As they finished their meal, Peitra suddenly leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "So, I heard something interesting. The next trial—tomorrow or the next day—is going to be a 5v5 game."
Diego's eyes lit up. "For real?"
Peitra nodded. "Yeah. And if that's the case, we can join hands if we want."
There was a short silence before Diego, without hesitation, grinned and said, "I'm in."
Berg sighed, rubbing his temple. "I swear, you don't even think about these things, huh?"
Diego laughed. "Come on, Berg. It'll be fun!"
Berg shook his head but eventually smiled. "Fine, I'm in too."
Luka scoffed. "Tch. As if you guys would stand a chance without me. I'll be carrying all of you."
Diego rolled his eyes. "Sure, Luka. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Luka smirked. "The fact that I'm better than you does."
Before Diego could fire back, Mason suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. He had been quiet for a moment, processing the information. Then, with a smirk, he said, "If what Peitra's saying is true, then that means you already have a team in mind, don't you?"
Peitra gave him a neutral expression, neither confirming nor denying it.
Mason's smirk widened. "Yeah, thought so." Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Diego leaned over to Berg and whispered, "Dude's mysterious as hell."
Berg nodded. "Yeah, but he's got a point. If Peitra knew about this, he probably had his team set already."
Peitra shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We have four. We need one more."
Luka crossed his arms. "So, how do we pick?"
Diego grinned. "Simple. We scout."
The group left the cafeteria and wandered around the massive stadium. They passed by different players, some training alone, others in groups. Along the way, they exchanged quick words with random players.
Diego fist-bumped a tall French player, chatting briefly about their first game. Berg casually talked with a Japanese player about court conditions. Luka and Peitra both ignored most people, but Luka had a brief stare-down with a German defender that ended in mutual respect.
But none of these players felt right for their team.
Then, as they walked by Court 9, something made them stop.
A single player was inside, practicing alone. He was lean but muscular, with a strong build made for athleticism. His jumping ability was absurd—he leaped so high that at one point, his chest nearly reached the rim.
The group stood outside the court, watching in silent amazement.
Diego was the first to check his badge. "Egypt. His name's Ammon Akhenaten."
Peitra crossed his arms, nodding approvingly. "A jumper."
Berg tilted his head. "He's not just jumping high—he's fast too. He moves well."
Luka analyzed him with narrowed eyes. "His vertical leap is insane. That alone makes him valuable."
Peitra smirked. "Dribbling, Passing, Defending, Shooting, and a Jumper… it's basically the perfect team."
Diego grinned. "So, should we go talk to him?"
Luka cracked his knuckles. "I say we test him first."
Peitra simply smirked. "Let's see what he's made of."
The four of them exchanged glances before stepping onto the court, ready to meet their potential fifth teammate.
Diego, Berg, Luka, and Peitra stepped onto Court 9, approaching Ammon, who was still mid-air when they arrived. His body twisted gracefully as he hammered the ball into the hoop, the rim shaking from the impact. As he landed, barely breaking a sweat, he noticed their presence and turned.
His golden-brown eyes met theirs with curiosity, his expression calm but unreadable.
Diego, being Diego, walked up first. "Hey, man. We were watching you. You're insane."
Ammon tilted his head slightly, giving a small, knowing smirk. "Thanks."
Diego turned to Peitra and grinned. "So, our guy here wants to 1v1 you."
Peitra's eye twitched. "What?"
Luka stifled a laugh, while Berg just sighed.
Ammon, unfazed, shrugged. "Alright."
Peitra turned to Diego with a murderous glare. "I never said that."
Diego just smirked. "Too late."
Peitra sighed through gritted teeth. "Fine. But if I break something, it's on you."
They set the rules—first to 5.
Peitra took off his jacket and stepped onto the court. Ammon simply grabbed the ball and tossed it toward Peitra.
"Your ball first," Ammon said casually.
Peitra caught it and cracked his neck. "You're gonna regret that."
The Game Begins
Peitra bounced the ball low and crouched, his stance wide, his eyes locked onto Ammon's chest. The Egyptian stood tall, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, reading Peitra's movements.
Peitra exploded forward.
He took two fast dribbles and shifted to the right, cutting through the air like a knife. Ammon slid smoothly to block him. The moment Peitra sensed the resistance, he executed a quick cross-over, dragging the ball to his left hand and faking a drive.
Ammon didn't fall for it.
Instead, the Egyptian angled his body, using his wingspan to cut off Peitra's path to the rim.
Peitra growled under his breath. Alright. Let's do this the hard way.
He suddenly stopped on a dime, planting his foot down and stepping back. The ball snapped off his fingertips in a lightning-quick pull-up jumper.
Swish.
1-0.
Diego whistled. "Damn, Peitra."
Peitra flicked his wrist, staying cold. "He's not bad, but he's slow."
Ammon smiled slightly. "You think so?"
He picked up the ball and stepped back behind the three-point line.
Egyptian Precision
Ammon's stance was calm. He dribbled once—his fingers barely flicking the ball—before smoothly pulling up for a three.
Peitra rushed forward, hand outstretched, but the moment his fingertips neared the ball, Ammon had already released it.
The ball spun perfectly through the air.
Swish.
1-1.
Diego, Berg, and Luka all raised their eyebrows.
"That was… smooth," Berg muttered.
Peitra grabbed the ball quickly and took it up the court again. His eyes narrowed. Alright. If that's how you play…
He drove inside fast, using his quickness to break past Ammon. The Egyptian shifted but was half a step late. Peitra went for a layup—
—Only for Ammon to launch into the air.
His hand swept through the air like a shadow, the wind pressure brushing past Peitra's face.
The layup never reached the glass.
Ammon swatted it out of the air.
The ball bounced off the court, rolling toward Diego. He blinked down at it. "Uh… that was brutal."
Peitra clenched his jaw. "…Alright."
Ammon retrieved the ball.
He stepped into the quarter-line.
No hesitation. No extra movement.
His shooting form was flawless.
The ball arched perfectly.
Swish.
2-1.
Peitra let out a slow breath. I see how it is.
He played tight defense this time, stepping up, forcing Ammon to move instead of shoot. The Egyptian responded by spinning past him, his footwork elegant.
Peitra caught up, forcing a tough shot.
But Ammon didn't take it.
Instead, he suddenly—**unexpectedly—**jumped.
Not just any jump.
A ridiculous, gravity-defying leap.
His chest aligned with the rim as he extended the ball back, then slammed it forward.
A thunderous dunk.
3-1.
Even Luka whistled. "Damn."
Peitra groaned and grabbed the ball. He fought back hard, using his speed to weave through gaps. Ammon's defense was tough, but Peitra managed to get another step-back jumper in.
Swish.
3-2.
But Ammon answered immediately.
He stepped behind the quarter-line again.
A deep, deep shot.
Peitra jumped to contest.
But Ammon's release was perfect.
The ball soared through the air—a clean, effortless arc.
Swish.
4-2.
The next possession was different.
Ammon didn't shoot.
Instead, he faked the shot—Peitra jumped instinctively—then drove in with three explosive steps.
Then, for the second time, he took off.
Higher.
Faster.
And then, with one hand, he dunked so hard the rim shook.
5-2. Game over.
Ammon landed lightly and turned to Peitra, offering a small nod. "Good game."
Peitra wiped sweat from his forehead, muttering under his breath. "Diego, I swear, I'll kill you."
Diego just grinned. "But wasn't it fun?"
Luka smirked. "He crushed you."
Peitra ignored him and turned to Ammon. "We're putting a 5-man team together. You wanna join?"
Ammon thought for a moment.
Then, with a slight smile, he nodded. "Alright. I'm in."
The perfect team had just been assembled.