My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 361 - 361: Brian's Poetic Justice Request

The crowd laughed—loud, vicious, delighted. The sound rolled through the stands like thunder that had learned cruelty. A voice from the front row bellowed “Kiss the floor, Your Highness!” and the laughter doubled, tripled, became a living wave that crashed over Marcus and left him soaked in shame.

They rushed together now—three bodies converging like a collapsing fortress wall, desperation wearing the mask of coordination, three heirs reduced to panicked guards in a war they had already lost.

Phei dribbled straight into them. No fear. No acceleration. Just calm, inevitable forward motion—like a tide that has decided the shore no longer gets a vote.

At the last step, he pushed the ball between his own legs, angled forward with surgical precision. The bounce threaded the narrow gap between Kyle and Brett’s feet like silk drawn through the eye of a needle—perfect, impossible, almost obscene in its intimacy.

Phei turned sideways and walked through, shoulder brushing past Danton with the casual indifference of a man parting a curtain made of flesh and ego.

No speed or force.

Just presence.

All three spun at once—too late, too tangled. Elbows clashed. Hips collided. Egos shattered audibly. Danton’s forearm caught Kyle under the chin hard enough to snap his head back; Brett’s knee buckled as he tried to pivot and instead hooked Kyle’s ankle.

They went down in a heap—three Legacy heirs sprawled across the hardwood like discarded mannequins, jerseys twisted, faces flushed crimson with exertion and mortification.

Phei was already past them.

Still no shot.

The crowd’s roar turned savage—people pointing, filming, laughing so hard some doubled over in their seats.

A chant erupted in the student section: “Walk it off! Walk it off!” It spread like wildfire, echoing off the rafters, a cruel hymn to the fall of princes.

Anderson lunged from the side—desperate, reckless, fingers clawing for anything that would salvage the night, salvage his name, salvage the myth that Legacy blood still meant something.

Without looking, without breaking stride, Phei dribbled behind his back, transferring the ball away from Anderson’s reach in a single, contemptuous arc that seemed to bend light around it. Same motion, he pivoted his hips, placing his body between Anderson and the ball like a wall forged from divine indifference.

One more bounce. Low. Tight. The ball never rose more than an inch from the floor.

Anderson’s hand slapped against Phei’s hip instead of leather—hard, audible, the sound of failure made flesh.

He stumbled back violently—off-balance, humiliated, the crowd’s laughter now a living thing that clawed at his ears. He caught himself on one knee—literally on one knee—looking up at Phei like a supplicant who had just been denied absolution by a god who found the plea amusing.

The stands were standing now—twenty thousand people on their feet, roaring, some weeping with disbelief, others screaming with savage joy. Phones were out everywhere. This moment was already viral.

Marcus lunged forward again—this time slower, more cautious, trying to match the monster he now faced, trying to salvage something from the wreckage.

Phei didn’t move.

He mirrored Marcus’s step—exactly.

When Marcus shifted left, Phei shifted left. When Marcus feinted right, Phei feinted right.

To mock.

To show that every twitch, every flicker of intent, every micro-decision Marcus made was already anticipated, already owned.

Marcus froze mid-motion—realizing he was dancing with his own reflection, and the reflection was winning without effort.

Phei dribbled once—soft, mocking—then stepped back.

Marcus remained rooted, breathing hard, eyes wide with the dawning horror of a man who had just discovered his own moves were predictable. His hands clenched into fists at his sides; his shoulders shook—not from exertion, but from the raw, burning humiliation of being reduced to a puppet in his own kingdom.

A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple and dripped onto the floor like a tear the crowd could see.

The laughter turned vicious, personal. Someone started a slow clap. It spread. Sarcastic. Mocking. The clap of people who had paid to watch a king fall and were getting their money’s worth tenfold.

Danton and Kyle circled again—flanking, trying to trap him like wolves on a stag, though the wolves were now limping.

Phei didn’t run.

He dribbled in a perfect circle—slow, deliberate—keeping both of them at the exact same distance, like they were tethered to invisible leashes. Every time one stepped in, Phei rotated just enough to keep the distance constant.

They chased. He orbited. They lunged. He drifted. They never got closer than arm’s length.

It looked effortless.

It looked eternal.

They began to tire—chests heaving, frustration turning to panic, sweat dripping into their eyes. Danton’s breathing turned ragged; Kyle’s face twisted with impotent rage.

Phei stopped.

Dribbled once.

Then walked forward—straight between them.

They reached.

Their hands met nothing but each other’s wrists.

They collided—again—harder this time. Danton’s elbow caught Kyle in the ribs with a sickening thud; Kyle’s knee buckled and he dropped to one knee, gasping. They went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

Phei continued walking.

Still no shot.

Brett and Anderson rushed in tandem—desperate, sloppy, pride long gone, reduced to two boys chasing a nightmare they couldn’t wake from.

Phei didn’t even look at them.

He dribbled once—high, lazy—then simply stopped.

The ball bounced up.

And stayed up.

Suspended in mid-air for one impossible heartbeat.

Brett and Anderson both jumped—reaching, grasping, clawing at the leather that refused to fall.

Phei stepped forward—calm, unhurried—caught the ball on the descent with one hand, as though he had merely paused time to adjust his cuff.

They landed empty-handed—hard. Brett’s knee hit the floor first; Anderson’s ankle twisted. Both winced, both stayed down a second longer than necessary.

He walked past them without a glance—shoulders relaxed, posture regal, the picture of serene indifference.

The crowd was no longer laughing.

It was howling—feral, religious, the sound of a city witnessing the death of one myth and the birth of another.

Only Marcus remained.

Silence stretched—thick, electric, holy.

Phei dribbled toward him slowly.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Marcus was ready. Perfect stance. Perfect form. Every muscle coiled like a spring forged in Legacy arrogance and desperation.

Phei suddenly accelerated—two hard steps—then acted like he was about to launch from far out, lifting the ball high with both hands, shoulders rising, eyes locked on the rim as though the shot were already written in scripture.

Marcus jumped.

High. Desperate. Glorious.

Mid-air, Phei dropped back to the floor—calm, unhurried—pulled the ball back into his dribble, and stepped calmly around Marcus as he came down.

Phei dribbled once behind Marcus’s back.

Just once.

The bounce echoed like a funeral bell.

Marcus landed—knees buckling, balance gone.

He turned—wild-eyed, chest heaving—saw Phei already past him, ball resting on his fingertips like a scepter he had no intention of using.

The crowd exploded—full chaos now, a wall of sound so thick it felt like the building itself might collapse under the weight of collective awe and schadenfreude. Phei shock his head in disappointment, he looked at the coaches as if to ask them if this is what they’d let on the court instead of letting real talents play.

He turned to Brain who was laughing, the latter nodded a signal that that is enough for now.

Brian had asked if he could do that before the game and Phei had agreed. Brian had hated how they’d chose Legacies instead of real talents. Landon for example, was way better than Anderson but he was always on the bench.

Phei had understood the message Brian wanted to pass to the Academy and whole world and he didn’t mind.

It also was a good chance to humiliate Marcus.

Phei finally looked at the net.

And still…

he didn’t shoot.

Instead, he flicked a lazy, almost bored pass to Landon waiting at the wing.

Landon caught it—wide-eyed, reverent—took one dribble, then fired it across to Brian cutting baseline.

Brian rose—simple, clean, no theatrics—and laid it in off the glass.

The net snapped.

The stadium detonated one final time.

But the roar wasn’t for the basket.

It was for the man who had refused to score—refused glory—because breaking Marcus Heavenchild had been the only points that mattered.

Marcus stood frozen at the top of the key, hands on hips, staring at the floor as though it had personally betrayed him.

For the first time in his gilded, untouchable life, he looked small.

Truly, humiliatingly, irreversibly small.

And the boy who used to be nothing had just made sure the entire city would never forget it.