Extra Basket-Chapter 192 - 179: Forest vs Vorpal (4)
15 – 13. Forest Basket leads.
The gym wasn’t loud—it was tense. Every breath in the crowd was held, every eye locked on the hardwood where giants moved with surgical grace. The scoreboard blinked red above the court. Two-point game. One mistake could tip the balance.
Forest possession.
The ball was inbounded cleanly. Elijah Rainn caught it with a kind of tranquil elegance—his hands soft, posture fluid, like he was plucking a falling leaf from midair.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t flinch.
He simply... read.
Eyes low, head high, he started dribbling upcourt, each bounce a steady, practiced tempo. The way his foot touched the floor, the way his eyes flicked from the corners to the top of the key it was less basketball, more symphony.
Elijah Rainn, the Forest Watcher.
He scanned.
Measured.
Judged.
"Thomas," Elijah said softly, voice barely audible over the sneakers squeaking on the court. "Screen left."
Thomas Webb, The Iron Trunk, moved like a monolith, setting his wide shoulders between Elijah and Lucas.
But Lucas had already moved. Not reacting anticipating.
He whispered under his breath.
"Right side. Hard cut."
And before the screen was even set, he was rotating.
Across the court, Julian Kim, the Whispering Gale sliced toward the basket from the weak side. A clean backdoor action, invisible to the untrained eye.
(Standard misdirection. They’ve run this five times today. But you... you always call it with that thumb tap, Elijah. Three seconds before the screen.)
Julian caught the pass cleanly.
But Lucas was already there.
Feet angled.
Hands up.
Body slotted perfectly into Julian’s driving lane.
(Don’t jump. Let him hesitate first.)
Julian did hesitate.
Lucas didn’t move.
Julian passed it back.
Clap!
Mason Lee, The Silent Arrow barely glanced at the ball before snapping a no-look bounce pass to Elijah, who floated to the elbow in rhythm.
Dribble.
Stepback.
Release.
Elbow jumper.
Clang!
The ball rattled out short. Clean miss.
Noah Sinclair The Evergreen Wall lunged for the rebound, but Brandon Young was already in position.
He planted hard, boxed out like a veteran.
The ball slipped into Brandon’s hands.
Vorpal’s ball.
The crowd gasped.
No cheers.
No chants.
Just eyes.
Just silence.
Because Lucas wasn’t celebrating.
He was running.
Already past half-court.
A blur of determination, cutting through air like fire through dry wood.
Julian chased.
Fast.
But not fast enough.
Josh Turner caught the outlet from Evan.
Mid-dribble, he turned a one-handed flick and handed it off to Lucas like they’d done it a hundred times in practice.
Lucas grabbed the ball.
Momentum blazing.
(Stagger screen... now.)
Ryan dove to the paint, dragging Thomas Webb with him. Brandon rose to the top, body wide like a wall, sealing Mason Lee with a textbook screen.
Lucas curled.
Julian caught up barely. A half-step behind.
(If I shoot now... Julian recovers. He’s too light to stay screened for long. Gotta sell it.)
Lucas didn’t shoot.
He faked.
Julian bit—shoulders twitching forward.
Lucas stepped through.
Snapped his hips.
(Too late, Julian.)
He passed.
Right to Josh Turner—waiting on the elbow.
Wide open.
Set.
Release.
Swish.
15 – 15. Tie game.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
But still, no roaring.
Just awe.
Even Forest’s bench stood up.
Elijah exhaled, his eyes narrowing.
Julian stared at Lucas from across the court, chest rising.
And Lucas?
He just pointed at Josh without turning his head.
Then raised a single finger toward the sideline.
"Let’s keep going."
No grin.
No swagger.
Just fire.
He wasn’t playing for applause.
He was orchestrating destruction.
And the crowd? Now they screamed.
Because they saw it.
For the first time—
Lucas raised his fist.
Not to celebrate.
But to signal.
A war cry in silence.
Then he dropped it.
Like a hammer.
Like he’d just set the forest ablaze.
Across the court, Elijah Rainn stood still.
His face was composed.
But his jaw twitched.
Just once.
(You’re not supposed to be this good.)
On the bench, Coach Fred looked down at his clipboard, eyes wide.
Speechless.
Ayumi, beside him, smirked.
"Told you," she said. "He’s not mimicking anymore."
Fred blinked. His voice trembled.
"Then what’s he doing?"
Ayumi’s gaze didn’t waver from Lucas.
The boy wasn’t watching the ball anymore.
He was watching Elijah.
Eyes locked. Reading him like falling leaves.
A predator in the forest.
"He’s learning," she said.
"He’s becoming the forest fire."
15 – 15.
Tie game.
The air was thick.
Electric.
Each breath the crowd took felt like it had weight—charged with the tension that only came from watching two storms collide.
At center court, Elijah Rainn stood still.
His feet lightly touching the hardwood, like he wasn’t standing on it—but listening to it.
(The rhythm changed...)
His eyelids lowered, and for the briefest moment, his right hand twitched.
A subtle flex of the pinky.
A nudge of the ring finger.
To anyone else? Meaningless fidgeting.
But to Forest Basket?
It was a language.
Silent. Fluent. Surgical.
A signal.
(They’re not rattled.) Lucas narrowed his eyes as he tracked the faintest shifts in Elijah’s body. (They’re responding. He’s using the team like limbs—like a conductor... or a hunter.)
The ball was inbounded again smooth, clean.
Elijah caught it and dribbled across halfcourt with the same calm tempo as before.
But this time, there was no screen.
No trunk. No root. Just movement.
Julian Kim, the Whispering Gale glided up to the top of the key.
His shoes barely whispered on the floor.
Then, with a sharp jolt, he darted left.
Hard.
Explosive.
Lucas leaned forward. Eyes scanning.
Julian wasn’t finished.
He reversed snapping back toward the baseline with a sudden drop of the shoulder.
It was a misdirection.
But Lucas didn’t bite.
(You’re baiting the switch... but I’ve seen you before. Once. In film. You love this set when the shot clock is high.)
Mason Lee ghosted in from the corner. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞
His movement clean, surgical curling into the arc like a shadow drawn in ink.
Noah Sinclair, the Evergreen Wall, stepped forward now.
His massive frame set a delayed screen barely legal.
Behind it, Thomas Webb slipped under and behind the defense, flowing like a branch in the wind.
The entire sequence—
A cascade of motion.
Deception. Distraction. Dissonance.
A waterfall.
(Falling Branches.)
Lucas’s heart thudded once.
Then he moved.
Some would call it late.
But it wasn’t.
It was perfect.
(Now.)
He flowed behind Brandon Young, one hand on the back, a slight nudge of communication. He veered just enough to bump into Webb, redirecting the slip cut without fouling.
That tiny contact—enough to disturb the entire rhythm.
Julian tried to pass.
Eyes locked on Mason at the top arc.
Lucas’s eyes widened.
(That’s your outlet. But it’s not open.)
The ball whipped.
Too high.
Too slow.
Clap!
Evan Cooper exploded into the passing lane like a viper.
Stolen.
Clean.
The gym didn’t erupt.
They inhaled.
Collective.
Sharp.
The kind of silence that came before a thunderclap.
Ayumi stood up from the bench, arms crossed.
She didn’t speak.
Not yet.
But her eyes burned.
Coach Fred blinked. "Was that—was that the Falling Branches set?"
She smirked. "Yeah."
He turned, confused. "Then how did he—"
"I told you." She didn’t look at him.
She only looked at the court.
At Lucas.
Who was already sprinting ahead with Evan, leading the charge in transition like a man who had read this game from cover to cover.
"He’s changing"
Counterattack.
The crowd was buzzing. Not just with noise but anticipation.
Lucas Gray didn’t run.
He didn’t rush.
He glided into the frontcourt, the ball alive in his hands like it knew where it needed to go before he did.
His teammates surged behind him, adrenaline high after Evan’s steal. But Lucas?
(Not yet. Don’t burn too fast.)
He raised his left hand.
A single signal.
A silent command.
Josh and Ryan froze then nodded.
Coach Fred nearly dropped his clipboard on the sideline.
"Wha—he’s calling one of my sets?"
Ayumi leaned forward, barely audible over the crowd.
"He memorized it... from practice."
The bench stirred. Coonie Smith whispered,
"No way."
Louie’s eyes lit up like fire meeting gasoline.
"Oh, he’s cookin’ now."
Lucas pointed to the right arc.
"Double Hammer Screen," he muttered, almost under his breath.
The play unfolded like silk.
Josh and Ryan shifted one to the baseline corner, the other drifting into position for the back screen.
Forest’s defenders tensed, sensing something—but too late.
Lucas moved toward the right wing—
Julian Kim read the first screen and went under it, trying to cut off the passing lane.
Lucas paused.
Waited.
Then slid into the second screen—this time Ryan’s.
Noah Sinclair tried to switch—
Too slow.
Lucas caught the ball at the top of the arc.
Elijah’s eyes widened from the other side of the court.
Lucas didn’t hesitate.
No fake.
No extra dribble.
Just rhythm.
Rise.
Release.
Perfect form.
Splash.
Net barely moved.
18 – 15.
Vorpal Basket leads.
The crowd exploded. Not in chaos but a wave.
A wave of belief.
Lucas didn’t smile. Not yet.
He just backpedaled.
Eyes locked on Elijah Rainn.
Elijah’s lips didn’t move but his fingers clenched tighter at his sides.
Ayumi whispered again, as if to herself.
"He’s not just using their moves..."
Coach Fred, finally catching his breath, filled in the rest.
"He’s using their philosophy."
Louie stood up from the bench and pumped his fist.
"Yo! Let me in already, man!"
"I need to do my part for Ethan too!"
Behind him, Aiden White nodded slowly.
Kai Mendoza muttered,
"Lucas is playing like he’s seen this game before."
Jeremy Park just stared at the scoreboard.
18 – 15.
And Lucas?
Lucas finally cracked a grin.
But not cocky.
Just dangerous.
(Now burn with me, Forest.)
(Let’s see if your trees can survive the fire.)
To be continue
