Extra Basket-Chapter 125 - 112: Who are you Ethan Albarado

Score: 91–49 | 4th Quarter | 2:41 Remaining

The arena was alive — voices rising, tension mounting.

Anwar Pafur, the Vultures’ center, grabbed the rebound and immediately passed to Jamie Lin, their point guard.

Jamie advanced with deliberate pace.

His eyes were locked on Ethan Albarado, now commanding the floor as Vorpal Basket’s Point Forward.

Jamie’s thoughts raced:

"(This bastard... The way he moves — as if he’s waiting for me... Does he really slow time or what? Cause what kind of cheat code is this?)"

He drove hard left sudden burst.

Ethan slid. Instinctive.

Jamie planted, spun then kicked the ball out to Rico Harrow at the wing.

Rico shot —

Clank! Off the rim.

Brandon Young snagged the board like a magnet.

One pivot. Full extension. Outlet pass to Evan Cooper.

Evan exploded up the court.

Lucas Graves ran the right lane, Ethan the left.

Evan didn’t hesitate.

Mid-sprint, a fast bounce pass to Ethan.

Ethan caught it in stride. Jamie hustled back, desperate.

Too late.

Ethan jumped turned midair —Double clutch, up-and-under layup.

In.

Score: 93–49.

The crowd ERUPTED.

A chant surged like a wave:

"E-THAN! E-THAN! E-THAN!"

...

Up in the section of the bleachers, away from the roaring chaos of the crowd, a man sat with an unreadable expression. Blond hair, neatly combed. Sharp suit, crisp collar. His presence was quiet—but commanding.

He had been watching Ethan Albarado for some time now.

As the scoreboard flashed 96–49, and the crowd chanted Ethan’s name like he was a legend reborn, the blond man leaned forward ever so slightly.

A faint smile curled on his lips.

"Ethan... you really are an interesting person..."

His voice was smooth, low, and laced with curiosity—as if he’d just found a rare gem buried in a pile of stones.

His eyes didn’t blink.

(That level of control... vision... anticipation. It’s not just skill. Something else is moving in him.)

He sat back again, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

....

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the bleachers, the reaction was not nearly as elegant.

A rowdy, loud, and boisterous crew was watching the scoreboard with disbelief. SunshineBasket, a team known for their flashy offense and even flashier personalities, had shown up just to scout—maybe mock—a little.

One of their forwards, a skin-headed, tatted-up brawler named Mero, stared at the screen with his mouth slightly open.

"Damn," he muttered, loud enough for the team to hear. "They fucked up the Portsmouth Vultures."

The rest of SunshineBasket leaned forward.

"Yo, they were supposed to be good, right?"

"Vultures got some real talent too, man... but that Ethan kid?"

Mero spat to the side and laughed, wiping his mouth with his wrist tape.

"That ain’t no kid. That’s a fucking problem."

He looked toward his captain.

"You think we’re ready for that?"

No one answered.

They just kept watching the court... as Ethan Albarado jogged calmly back on defense, the crowd still chanting his name like it was prophecy.

...

Back on the court...

The ball was back with Jamie Lin.

He stood near half-court, dribbling slowly. The gym pulsed with noise, but his focus tunneled into one player:

Ethan.

Ethan crouched low, eyes locked.

Jamie exhaled.

"(Alright then... Show me just how far you’ve come.)"

He called for an iso — teammates cleared out.

Jamie jab-stepped left, drove right — then stopped.

Spin. Step-back jumper — a flash of space.

He rose for the shot.

Ethan anticipated.

He jumped — just enough.

Smack.

Blocked.

Gasps. Cheers. The ball flew loose —

Lucas Graves scooped it and bolted.

He passed ahead to Ethan, who charged forward.

Rico and Silas Green gave chase — too late.

Ethan planted. Pivoted.

No-look dish to Lucas trailing behind —

SPLASH!

Three-pointer.

Score: 96–49.

..

On the bench, amidst the sea of roaring fans and thunderous stomps, Charlotte Graves sat with her hands clasped beneath her chin. Her violet eyes were locked on the court—not at Ethan this time but on Lucas.

He had just hit that trailing three off Ethan’s no-look dish. Smooth. Confident. No hesitation. The follow-through was picture-perfect, and the sound of the ball swishing through the net still echoed in her ears.

Charlotte didn’t smile. Not yet.

She just stared... like she was seeing someone or something begin to awaken.

Her voice was low, almost like she was speaking to herself, but Lucas would’ve heard it if he glanced her way.

"You’re not just a boy anymore..." she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"You’re something."

She leaned back slowly, a breath catching in her chest as her expression softened—just a little.

"You are Lucas Graves from Vorpal Basket"

Then, a rare smile tugged at her lips.

She whispered under her breath:

"Go ahead, little brother. Show them what a Graves really looks like."

..

BACK ON THE COURT

Score: 96–49 | 4th Quarter | 2:01 Remaining

The gym was roaring. Vorpal Basket had pulled ahead by nearly 50 — the scoreboard burned like a brand.

Jamie Lin dribbled near the top of the arc, breath ragged, sweat pouring down his chin. His lips parted, gasping as his eyes darted.

(They’re suffocating us...)

(That damn Ethan reads everything — and Lucas... he plays like a predator now.)

He glanced at the clock — 2 minutes left.

Desperation.

Jamie called for a quick high screen. Anwar moved up, but before the screen even landed, Ethan slipped under it.

"Shit—" Jamie muttered, suddenly flinging a side pass toward the wing.

Darnell Fox, the ace of the Portsmouth Vultures, caught it.

He paused. Tight grip. Heavy shoulders. Eyes blazing.

Darnell’s thoughts surged like a storm:

"(I’m the ace. I’m supposed to carry. I’m supposed to dominate — not get humiliated like this.)"

"(How the hell are these guys doing this to us...? How are kids like Lucas and Ethan outplaying me?)"

He squared up. Lucas Graves was guarding him now calm, balanced, unblinking.

Darnell snapped the ball low jab-step hard dribble left.

Lucas mirrored.

Darnell bumped spun powered into the post.

Fadeaway jumper.

Lucas timed it perfectly.

Fingertips brushed the ball.

Tip.

The shot clanked again off the back rim.

Rebound Brandon Young, again a mountain in the paint.

Ethan was already moving.

Brandon lobbed it forward, and Ethan caught it in motion — mid-stride, eyes scanning.

Silas Green and Rico tried to backpedal. Too slow.

Ethan froze for a split-second —

then burst between them with a ghost-like glide.

Eurostep — left, right — finish.

Buzzer from the scorer’s table. Timeout Portsmouth.

Score: 98–49.

..

On the Vultures’ bench, Coach Ryland slammed his clipboard down.

"This isn’t just a loss this is a massacre."

Jamie collapsed onto the bench, towel over his head, gasping. He didn’t say anything — just watched the scoreboard.

Darnell stood frozen near the paint. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.

(They’re not just strong... they broke us.)

....

In the stands, Miho Park tilted his head, still watching.

Jun Seo whispered, "He’s on another level now, huh?"

Miho didn’t blink.

"Not just him."

"That whole team... they’re waking up."

..

Jamie Lin sat hunched on the bench, his hands over his mouth, elbows on his knees. His chest rose and fell with each breath, trying to calm the chaos in his mind.

(How did it fall apart this fast...? How did we end up here...?)

His teammates beside him Silas, Rico, even Anwar were silent. Heads low. Shoulders dropped.

Across the court, the Vorpal Basket bench buzzed with restrained energy.

Coach Fred Mason, despite his usual lethargy, stood with a towel over his shoulder and a clipboard in hand, the first time in this entire game he looked remotely like a coach.

Ethan Albarado stood at half-court, hands on hips, jersey soaked through. His yellow hair stuck to his forehead, his breath calm.

He glanced across the court at the opposing bench.

At Jamie.

At Darnell.

And finally at the scoreboard.

(This... is what victory feels like.)

Darnell Fox hadn’t moved since the last play.

He stood frozen under the rim, his eyes staring at the net — the one that just let Ethan’s shot glide through like it belonged.

Back to Jamie’s breath fogged the air in front of him. Timeout clock ticking down. Sweat dripping from his brow. But it wasn’t fatigue that weighed on him.

It was helplessness.

And the bitter taste of irrelevance.

(Tskk... Ethan... who exactly are you?)

He looked up just slightly watching the golden-haired point guard from across the court.

Ethan Albarado.

That name... meant nothing before today.

Now, it felt monumental.

Then Coach Ryland called out something a rotation, maybe but Jamie didn’t hear it. His thoughts were spiraling.

The scoreboard read:

Score: 98–49.

But that wasn’t what haunted him.

It was how they got there.

Every play. Every steal. Every pass from Ethan — perfectly timed, perfectly placed.

Every cut from Lucas, fast and untraceable.

Even Evan Cooper’s vision had sharpened in the second half. The whole team had

transformed.

(And we... we cracked.)

He looked down the bench at Darnell.

The "Ace."

Their weapon.

But even Darnell was still. Breathing heavy. Sweat glistening off his shoulders.

Staring at the floor like it had all the answers.

(We can’t win.)

(Not by force.)

He clenched his fists.

(So what do I do...?)

His mind ran through the options.

No. Not options, desperation.

Press full court?

No — Ethan broke that like it was nothing.

Double Lucas?

Didn’t work.

Zone? Already shredded.

Delay game? Waste time?

For what?

(They’re not just better today. They’re... playing a different game.)

A cold drop of sweat rolled down Jamie’s cheek.

His throat was dry, heart pounding.

Then—

A whisper of memory.

A lesson.

Something his grandfather told him once, during summer training in Taipei.

"When the board crumbles under your weight stop looking for answers. Start being the question."

Jamie blinked.

(Be the question...)

Slowly, his head lifted.

He looked at Rico.

Then Silas.

Then finally at Darnell — who finally met his eyes.

Jamie nodded.

(Let’s drag them into chaos. If we can’t play chess... we’ll flip the board.)

The buzzer sounded. Timeout over.

Jamie stood.

Taller. Firmer.

No longer spiraling.

He walked past Coach Ryland, murmuring only two words:

"Let’s gamble."

Coach Ryland didn’t stop him.

He didn’t need to.

The look in Jamie’s eyes said it all.

The Eastgate Wildcats were done playing by the rules.

And now...

They were about to flip the game.

To be continue