The stadium buzzed with tension. Twenty courts, forty players stepping forward for the first official matches of Project All-Time. Diego Garcia tightened his grip on the ball, his eyes locking onto his opponent—Peitra Adulyadej of Thailand. They had exchanged a few friendly words before, but now? Now, there was nothing but the game.
Above the court, a massive screen flickered on, displaying their profiles.
Diego Garcia (Spain) – Special Skill: Dribbling
Peitra Adulyadej (Thailand) – Special Skill: Mid-Range Sniper
The moment their Special Skills were revealed, murmurs spread through the crowd. Peitra was already infamous for his ruthless scoring ability—a player who never missed an open shot inside the arc. Diego knew this wouldn't be easy.
The whistle blew.
Peitra had possession first. He didn't hesitate, moving with quick, deliberate steps toward the three-point line. Diego shadowed him, staying close. One dribble. Two. Then, with a sudden stop, Peitra launched a clean, high-arcing fadeaway jumper.
Swish. 1-0.
Diego barely had time to react. Peitra's form was perfect, his shot untouchable.
This guy isn't normal.
Diego took the ball. He dribbled low, feeling the familiar rhythm in his fingertips. If Peitra had deadly shooting, then Diego had something better—control.
He started slow, dribbling between his legs, testing Peitra's patience. A quick crossover. Peitra didn't bite. Another hesitation, then a sudden burst forward.
Peitra reacted too late. Diego slipped past him with a clean step and finished with a layup.
1-1.
Peitra let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Not bad."
The game continued.
Peitra was relentless, his pull-up jumpers unblockable. Diego was just as ruthless, using his insane dribbling to get past Peitra's defense.
5-5. Neither could pull ahead.
But then Peitra's playstyle changed.
He started getting physical. Pushing Diego with his forearm. Stepping into his path. Little tricks that the ref ignored. Diego gritted his teeth—he had played against guys like this before. He knew how to counter them.
When Peitra drove in for another shot, Diego didn't fall for the fake. Instead, he reached in at the perfect moment, stealing the ball mid-motion.
The crowd erupted.
Diego sprinted forward, breaking into an effortless spin move, sending Peitra stumbling. With an open lane, he jumped—floating mid-air before dropping the ball in.
6-5. Diego leads.
Peitra narrowed his eyes, now dead serious.
The real battle was just beginning.
Peitra stepped back beyond the three-point line, dribbling the ball slowly. The intensity between them had changed. No more testing. No more playing safe. This was about winning.
Peitra suddenly exploded forward. Diego reacted instantly, but Peitra countered with a quick behind-the-back move, gaining space.
Jump shot. Perfect form.
Diego lunged. Fingertips grazed the ball.
But it still went in. 6-6.
Peitra smirked. "You can't stop me."
Diego didn't answer. He just took the ball and stepped back.
The crowd watched in silence.
He dribbled slow. Deliberate. Testing the floor beneath him.
Then—snap.
A brutal crossover. Peitra stumbled slightly, but recovered.
Diego feinted left—then instantly spun right.
Peitra lunged to block him, but Diego's control was too smooth. He pulled back for an instant step-back jumper.
The ball arced high.
Swish. 7-6.
The game turned into an all-out war.
Peitra responded with a fast-break pull-up jumper.
Diego countered with a no-look layup.
They traded points, back and forth.
10-10. Next point wins.
Peitra had the ball. He dribbled forward, eyes locked on Diego. The Spainard knew what was coming.
A final fadeaway jumper.
Diego didn't give him space. He stayed tight, predicting the movement.
As Peitra jumped, Diego didn't go for the block.
Instead—he reached in. Clean steal.
The ball bounced loose. Diego caught it, sprinting forward. Peitra chased him down.
Final moment.
Diego faked a drive, spun, and pulled up.
Peitra tried to react, but he was half a second too late.
The ball left Diego's fingertips.
Swish. Game over.
Diego wins 11-10.
Silence. Then—an explosion of cheers.
Peitra sighed, running a hand through his hair before letting out a short laugh. He walked over, offering a fist bump.
"Not bad, Spain," he muttered. "We'll meet again."
Diego bumped fists. "Looking forward to it."
As they walked off the court, Diego glanced at the massive screen above. The tournament was just getting started.
And somewhere in the crowd, watching everything, was the Brazilian player.
The man no one wanted to face.
***
Diego stepped off the court, sweat dripping from his forehead. His heart was still pounding from the intense match against Peitra. As he walked toward the group of players who had yet to compete, he noticed the atmosphere was heavier than before.
The nine other players who had been waiting with him before had gathered near the main entrance of the courts. Some were whispering, others were silent.
Diego's eyes landed on Berg Johansen.
Berg was sitting on one of the benches, slouched over, his elbows resting on his knees. His usual nervous expression was replaced by something different—disappointment.
Diego approached. "Berg."
The Norwegian looked up, his face grim.
"I lost," he muttered.
Diego sat beside him. He didn't say anything immediately, just let the silence sit.
Berg sighed. "I... I knew I wasn't the best here, but I thought I had a chance."
Diego tilted his head slightly. "What happened?"
Berg hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. "I faced a guy from Serbia. He was... fast. Not just fast, but unpredictable. Every time I thought I had him, he would **change direction, pull back, spin—**I couldn't keep up."
Diego didn't know what to say at first. He had seen how nervous Berg was before, and now it was clear why.
But instead of pity, Diego just smirked. "Well, at least you're not in the hospital."
Berg let out a short chuckle.
"Listen," Diego continued, leaning back. "You lost. So what? This isn't just about one game. It's about how you respond."
Berg glanced at him.
"Just keep watching," Diego said, nodding toward the center of the room. "There's still a lot to learn."
Just then, a loud chime rang through the stadium. A voice echoed over the speakers.
"Attention, contestants. The next round will begin after the current match concludes. Please direct your attention to the main screen."
A massive TV screen descended from the ceiling, glowing brightly.
On the screen, Russia vs. USA.
The score was displayed:
8-9. USA in the lead.
Diego frowned. The match had already passed the 15-minute mark, but the score was shockingly low. That only meant one thing.
These two players were at war.