My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 364: Dominance Aura, Cucklord’s Dominance

Minutes ticked by—only a handful left on the clock now, and the scoreboard was basically just rubbing it in at this point: Heaven Reapers 15, Phei’s Squad 45.

The stadium had stopped pretending this was still a basketball game. It was now a public execution with extra steps—slow, methodical, the kind where the condemned gets to watch his own coffin being nailed shut while the crowd takes selfies.

The Reapers still had possession, but the energy in the arena felt like a funeral where the corpse was still trying to give a speech—and the eulogy was going very poorly.

Marcus Heavenchild dribbled upcourt looking like a man who’d just realized his entire personality was built on quicksand.

His jersey was so soaked it might as well have been shrink-wrapped to his torso, outlining every pathetic little ab he used to flex in mirror selfies—abs that now looked like they were trying to escape his body before the humiliation got worse.

His face still carried that ghost of regal arrogance—like a deposed prince refusing to admit the crown had been pawned for meth money and a bus ticket out of town.

He exploded forward.

A vicious crossover sent Landon into full cartoon physics mode—ankles shattered so hard the kid did an involuntary interpretive dance, arms windmilling like he was trying to hail three different taxis at once while screaming "I’m fine, I’m fine!"

Marcus blew past him like he was standing still, gathered at the rim, and rose with the same smug fluidity that used to make girls in the stands spontaneously ovulate.

The layup kissed the glass... and dropped through.

Net snapped.

The crowd erupted—half pity cheer, half desperate loyalty to the old myth that was currently bleeding out on national television.

Marcus landed, turned, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon in flip-flops, eyes hunting for Phei.

Phei didn’t flinch.

He stood at half-court, arms loose at his sides, watching Landon stagger upright with the dazed, thousand-yard stare of someone who’d just been reminded that gravity is real and ankles are optional.

Phei lifted one finger—calm, almost polite—then pointed at the scoreboard.

17–45.

Still up by 28.

He met Landon’s eyes, gave the tiniest nod. Relax. We’re still cooking.

Landon exhaled—shoulders dropping, panic draining out like someone pulled the plug. He nodded back, shaky but grateful, looking like a kid who’d just been told the monster under the bed was actually on his side.

Ball inbounded. Landon took one calm dribble, eyes flicking to Phei.

Pass.

Phei caught it at the top of the key like it owed him money.

Darius—the fresh sub who’d replaced Anderson and clearly thought he was about to have a redemption arc—lunged forward with all the desperate energy of a guy trying to impress his Tinder date’s dad.

Phei didn’t even change expression.

He lowered his shoulder just enough—contact so light it looked accidental—and Darius pinballed off him like a toddler hitting a brick wall at full sprint.

Phei glided past without breaking stride, without even glancing back, leaving Darius sprawled on the floor looking like he’d been hit by a polite truck—and was now questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

Derek was next—Kyle’s replacement—planting himself in the lane like a six-foot-seven brick shithouse full of inherited spite and misplaced confidence.

Phei didn’t slow.

Derek was about to regret why he’d been a coward and not join the winning team.

He dipped his shoulder, feinted left, then rolled right with that liquid, almost insulting grace. Derek swiped at air so hard he almost slapped himself in the face. His momentum carried him forward into nothing while Phei was already three steps gone—leaving Derek to contemplate the meaning of life while face-down on the hardwood, probably wondering if his mom still loved him.

Phei flicked the ball to Brian.

The black kid caught it at the elbow, shoulders loose, eyes calm now—like he’d just remembered he was allowed to be good at this.

He faced Danton.

Danton squared up, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grinding from the nosebleeds, determined to at least look like he could stop something tonight—anything tonight.

Brian smiled—small, vicious, the smile of a man who’d already won the game in his head.

Then he exploded.

Crossover so filthy Danton’s ankles snapped like cheap chopsticks. Brian spun baseline, wrong-footed him completely, rose soft and high, and laid the ball in off the glass with the contemptuous ease of someone flicking a booger into the trash.

Net snapped again.

Crowd roared—louder this time, the sound of people realizing this wasn’t just a blowout anymore; it was personal humiliation porn.

Brett saw blood in the water.

He darted in—fast, opportunistic—tipped the inbound pass right out of Landon’s hands like he was stealing candy from a drunk baby.

Ball secured.

He pushed ahead to Darius.

Darius flowed past Landon—quick, hungry—then dished to Marcus streaking up the sideline like a man trying to outrun his own obituary.

Marcus caught it in stride, eyes locked on the rim, legs churning, ready to reclaim literally anything from this massacre—pride, dignity, the ability to look at himself in the mirror without crying.

He gathered.

Rose.

And Phei was already there.

No jump. No dramatic block attempt.

Just standing under the rim with that mocking smirk—lips curled, eyes half-lidded, looking like a dragon who’d just watched a chihuahua try to bark at him.

Marcus came anyway—desperate, defiant, the last gasp of a dying myth.

Then just to humiliate the boy even more since he knew he was going to take the ball anyways, Phei simply stood there—arms loose, expression bored, letting the entire stadium watch Marcus rise like a man still clinging to the myth of his own invincibility.

He didn’t jump. Didn’t raise his hands. Didn’t even pretend to move to contest it.

He just waited.

Letting the moment stretch, letting Marcus feel every eye in the arena locked on the inevitable failure already written in the air.

He simply focused.

All of his Dominance Aura snapped outward—coiling around Marcus like black smoke made of pure psychic pressure and second-hand embarrassment. The air thickened. The temperature dropped ten degrees.

Every Legacy instinct in Marcus’s blood screamed predator so loud his knees almost buckled.

Then Phei layered Cucklord’s Dominance on top—raw, psychic venom that hit Marcus like a freight train made of pure shame, inadequacy, and the sudden vivid memory of every time he’d ever bragged about being untouchable.

Marcus shivered so violently his shoulders jerked like he’d been tased. His release faltered mid-air. The ball wobbled like it was drunk.

He took one instinctive step back—not strategic, not tactical—just pure, animal fear.

A rabbit realizing the wolf isn’t playing.

He felt it: a roar—not sound, but pressure—blasting through his skull, his spine, every cell. A dragon’s bellow that whispered you are small, you are prey, you were never king, you were just loud.

The ball slipped from his fingers mid-jump.

It dropped straight down like it was embarrassed to be associated with him.

Marcus stumbled backward—three, four, five steps—eyes wide, chest heaving, face pale as though he’d just stared into an abyss that stared back, took one look at his life choices, and laughed until it cried.

Phei caught the loose ball one-handed—casual, almost bored—then dribbled toward the shivering, sweat-drenched wreck of what used to be a prince.

Thud. Thud.

Slow. Deliberate. Insulting.

Marcus flinched—visibly flinched—like a kid waiting for the belt.

Phei faked a throw straight at Marcus’s face—sharp, sudden, playful.

Marcus threw both hands up instinctively, covering his face like a toddler bracing for a spanking.

The ball never left Phei’s hand.

Phei laughed—low, quiet, disappointed, the laugh of a man who’d expected better and was mildly embarrassed for the other guy.

He shook his head once—slow, paternal, devastating.

Maybe Harold’s willpower would resist a little later after here.

Maybe.

But Marcus had none left.

Phei glided past the shivering, sweat-drenched mess—didn’t even brush shoulders, just flowed around him like water around a cracked porcelain statue that used to think it was marble.