My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 367 - 367: Victory Belongs to the Believers
Eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on the boy who had just rewritten what a human body could do.
The Phei Simps section detonated first—Emily and Delilah leaping onto their cheers, arms raised, screaming until their voices cracked raw.
Emily’s hands were shaking so violently she nearly dropped her phone; Delilah had tears streaming down her face, not from sadness but from the sheer, overwhelming joy of watching everything they’d bled for validated in one impossible moment.
Sierra stood beside Maddie, both girls on their feet, Sierra’s composure shattered into a rare, feral grin that showed actual teeth while Maddie jumped up and down like a child who’d just been handed the keys to the universe, tears of wild joy streaking her face, screaming Phei’s name until her throat went hoarse.
Even the female referee forgot to blow the whistle. She stood rooted at mid-court, whistle dangling uselessly from her lips, eyes wide, mouth open in a perfect little O of shock, one hand half-raised as though she meant to signal something but couldn’t remember what the rules even were anymore.
In the luxury box high above, Dravenna watched from her private booth—standing, one hand pressed to the glass so hard her fingerprints left fog, mouth hanging open, the unflappable heiress reduced to wide-eyed wonder, breath fogging the pane in short, stunned bursts.
Melissa chuckled softly beside Harold—low, satisfied, almost proud—as she watched her nephew hang above the rim like a living constellation. Harold’s jaw had dropped so far, his chin nearly touched his chest.
Mr. Castellano sat beside him in the same state, mouth open, glasses fogged, one hand frozen halfway to his drink.
Adriana—usually so composed—had both hands pressed to her cheeks, eyes shining with something between disbelief and reverence, whispering “My God” under her breath like a prayer she hadn’t known she still remembered.
Melissa chuckled more.
Soft. Satisfied. Proud.
The sound made Harold’s head snap toward her. His wife was smiling. Not the polite, passive smile she’d worn for twenty years of marriage. Something warm and genuine and openly delighted—the expression of a woman watching a beloved succeed beyond all expectation.
Harold froze looking like a man who’d just watched his entire worldview collapse and was still waiting for someone to explain the punchline.
“Harold,.” Melissa’s voice dripped with honeyed mockery. “You look undignified.”
“That’s…” Harold’s voice came out strangled. “That’s not possible. Phei—he’s just a—”
“A charity case?” Melissa sipped her champagne, eyes never leaving the court. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that. Several times. Daily, in fact, for the past ten years.”
“He can’t—no one can—”
“And yet.” Melissa gestured at the rim, where Phei still stood like a god surveying his domain. “There he is. Doing exactly what you say couldn’t be done.”
Harold’s hands were shaking.
“Danton,” he managed. “My son—Marcus—they were supposed to—”
“They were supposed to destroy him? Humiliate him? Remind everyone that Legacy blood means something?” Melissa set down her glass, turned to face her husband fully. “Instead, your precious Danton got crossed so badly he fell on his face. Paradise golden boy Marcus got dunked on so hard I think his soul left his body. And the charity case? The nothing? The nobody?”
She smiled. Sweet. Devastating.
“He’s currently standing on court like he owns it. Because from now on? He does.”
Harold looked like he might be sick.
“This isn’t over,” he said weakly. “The Heavenchild family will—”
“The family will do nothing.” Melissa’s voice went cold. “Because if they’re smart—and they are, despite evidence to the contrary—they’ll realize that boy is more friend than an enemy.”
She picked up her champagne again.
“You should think about that too, darling. Before you say something you can’t take back.”
Adriana had both hands pressed to her cheeks.
“My God,” she whispered. “My God, my God, my God…”
Her husband glanced at her, concerned. “Adriana? Are you alright?”
“That boy,” she breathed. “That’s the boy from next door. The one Harold calls—”
“The charity case. Yes.” Mr. Castellano’s voice was strained. He’d bet against Phei. Heavily. The numbers he was losing right now would require some creative accounting to hide from the firm. “I’m… aware.”
“He just walked on air, Roberto.”
“I saw.”
“He dunked on five people by himself.”
“I saw.”
Adriana turned to look at her husband—really look at him—and something shifted behind her eyes.
“You bet against him.”
It wasn’t a question.
Mr. Castellano’s jaw tightened. “The odds were—”
“How much?”
Silence.
“How much, Roberto?”
“…Enough.”
“How. Fucking. Much?”
“15—”
“Fifteen what?”
“Million.”
Adriana stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed—short, sharp, disbelieving.
“You fool,” she said, but there was no real venom in it. Just exhaustion. “You absolute fool.”
She turned back to Melissa.
“I need a drink,” she muttered. “Several drinks sweet, how about a club tonight?” Melissa nodded instantly like this what she’d been waiting for.
****
Vice Principal Ashworth was laughing.
Not loudly or obviously. Just a quiet shake of his shoulders, a crinkle around his seventy-three-year-old eyes, the private amusement of someone who’d spent fifty years navigating Legacy politics and had just watched a seventeen-year-old blow it all to pieces.
“Sir?” His assistant hovered nervously. “The board is calling. The Heavenchild family is—”
“Let them call.” Ashworth’s voice was dry as autumn leaves. “I watched that boy walk on air. The Heavenchilds can wait.”
Don’t disappoint me, he’d told Phei. This is the most fun I’ve had in decades.
The boy hadn’t disappointed. If anything, he’d over-delivered so spectacularly that Ashworth was going to need a new definition of fun.
****
Valentina, stood beside Karian—pride and disbelief warring across her face, chest rising and falling rapidly, one hand pressed to her heart as though to keep it from bursting.
Karian, the man who had trained the boy from nothing just three weeks ago, stared with quiet awe, lips parted, knowing he had helped forge something that now towered over them all, something that had just made every hour of pain and sweat worth it.
Above, in the shadowed upper tiers, the Consort watched so did her master through her—standing, mouth slightly open in rare, unguarded surprise. The results they had expected… but Phei had over-delivered in a way that bordered on insolence.
Phei’s fair—tiny, luminous, hovering near the rafters—smiled cutely, exchanging delighted glances at the Consort’s disbelief, their wings fluttering with barely contained glee.
Most importantly, more than half the crowd who had bet against Phei didn’t even get the chance to see their money slip past their fingers. The bookies’ screens froze mid-update. The odds had been moving in real time—until they simply stopped.
No one could process what had just happened fast enough to adjust. Fortunes were made and lost in the span of one impossible hang-time.
The net was still swaying. The rim groaned quietly, offended, forever changed.
He didn’t celebrate.
He simply started a smooth, rolling daggie dance—hips swaying, shoulders loose, feet gliding in that effortless, street-born rhythm that said this was nothing new to him.
He’d learnt this from DeShawn and others.
The crowd caught it instantly.
First a few voices, then dozens, then thousands—they started singing.
A song. The same filthy, infectious beat started playing in stadium speakers, now raised to arena volume. Phones lit up everywhere—people filming, singing, losing their minds.
Landon and Brian sprinted over—grinning like children who’d just been handed the keys to the city—and joined him. Three bodies moving in perfect sync, hips rolling, shoulders dipping, the dance spreading like wildfire across the court.
Ms. Bloom—chuckled from the faculty section, shaking her head in fond disbelief, one hand covering her mouth as though she couldn’t quite believe she was witnessing this.
FWEEEEEEET!
The whistle finally came.
The referee had remembered she existed—remembered the rules, remembered her job, remembered that technically someone was supposed to declare this massacre officially over.
“Game!” she shouted, voice cracking. “Final score—fifty to seventeen!”
The words barely left her lips before the stadium exploded.
200,000 voices screaming at once. The sound was physical—a wall of noise that hit you in the chest, rattled your teeth, made your eyes water.
The scoreboard flickered one final time:
PHEI’S TEAM: 50
HEAVEN REAPERS: 17
First to fifty.
And the charity case had doubled them.
The Phei Simps didn’t wait for permission.
They poured onto the court like a flood breaking through a dam—security guards overwhelmed instantly, swept aside by a tide of screaming girls in blue and white uniforms.
Emily led the charge, sprinting across the hardwood with tears streaming down her face, Delilah right behind her—she’d broken, finally, couldn’t stay in her seat one second longer even with her father watching or not—then dozens more, all of them running toward the boy who had just made believers out of doubters.
Emily reached him first.
