes. Even Lynx, forever the rebel, nodded silently, spinning the ball once before catching it against his chest.
"Let's make 'em regret underestimating us," he muttered.
Felix smirked faintly. "We've come too far to just show up."
Uno grinned. "We're going to perform."
"Not play," Jairo added, bumping his fist against Uno's. "Perform."
The word lingered like a spark in the dim light.
As they left the gym one by one — laughing softly, bumping shoulders, too wired to sleep — Mico stayed behind. The court felt bigger when it was empty, quieter, like it was holding its breath for what was about to come.
He walked to the center circle and looked up at the hoops. The same place where Castillian began — where they'd fought, argued, and rebuilt themselves from the ground up.
Under the faint glow of the lights, he whispered to no one, "They pulled the strings to get us in…" His hand clenched at his side. "…but the game itself will be ours."
And as the lights finally flicked off, the darkness didn't feel like an ending — It felt like the calm before a storm.
---
No one in Casa de Imperium knew.
Not the students, not the staff — only the professors of the four players (not Lynx) who had quietly approved their "academic leave for international representation." To everyone else, Castillian had simply vanished for a week.
When the team stepped off the plane in Hong Kong, excitement buzzed through them like static. The Dragon Crown Invitational — the elite proving ground for Asia's best — was real, and they were standing on it.
The moment they arrived at the arena, though, the difference was brutal. Every other team looked like they'd stepped out of a professional highlight reel — sleek uniforms, matching duffel bags, stoic expressions. Their coaches barked orders in crisp Mandarin, Korean, or Japanese. In contrast, Castillian walked in like a group of tourists who accidentally joined the wrong event.
Lynx wore sunglasses indoors, of course, grinning like a celebrity as he strolled past the registration desk. Uno immediately pulled out his phone for a group selfie, announcing, "Day one — the legends arrive!" Felix, ever composed, bowed politely to the officials and greeted them in fluent Mandarin, earning a few raised eyebrows.
Jairo couldn't stop bouncing on his feet, grinning from ear to ear as he said, "We're gonna break ankles today!" loud enough for several teams to turn and stare.
And in the middle of it all was Mico Cein Esguerra — clipboard in hand, the picture of reluctant authority. His jaw tightened as he watched his teammates radiate unbothered chaos amidst the silence of disciplined squads.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Let's try," he muttered under his breath, "not to get deported before warm-ups."
Prof. Damaso, trailing behind with his coffee he bought from a local coffee shop on the way, chuckled under his breath. "Relax, Captain. Every storm needs a little thunder before the rain."
Mico didn't answer. He just adjusted his lanyard and looked up at the massive Dragon Crown Invitational banner hanging over the court. The air inside the arena felt different — heavier, sharper.
They were no longer the university's underdogs. They were Castillian — the uninvited guests at a table of kings.