My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 366: Gravity Against the Awakened Dragon 2

And just as it looked like the rim was about to be murdered—

—this is where divinity shows.

The stadium forgot how to breathe.

All 200,000 people rose at once—not cheering yet—just standing, mouths parting like some invisible hand had yanked the air straight out of their lungs. Marcus was still backpedaling, eyes glued upward, because Phei was no longer playing by the rules of distance. Or gravity. Or basic human fucking decency.

He’d launched from way too far out. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. The laws of basketball were screaming no in unison.

Phei kept going up anyway.

The first thing that broke wasn’t the rim. It was time.

The jump stretched. The world smeared slow-motion, the crowd roar dropping into a deep, underwater hum, like listening to the ocean from the bottom of a well.

Then—impossible.

His second step landed on nothing—

On. Air. Itself.

Not poetic metaphor. Not hype. Actual, literal step on air.

His foot pressed down and the empty space answered—compressed, held, formed an invisible stair only he could feel. His body rose again, higher, knees lifting like the sky had personally invited him up for tea.

People in the front rows grabbed each other’s arms so hard they left bruises. Somewhere in the upper decks a grown man screamed like a child seeing a ghost and didn’t stop.

Marcus stood frozen underneath, head craned back so far his neck creaked, watching Phei take a third step—another impossible plant of his sneaker on nothing but complete air, another invisible foothold—each one higher, cleaner, calmer than the last. It didn’t look athletic. It didn’t look violent.

It looked deliberate.

Like walking up a staircase no mortal was allowed to use.

Phei leveled out near the rim. Not rushing. Not straining. Core relaxed, shoulders loose, eyes steady. The ball rested in his palm like it had always belonged there, fingers spread wide, wrist cocked, waiting.

Waiting.

The net shivered before he even touched it.

Phei rose past the rim. Past.

He paused—impossibly long—long enough for the entire arena to hold its collective breath, long enough for Marcus to see the faint, almost gentle smirk, long enough for twenty thousand people to understand that gravity wasn’t the law here anymore.

Phei was.

Double-clutch layup.

Mid-flight he shifted the ball from right to left hand, body twisting in a slow, deliberate 180-degree rotation—torso turning while legs scissored like he was mocking every physics textbook ever written.

Then came the self alley-oop between-the-legs gather.

Still airborne, knees tucked, he passed the ball to himself—through his own legs—catching it behind his back with the opposite hand in a motion so fluid it looked like the ball had simply chosen to orbit him.

The crowd lost what little sanity it had left; the sound wasn’t cheering anymore—it was primal, religious, the raw collision of awe and existential crisis.

Reverse finish.

He brought the ball behind his head, flipped it underhand off the backboard at an angle so obscene it looked like he was finger-painting the glass with contempt. The ball kissed the board once—soft, almost tender—then dropped through the net backward, threading the hoop from the wrong side like it was personally offended by forward motion.

The finish wasn’t a dunk.

It was a placement.

He pushed the ball through the hoop slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing the net as it parted around his wrist like a curtain. The sound—that sound—arrived late: a deep, violent snap as the rim absorbed force it had never been engineered to handle.

And Phei didn’t drop.

He stayed.

Hanging there.

No—standing.

Both feet settled lightly on the rim itself, balanced perfectly, as if it were a stage built just for him. One hand rested casually on the backboard. The other hung loose at his side. He looked down at the court like it was a very long way below.

The stadium erupted.

Not all at once. In waves.

First—pure disbelief: hands on heads, jaws unhinged, people frozen mid-scream. Then the sound hit—a wall of noise so thick it vibrated through seats, through ribs, through skulls. People screamed words that didn’t make sense. Others just screamed.

Opposing players stared up, unmoving. Darius laughed hysterically until he choked. Derek dropped to a knee in disbelief without thinking. Marcus never looked away. Couldn’t. His brain was still buffering.

Cameras stuttered. The jumbotron lagged half a heartbeat behind reality, replaying a version of the jump that still looked fake even at 0.25x speed.

Phei remained there for one eternal second.

Then another.

Play didn’t resume.

No whistle. No inbound.

The referees stood frozen, hands hovering uselessly, unsure whether they’d just witnessed a violation... or the birth of a new rule.

Casual. Unbothered.

Behind him, the stadium kept roaring, the sound chasing him like thunder that would never catch up. So many phones were already uploading the clip. Somewhere else, a kid stared at the court with tears in his eyes, knowing he’d just watched something he’d never see again.

Because some highlights are great.

And some moments don’t belong to the game anymore.

They belong to legend.

And in the silence between heartbeats—when the roar hadn’t yet returned and the rim was still trembling—something ancient and cold and void-black screamed inside Phei’s entire being.

Not anger. Not triumph.

Draconic heritage and Void-Ice roaring through every cell, every nerve, every drop of blood—claiming him, remaking him, reminding him that gravity was never the law.

Phei was.

The dragon woke fully. Scales of shadow and frost crawled beneath his skin, unseen but felt—coiling around bones that weren’t quite human anymore, freezing veins that ran hotter than fire.

His heartbeat thundered like distant thunder across a frozen wasteland, each pulse a reminder: he was born of void and ice, forged in blood and betrayal, and the rim had just been the first thing to kneel.

The stadium felt it.

Even the ones who didn’t understand why their spines suddenly ached, why their lungs forgot how to fill, why the boy on the court now looked like something that had crawled out of myth and decided to wear a jersey.