My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 362 - 362: The Sermon
Phei called his boys to him.
A quick huddle at half-court while the Reapers reset, while Marcus wiped sweat from his brow with trembling fingers, while twenty thousand people held their breath waiting for whatever came next.
“Listen, now that the message is sent as you guys wanted, it’s time to prove it,” Phei said, voice low, calm, carrying only to Landon and Brian. “Next five possessions—we don’t let them breathe. Two passes maximum. We take the ball. We give them hell.”
Landon nodded, jaw tight.
Brian cracked his knuckles. “How much hell?”
Phei’s eyes flickered—cold, ancient, something that had watched empires rise and fall.
“Hell they’ll remember when they’re old.”
They broke.
The Reapers had no idea what was coming.
Marcus took the inbound, jaw locked so tight the muscles along his neck stood out like steel cables under silk. He dribbled upcourt with deliberate menace—right hand, casual pace that screamed ownership.
Phei shadowed him from the side. Half a step behind. Close enough to smell the expensive cologne warring with the acrid tang of humiliated sweat. He watched Marcus’s wrist.
Phei stole it.
He just smiled—that small, pitying curl of the lip that said, You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet.
The ball rested loose in his right hand, bouncing once, twice, patient as a predator.
Then the hesitation came: a lazy rock left, shoulders dipping, eyes locked on Marcus like he was about to commit.
Marcus bit hard, lunging left with the desperation of a man who suddenly realized the trap was already sprung.
Phei’s feet never moved.
The fake was surgical—Marcus’s momentum carried him two full steps into nowhere, arms windmilling, mouth open in that stupid O of realization.
He looked like a cartoon character who’d just run off a cliff and only now noticed the drop.
Landon read the moment like scripture.
He slid in silent as smoke, planting his shoulder square into Danton’s ribs with a screen so vicious it sounded like two car doors slamming shut. Danton grunted, feet tangling, stumbling sideways into the referee’s blind spot—perfect.
The lane cracked open like a fault line.
Phei exploded right in a single, liquid motion, the crossover so fast and low it might as well have been teleportation.
The ball changed hands behind his back in a blur, Marcus’s outstretched fingers closing on empty air, grasping at the ghost of Phei’s jersey. The crowd sucked in breath; someone in the front row actually yelped.
Marcus spun, cursing, face flushed the color of shame, realizing too late that he’d been reduced to a traffic cone in under two seconds. Phei was already gone, a black streak slicing toward the rim, the ball hammering the hardwood like a war drum.
Kyle, the help defender, rotated late—always late—jumping high with both hands up, praying for a block that would save his pride.
Phei didn’t even glance at him.
He gathered at the dotted line, left leg kicking out for balance, body coiling like a spring forged in hell. Then he launched. One hand on the ball, the other arm cocked back, he rose clean over Kyle’s flailing reach.
The tomahawk came down like judgment—violent, theatrical, unforgiving.
The rim buckled, the net snapped with a crack that echoed off the back wall.
BOOM.
Glass rattled. Kyle landed awkwardly, knees buckling, staring up at the swaying hoop as if it had personally betrayed him. Phei hung for half a heartbeat, letting the moment sink in, then dropped lightly to the floor.
He turned, walked backward a step, and mouthed two words to the bench full of stunned faces: Next.
The stadium erupted—voices screaming, stomping, the sound of a city losing its mind.
In the VIP section, Dravenna had risen from her seat. Again. Her wine sat forgotten, condensation pooling on the armrest.
Melissa’s hand had found her chest, pressing against her heart like she needed to confirm it was still beating.
Harold sat frozen, mouth working but no sound emerging.
Phei bounced the ball once—casual.
Marcus was still doubled over near half-court, hands on knees, breathing like he’d swallowed glass. Danton rubbed his ribs, muttering excuses. Kyle just stood under the basket, blinking, dignity leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire.
Phei bounced the ball once, casual, already hunting the next victim. The score ticked up. The humiliation had only just begun.
**
Brett inbounded to Danton, desperate to reset, desperate to stop the bleeding.
Brian clamped Brett like a vice—sticky defense, hands everywhere, no breathing room. Brett tried to spin, but Brian anticipated, slapped the ball loose with a quick poke.
Turnover.
The crowd roared as Brian dove, tipping it toward Landon.
Landon snagged the loose ball mid-stride, spun 180° like he was dancing on hot coals, and unleashed the Ignite Pass—
A blazing, curving missile that screamed through the air, defying gravity. Brett stumbled backward, cursing his own feet, already looking small.
Phei streaked to the wing, timing it perfectly. The pass hit his hands behind the arc like it was magnetized. Anderson rotated hard, leaping high with both arms extended, face twisted in determination.
Phei streaked to the wing, timing it perfectly.
The pass hit his hands behind the arc like it was magnetized.
Anderson rotated hard, leaping high with both arms extended, face twisted in determination.
Phei didn’t flinch.
He leaned back into the fadeaway—body tilting at an impossible angle, knees bending like rubber.
Phantom Shot activated.
The ball left his fingertips in slow motion, arcing high over Anderson’s desperate reach, spinning with wicked backspin.
Anderson hung there mid-air, hands empty, watching his own block attempt turn into air.
Swish.
Nothing but net. The ball kissed the chain-link and dropped clean through.
Phei landed soft, eyes locked on Anderson the whole time—cold, unblinking stare-down. Anderson touched down awkwardly, shoulders sagging, pride punctured.
The crowd’s roar doubled—people pounding the bleachers so hard the structure groaned in protest.
David Lockwood was screaming something into his mic.
Phei bounced the ball once, turned away without a word. Anderson stood frozen, breathing heavy, while Brett jogged back muttering excuses. Landon grinned from the baseline, fist bumping Brian.
The bench erupted. Three down, humiliation stacking higher.
