Extra Basket-Chapter 136 - 123: Roanoke Storm.

📆 August 4, 2010

🏀 Division Cup - Southeast Region

64 teams from all over the country. Divided by regions. Only 16 would rise.

Only one would take the national title.

Each region had its own battlefield and today, the war began.

📍 Southeast Division Teams:

Team Name - School Name - Location

Vorpal Basket - Oak River Middle- Mouth of Wilson, VA

Blue Ridge Hawks - Blue Ridge Middle - Galax, VA

Roanoke Storm- Hidden Valley Middle - Roanoke, VA

Asheville Blaze- Mountain Ridge Middle- Asheville, NC

Piedmont Spartans- Piedmont Valley Middle- Winston-Salem, NC

To think... a school from the tiny town of Mouth of Wilson, Oak River Middle, had made it out of the qualifying rounds. Even more shocking?

They made it undefeated.

Inside the administrative office of the school, Principal James Whitaker sat with a coffee cup in hand. A stern, well-groomed American man in his mid-50s, known for his no-nonsense attitude and pressed suits. Today, however, his gaze was less academic and more... intrigued.

He peered out through the tinted glass toward the gymnasium where the team was prepping.

"So, this... this is Ethan Albarado. The genius that they say?" he muttered to himself.

Behind him stood his assistant Nathan, holding the tournament brackets.

"Yes, sir. Ethan’s been the key in orchestrating the team’s plays. Sharp mind, intense court vision. He’s not just a player, he’s a thinker."

Principal Whitaker raised an eyebrow.

"And the Graves boy? Lucas?"

"A monster in the making, sir. Athleticism, skillset, you name it. His recent growth has shocked even me. And—"

The principal cut him off.

"And the streetballer?"

"Ah, Louie Gee Davas. A bit wild, but he’s starting to mold into something special under Ethan’s guidance. Raw, but unpredictable. Think of him as our X-Factor."

Principal Whitaker leaned back and sipped his coffee slowly.

"Interesting. Very interesting."

...

Meanwhile, inside the gym—

The team was gathered. The gym buzzed with pre-tournament energy. Bags unzipped. Shoes squeaked on polished wood. Coaches calling plays. Sweat and nerves mixing in the air.

Ethan Albarado stood with his arms crossed, watching the team run through drills. His yellow hair slightly tousled, eyes laser-focused.

"Remember the basics. Defense wins tournaments." he said firmly, voice echoing across the court.

Lucas Graves was nailing 3s from deep, catching and shooting with Jordan-esque grace.

Louie, on the other hand, was dribbling two balls at once and humming the Mission Impossible theme.

"Louie, you’re not in a movie." Ethan called out without looking.

"YET!" Louie yelled back, grinning.

Lucas jogged over, wiping sweat from his face.

"We really doing this, huh?"

"Yeah," Ethan nodded. "No more practice matches. No more simulations. It’s real now."

(Nationals... that’s the goal. But first, survive the region.)

Meanwhile... Near the edge of the court, Evan Cooper and Aiden White sat on the bleachers, watching Ethan, Lucas, and Louie warm up in sync.

Evan leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on Lucas landing another perfect airshoot.

"Are you scared?" he asked quietly.

Aiden blinked.

"What?"

"I mean..." Evan lowered his voice. "We’re about to play in a real tournament. Regionals. And we don’t know what kind of monsters we’re up against. What if we’re not enough?"

Aiden’s eyes stayed on Ethan.

"Yeah..." he admitted. "I’m scared."

Before he could continue, a familiar voice cut in from behind.

"But we have Ethan."

They both turned. It was Josh Turner, arms crossed, standing just behind the bench. His face held a calm confidence, but his eyes were serious.

"We have Ethan," he repeated, walking closer, eyes now on Ethan across the court.

"Because of him, we’re not losers anymore. Remember what we were before? Always losing. Getting crushed by teams who didn’t even practice."

He sat beside them, voice low but steady.

"But after we beat the Portsmouth Vultures... I realized we’ve changed. We became strong. Not because we suddenly got lucky. Because he trained us. Pushed us. Believed in us when no one else did."

There was a long pause. The three of them stared at the court in silence.

Ethan passed to Lucas, who passed back without even looking. Louie caught the ball mid-air and slammed it home, the rim rattling.

Aiden smiled.

"Yeah..." he nodded. "We’ve got Ethan."

Evan grinned faintly.

"Then maybe we’re monsters too now."

The three of them stood, walking toward the court. Behind them, the lights of the gym seemed just a little brighter.

...

Meanwhile Roanoke Storm

Hidden Valley Middle School Gym, Roanoke, VA

August 4, 2010 – 4:45 PM

The gym of Hidden Valley Middle School had an eerie stillness to it — not from a lack of sound, but from the weight of the presence inside. The wooden floor, polished to perfection, reflected the overhead lights, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lamps hummed in the background like the quiet before a thunderstorm.

The air was cool — not because of the AC, but because of the unspoken fear and reverence toward the figure standing alone at center court.

A tall, lean boy, arms taut with muscle and eyes sharp as razors, stared at the hoop with predator-like focus. His jet-black hair was slick with sweat, his expression blank, unreadable.

"Again," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

A player on the sideline passed the ball in a single bounce. The boy caught it in one fluid motion —

One dribble.

Two.

Then he leapt.

And it wasn’t a normal jump.

It was explosive. Unnatural.

Air bent around him.

He rose above the rim with terrifying grace, then slammed the ball down like a bolt of judgment from the heavens.

SLAM.

The rim shook violently, the backboard trembled, and the sound cracked across the gym like a whip. But none of the players flinched. None of the coaches gasped.

This was normal for them.

That was Kagetsu Renjiro — #23 — the MVP of Roanoke Storm.

Nicknamed "The Human Thunderclap," Kagetsu was a half-Japanese, half-African-

American phenom. His vertical jump was the stuff of legend, and his reputation had

already spread far past the state. Many claimed he was a future pro — "If he stays healthy,

he’s going D1 by high school."

His dunks didn’t just echo, they crushed morale.

Across the court, standing with arms crossed, their head coach Mr. Richard Halter, a grizzled, sharp-eyed man with a buzzcut and clipboard, finally spoke.

"Next game’s locked."

His voice boomed like a drill sergeant’s.

"Vorpal Basket. Mouth of Wilson."

Some of the players muttered. A few eyes glanced at each other. One even scoffed.

"Never heard of ’em," said a forward, spinning a ball on his finger.

Coach Halter flipped a page on his clipboard.

"Newbloods. First regional appearance. Word is... they took down the Portsmouth Vultures."

That name silenced them.

The Portsmouth Vultures were no joke. They were a notoriously aggressive, dirty, and skilled team, the kind who played to humiliate, not just win. Losing to them was almost a rite of passage for young teams.

Kagetsu raised an eyebrow.

"They beat Portsmouth?"

Coach nodded.

"Yes. With a bunch of nobodies... and two rising stars."

He looked up at the team, eyes locking with Kagetsu’s.

"Ethan Albarado. And Lucas Graves."

That name Graves got another reaction.

Kagetsu tilted his head.

"Graves... any relation to Charlotte?"

"litte brother," Coach confirmed.

"Different style, but same fire."

Kagetsu’s smile was small but dangerous.

"So we’re playing against the next Charlotte, huh?"

The backup center laughed nervously. "Should we be worried?"

Kagetsu shook his head.

"No."

He walked over to the sideline and picked up a towel, wiping the sweat off his arms.

"We’re not here to worry. We’re here to destroy."

He looked at the rim again.

"Vorpal Basket, huh? Let’s see what happens when the storm comes knocking."

Coach Halter turned to the rest of the team.

"From now till game day, no slacking. We run full drills. Conditioning. Defense rotations. Kagetsu gets special coverage. We focus on Albarado and Graves — lock them down, crush the morale."

"Yes, Coach!" the team replied in unison.

He paused before walking away.

"Make no mistake — this isn’t just about winning."

"It’s about reminding these dreamers that the Southeast belongs to Roanoke."

As the players dispersed into formation, sneakers squeaked across the polished gym floor. The ball echoed with each bounce as Kagetsu Renjiro made his way back to the paint, his expression unreadable cold and calm like a storm before it breaks.

He muttered under his breath:

"Ethan, huh..."

He stared at the hoop, dribbling slowly.

"Let’s see if you can handle thunder."

Then he exploded.

BAM!

In one fluid motion, Kagetsu drove to the rim, a single crossover and eurostep that left his defender stumbling and launched himself into the air again. His right arm stretched back like a coiled whip, then

BOOM!

The dunk was thunderous. This one made the rim bend. The assistant coach flinched instinctively. The gym fell quiet for a moment before resuming the drill whistles.

....

Roanoke Storm’s Training: Precision & Pressure

Coach Halter’s clipboard snapped shut.

"Clockwork rotations! I want no mistakes!"

Players moved like a machine, this wasn’t practice, it was war prep.

...

Drill 1

Two rows of players stood at half-court, crouched low like sprinters. One line was defense. The other, offense.

Each defender was given a mirror partner, they had 5 seconds to match their every move: jab steps, hesitations, spin moves.

Kagetsu was unmatched here.

His lateral movement was inhuman when his partner cut left, Kagetsu was already there. When he pulled a quick behind-the-back dribble, Kagetsu reached forward poke steal.

"Move like ghosts! Don’t chase, predict!" Halter shouted.

...

Drill 2

Coach threw a whistle and barked:

"Three-on-two. Transition drills. Speed up!"

Three offensive players barreled down the court while two defenders scrambled to stop

them. But Roanoke’s defenders especially Kagetsu weren’t just reacting. They hunted.

A pass to the wing? Kagetsu leapt in the air — intercepted.

When a smaller guard drove inside, Kagetsu slid over and leapt.

"NOT IN HERE!"

The block was brutal, the ball bounced off the backboard and landed near the bleachers.

....

Drill 3: Thunder Unit

Coach Halter clapped his hands.

"Give the court to Kagetsu — full iso run."

Players stepped aside. This was his time.

One-on-one. Shot clock on. Defender set.

Kagetsu bounced the ball slowly... eyes locked onto the defender.

One jab step, the defender twitched.

Then crossover. Behind the back. Spin. Stop-and-pop jumper.

Swish.

Next defender stepped up. Kagetsu did it again — this time, a hesitation move, then exploded into a windmill dunk.

After five straight buckets, sweat dripped from his chin. He wasn’t tired. He was focused.

"I heard Ethan teaches his team fundamentals," he said while walking to the sideline.

"Let’s see if he can teach them how to survive this."

Coach Halter addressed the team one last time

"Vorpal Basket plays with heart. They’ve got chemistry. They’ve got this kid Ethan calling plays like he’s a college guard."

He stared them all down.

"But we’ve got chaos. Power. Thunder. Roanoke doesn’t fall to kids with dreams. Roanoke breaks them."

..

Last Shot Before Fadeout

Kagetsu stood alone at the free-throw line.

The lights above him dimmed slightly as the sun dipped outside the gym windows.

He took a deep breath.

Dribbled once.

Then launched a perfect shot —

Swish.

He whispered:

"Thunder’s coming, Ethan. Hope your sky’s clear."

To be continue