The celebration dragged on long after the choir stopped singing. Coonie smiled where he had to, shook hands when they reached out, and endured the suffocating warmth of strangers congratulating him as if they'd known him forever.

By the time he and his mother finally returned home, his face hurt from forcing expressions he didn't feel.

The moment his bedroom door clicked shut, the mask fell.

Coonie collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as the muffled echoes of his mother humming downstairs filled the air. She was happy, happier than he'd seen her in years. And that made his chest ache in ways he couldn't untangle.

(She thinks this is salvation. She thinks this cult saved her life. After Dad died, she was broken… and now she's just broken in a different way. How do I fight something that makes her smile again?)

He turned to his side, burying his face into the pillow, his fists trembling against the sheets.

For the first time that night, the weight crashed onto him not the applause, not the forced acceptance, but the loneliness of fighting something no one else could see.

And then, as if his mind summoned it, Ethan's voice cut through the storm of his thoughts.

"Stay sharp, Coonie. Play the game until the final buzzer."

Coonie squeezed his eyes shut.

"Easy for you to say, Ethan… you've got a team. I've got no one."

But even as he whispered into the empty room, a second thought pushed back fierce, stubborn, unwilling to die.

(No… that's not true. I do have a team. I have Ethan. Lucas. Louie. Even that clown Ryan. They don't know it yet, but they're the only ones I can count on when this explodes.)

His breath came ragged, his chest tightening. He sat up suddenly, grabbing the edge of his desk as if to steady himself.

"I can't lose her, Ethan… not my mom. But I can't let this bastard Pastor own her either."

The room was silent, but in his mind Ethan's reply was steady, calm, cutting through the noise.

"Then don't lose. This isn't just your fight, it's ours. Trust the team. Trust me."

Coonie's fingers curled into the wood of the desk, nails digging into the grain.

"Alright… fine. But if this is a game, then I'll play it my way. No more running."

He stood, looking at himself in the mirror. His reflection was pale, eyes red from holding back tears. But beneath it all something else simmered.

Determination.

Defiance.

(They think they welcomed me into their family tonight. But they don't know the truth. I'm not their brother. I'm their poison. And I'll tear them apart from the inside.)

For the first time since walking into that church, Coonie allowed himself to smile. It wasn't the fake one he gave the congregation.

This one was sharp. Dangerous.

The game wasn't just on it was personal.

..

Meanwhile he night was still. Outside, the world had gone quiet suburbs swallowed by the lull of midnight, the kind of silence that pressed against the windows.

But Ethan couldn't sleep.

He sat at his desk in Lucas Graves's gym apartment, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound in the background. His hands gripped a pen, his notebook open, pages littered with crossed-out lines and frantic scribbles.

Then it came.

A sudden ping in his head, cold and unmistakable. The voice of the system, sharper than steel.

MissionUpdate:"BrotherinArms"–ProgressDetected.Mission Update: "Brother in Arms" – Progress Detected.MissionUpdate:"BrotherinArms"–ProgressDetected.

CoonieSmithhasenteredtheactivephase.Hisstruggle has begun.Coonie Smith has entered the active phase. His struggle has begun. Coonie Smith hasenteredtheactivephase. His struggle has begun.

Ethan froze. His pulse quickened.

(So it's real… it wasn't just a setup. Coonie's fight has started. And if the system is pushing this much SP and UP at me, then it's not a side quest. It's a war.)

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, the faces of his teammates flickered in his mind, Lucas, Louie, Ryan, Brandon. Always laughing, always bickering, always fighting together. Then Coonie's face surfaced sarcastic grin masking the cracks beneath.

Ethan clenched his jaw.

(He's been playing it cool this whole time. But he's drowning, and now… the system won't let me ignore it. If Coonie falls, the team breaks. If the team breaks, Vorpal collapses. This is bigger than basketball.)

He turned back to the notebook, flipping to a clean page. The header he scrawled across the top in block letters was almost violent:

"Operation: Save Coonie."

Underneath, he began to write lines of thought branching like a spider's web.

Cult / Pastor Delrio – suspicious. Tied to Coonie's mom. Possible external organization link?

Mother (Korre Smith) – victim or pawn? Manipulated under grief after father's death.

Secret Organization? – (???) Bald Old Man? Rumors of "BAC shadow branches." Need confirmation.

Coonie's role – Why is system pushing him? Why now?

Ethan's pen scratched faster, his breathing sharp. He underlined the last point twice.

(The novel… did this ever happen? Did Coonie ever get this subplot?)

He stood suddenly, pacing the room. His mind scrambled back through the novel Turning Point, the basketball world he thought he knew.

Lucas—the protagonist.

Gods—the rival team.

The tournaments. The battles. The training arcs.

But never once had there been a chapter about Coonie Smith's family. Never once had a pastor or cult appeared.

Ethan's skin prickled.

(So this isn't the novel anymore. This is beyond it. Which means someone is rewriting the script. Someone dangerous.)

He pressed his palms against the desk, staring at his chaotic notes.

And then, a whisper left his lips.

"If they're coming for Coonie, then they're coming for all of us. I won't let this team fall apart not to cults, not to shadow groups, not to fate itself."

The system pinged again, almost in answer.

Strategic Planning:+50Shop Points.

Strategic Planning: +50 Shop Points.

Strategic Planning:+50ShopPoints.

Ethan exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.

(Good. Then we plan. We prepare. If Coonie's mission has begun, then so has mine. And this time, I'm not just playing for the scoreboard. I'm playing for lives.)

He sat back down, flipping the notebook to a second page. The pen dug hard into the paper.

A new title scrawled across it, more ruthless than the last:

"Counterattack: Cult."

And with every bullet point he wrote, every line he connected, Ethan wasn't just organizing his thoughts anymore.

He was declaring war.

..

The church hall smelled faintly of old wood and incense. The stained-glass windows glimmered with moonlight, shards of crimson and gold painting the floor like broken halos.

Pastor Delrio stood at the pulpit, hands clasped lightly behind his back, his voice smooth and low calm, but with a current that tugged at the heart.

Around him, a circle of devoted followers sat in silence. Some were men in pressed suits, some women in simple dresses, but their eyes were the same: glazed with reverence, hungry for his words.

Delrio smiled faintly, the expression never quite reaching his eyes.

"Brothers and sisters," he began, his tone almost fatherly, "we stand in an age of false idols. The world worships money, fame, even basketball teams who think victory is salvation. But we.." he pressed his hand to his chest, voice rising. "we are chosen. We are the flame in the dark."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the circle.

Delrio let them stir for a moment before raising a single finger. Silence fell again, absolute.

"And now, the Lord has given us a sign." His gaze sharpened, the corner of his lip curling. "A boy… a boy who has walked into our hall at last. Not forced, not dragged, but guided by His will."

The congregation straightened, some whispering. They knew who he meant.

Coonie Smith.

Delrio spread his arms, pacing with slow, measured steps.

"This child is special. He carries pain, sarcasm, a shield of mockery around his heart. But I see what lies beneath anger, grief, confusion. Perfect soil for the truth."

His tone dipped lower, conspiratorial. "Do not treat him as a guest. Treat him as a miracle. Congratulate him, embrace him, drown him in love until he sees the light. Until he knows he was always meant to be ours."

One of the older women raised her hand timidly. "Pastor… do you believe he will stay? The boy seems… resistant."

Delrio chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Resistance is the first step to surrender. Fire thrashes hardest before it burns out." He leaned forward, eyes glinting, voice honey over steel. "And I will be the hand to smother the flames."

The group lowered their heads, murmuring prayers.

But Delrio remained still, his mind turning sharper than the words he spoke.

Behind his smile, his thoughts whispered:

(Smith… the name has weight. The boy has ties I must untangle. And his friends… his friends are not ordinary. That golden-eyed one. That strategist. There is something… dangerous there.)

For a flicker of a second, unease brushed his chest. But he pushed it aside, lifting his chin.

"Prepare yourselves, brothers and sisters," he said, his tone commanding once more. "The game is not won in the first quarter. It takes patience, pressure, and faith. And soon, the boy will kneel before truth."

Applause broke through the hall.

And as the choir rose again, soft voices filling the rafters, Pastor Delrio closed his eyes not in prayer, but in calculation.

Because for him, this wasn't worship.

It was strategy.

To be continue

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.