The black van pulled into the narrow street, and Ian almost fell backward out of the sliding door when he saw the front yard.
"Kuya... ano 'to?" (Kuya... what is this?) Ian stammered, his diploma nearly slipping from his hand.
The modest space had been transformed into what looked like a wedding reception. Long tables were lined up under rented white tents, draped in silk cloths and overflowing with trays of catered food. There were giant dispensers of iced tea, towers of desserts, and the crowning glory of any Filipino celebration: a massive, glistening lechons (roasted pig) taking center stage. The entire neighborhood was already there, huddled in groups, plates in hand, whispering in awe at the sheer scale of the feast.
As they waded through the cheering neighbors, Ian turned to Lynx, his face a mixture of gratitude and pure, unadulterated stress.
"Sabi ko simple lang!" (I said keep it simple!) Ian hissed, gesturing wildly at a waiter serving appetizers. "I told you to decide the food, but I didn't expect a town fiesta!"
Lynx just grabbed a stick of pork barbecue and took a calm bite. "Relaks ka lang, graduate," (Just relax, graduate,) he said through a mouthful of meat. "Hindi naman umabot ng 50k pesos ang nagastos ko dito." (I didn't even spend 50,000 pesos on all of this.)
Ian's eyes bugged out. "Hindi pa umabot ng 50k?! So may balak ka pang paabutin?!" (It didn't even reach 50k?! So you actually had plans to make it reach 50k?!)
To Ian, who had spent his life counting every centavo, ₱50,000 ($890) was a fortune—enough to live on for months. The idea that Lynx considered this a "budget" party made Ian's head spin.
"Insecure ka masyado sa pera," (You're too insecure about money,) Lynx chuckled, slapping Ian's shoulder. "Come on, before you have a heart attack, let's go to the sala. I have the actual gifts waiting."
He steered his younger brother into the house, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. Their parents and sisters followed, eager to see the final reveal. One by one, Ian opened the gifts from the mall trip—the shirts, the books, and finally, the sleek silver necklace from the girls. Ian was visibly moved, clutching the velvet box, his eyes shimmering with a mix of joy and the overwhelming realization of how much his life had changed in twenty-four hours.
"And finally," Lynx said, reaching behind the sofa to pull out a small, rectangular box wrapped in gold paper. "From me."
Ian took the box tentatively. He tore the paper away to reveal the brand-new, top-of-the-line Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra.
The room went silent. Ian stared at the box, then at Lynx, then back at the phone. This wasn't just a gadget; it was a device that cost more than their father's fishing boat. It was a ₱80,000 ( $1,430) piece of technology.
Ian looked like he was about to cry—or faint. "Kuya... sobra na 'to." (Kuya... this is too much.)
Their mother just let out a long, heavy sigh, leaning against the doorframe. She looked at Lynx, then at the phone, and simply shook her head. She had officially given up on trying to talk sense into her eldest son.
"Hayaan mo na siya, Ian," (Just let him be, Ian,) she murmured, a tired but proud smile touching her lips. "Wala na tayong magagawa sa lalaking 'yan. Ganyan na talaga siya kagastos." (There's nothing we can do about that man anymore. He's really that big of a spender now.)
Lynx just winked at his brother. "Para updated ka sa mga laro ko sa China. Ayaw kong malabo ang stream mo." (So you're updated on my games in China. I don't want your stream to be blurry.)
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the party was only just reaching its second wind. In any true Filipino celebration, the formal lunch is just the opening act, the real headliner is the "inuman" (drinking session) and the non-stop karaoke that carries into the early hours of the morning.
The yard was filled with the scent of grilled "pulutan" (appetizers) and the rhythmic thump-thump of the rented sound system. Lynx, sitting in the center of a circle of neighborhood men and local uncles, nudged his mother with a playful grin.
"Ma, payagan mo na si Ian. Magka-college na 'yan, dapat marunong na ring humawak ng baso," (Ma, let Ian join. He's going to college soon, he should know how to hold a glass by now,) Lynx teased, sliding a cold bottle of San Miguel toward his younger brother.
His mother feigned a stern look before sighing and waving her hand in dismissal. "Sige na, basta dahan-dahan lang! Huwag mong lalamunin ang bote!" (Fine, but take it slow! Don't swallow the whole bottle!)
The crowd of men roared with laughter, and Ian took his first tentative sip, looking like he'd just been initiated into an elite club.
To make the night even more legendary, Lynx pulled out his new laptop and connected it to the large TV he'd moved into the porch. "O, panoorin niyo 'to! Ito yung laro namin sa Finals!" (Hey, watch this! This was our game in the Finals!)
The neighborhood fell silent as the replay of the Eastern Continental League championship filled the screen. The high-definition footage of the neon-lit arena in China looked like something from a sci-fi movie compared to their dusty street.
As the Wild Card appeared on screen, weaving through defenders like a shadow, the yard exploded.
"Iyon! Iyon si Lynx! Ang bilis, gago!" (There! That's Lynx! So fast!) One of the uncles shouted, slamming his hand on the plastic table.
Every time Lynx made a steal or a gravity-defying layup, the neighborhood men let out a collective "WOOOOOH!" that surely woke up the next barangay. Lynx, fueled by the adrenaline of the memory and a few drinks of his own, couldn't help but stand up.
"Ganto 'yon, tignan niyo!" (It was like this, look!) Lynx shouted, reenacting his signature crossover right there in the middle of the yard. He moved with a fluid grace that seemed impossible for someone his size, his long arms mimicking the way he stripped the ball from the Korean point guard.
"Pag-drive niya, wala na! Tapos na ang laro!" (Once he drove, it was over! Game over!)
His mother and Ian watched from the side, their faces a mix of confusion and pure awe. They didn't fully understand the technicalities of a "triple-threat position" or a "euro-step," but every time the scoreboard flashed the Castillian logo and the crowd on screen went wild, they cheered right along with the neighbors.
"Galing ng anak ko, 'no?" (My son is good, right?) His mother whispered to a neighbor, her eyes bright with pride as she watched Lynx "dunk" an imaginary ball over a group of cheering old men.
For the first time, the "millions" in the bank didn't matter as much as the joy in the yard. In this small corner of the Philippines, under a sky full of stars and the smell of roasting pork, Lynx wasn't just a professional athlete. He was the local boy who had made the world take notice.
The morning after the celebration was silent, save for the occasional crow of a distant rooster and the rhythmic hum of the electric fan. The house was thick with the heavy sleep of men who had toasted one too many times to a graduation and a homecoming. Even their father, usually the first one out the door for the sea, was still dead to the world, snoring softly on the hand-woven banig.
Lynx was sprawled across the long rattan chair, one arm hanging off the side, completely out for the count.
Ian, however, was wide awake. He was sitting on the edge of the wooden sofa, his tongue poking out in concentration as he navigated the lightning-fast interface of his brand-new Samsung. He was just about to test the camera when a sharp ping echoed through the room.
Then another. And another.
He glanced at Lynx's phone on the coffee table. The screen lit up repeatedly with notifications, followed by a sudden, persistent vibration. The caller ID flashed in bold letters:
[ Ang Dictator na Kapitan ] (The Dictator Captain)
Ian frowned. The Dictator? It sounded like someone you shouldn't ignore if you valued your life. Thinking it might be an emergency related to Lynx's "million-peso" career, Ian tentatively picked up the phone and swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
What greeted him wasn't the noise of a busy street or a friendly greeting. It was a voice—cold, deep, and unnervingly calm—speaking a string of rapid-fire Chinese. The tone wasn't angry, but it held a natural authority that made Ian straighten his posture instinctively, even though the caller couldn't see him.
Ian cleared his throat, his heart racing. "Uh... sorry. I don't speak Chinese. Lynx is... Lynx is still sleeping."
There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. A small, thoughtful "Oh" escaped the caller. When the voice spoke again, it had switched to flawless, albeit cool, English.
"I see. And who am I speaking with? What is your relationship to Lynx?"
"I'm Ian. His younger brother," Ian answered, his voice sounding smaller than he intended.
"The graduate," the caller stated, more as a fact than a question. "Congratulations. I am Mico, Lynx's captain."
Ian's eyes widened. Mico. This was the "Imperial Commander" Lynx had spent half the night bragging about between bottles of beer. The guy who supposedly ran the team like a military unit.
"Listen, Ian," Mico continued, his tone shifting to something more business-like. "Since Lynx is currently incapacitated, I need you to give me your exact home address in the Philippines."
Ian blinked, confused. "My address? Why?"
"Because the team is coming," Mico replied simply, as if he were announcing the weather. "We've finished our exams early. We're heading to the airport now. We'll be there by tonight."
Ian nearly dropped the 80,000-peso phone. The whole team? Coming here? To their small, dusty street? He looked at Lynx, who was currently drooling slightly in his sleep, completely unaware that a group of elite, international-level athletes—led by a guy nicknamed "The Dictator"—was about to descend on their humble home.
"Wait... all of you?" Ian stammered.
"All of us," Mico confirmed. "Tell Lynx to wake up. He has eight hours to prepare the guest rooms. Or the floor. We aren't picky, but we are hungry."
The line went dead. Ian stared at the screen, then at his snoring brother.
"Kuya..." Ian whispered, nudging Lynx's leg with his foot. "Kuya, gising! (Kuya, wake up!) The Dictator is coming! Your whole team is coming here!"
---
Lynx had spent the last hour pacing the living room, his hangover forgotten in a wave of pure, cold dread. He had pictured this moment a dozen times in his head: the elite, air-conditioned stars of Castillian stepping into the sweltering humidity of his hometown and immediately demanding a flight back to China. He expected complaints about the heat, the dust, and the lack of five-star amenities.
He was dead wrong.
When the private jet of Casa de Imperium touched down on the Philippine soil, the cabin door hissed open to reveal five young men who looked more like they were arriving for a high-fashion summer shoot than a basketball retreat.
Uno, true to his "Pretty Boy" reputation, was the first one out. He was already holding his professional camera, snapping photos of the lush green horizon and the shimmering heat waves on the tarmac. He adjusted his designer sunglasses, a wide, cocky grin splitting his face.
"The lighting here is insane! Look at that saturation!" Uno shouted, ignoring the sweat already beadng on his forehead. "My followers are going to lose their minds."
Behind him, Felix stepped out, his massive 6'3" frame nearly blocking the doorway. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steady breath of the thick, salty air. Instead of grimacing at the humidity, he looked... peaceful. "The air feels heavy," Felix murmured, his poetic soul already at work. "Like a warm blanket from the ocean."
Jairo followed, practically vibrating with energy. He didn't just walk down the stairs, he bounded. "Lynx said there's a sea near his house, right? I'm hitting the water the second we drop our bags! This heat is nothing! It's fuel!"
Even Mico, the "Imperial Commander," looked intrigued. He wore his sunglasses with the stoic grace of a general, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. He didn't complain about the sun, he simply adjusted his posture, his calculated mind already mapping out the logistics of their stay. He looked cool, calm, and utterly in charge, even in 34°C weather.
Lynx, who was waiting by the van with Ian, stared at them in disbelief.
"Unbelievable," Lynx muttered, though a small, proud smile started to tug at his lips. "I thought they'd melt like ice cream."
The team approached, their tall frames and high-end fashion making them stand out like giants among the airport staff. They had ignored Coach Damaso's "hat rule," figuring their expensive sunglasses were enough of a shield.
"Yo, Lynx!" Uno shouted, waving his camera. "Is it true we're staying near the beach? Because if there are no sunset shots, I'm firing you as our guide!"
"Shut up, Uno," Lynx laughed, finally relaxing. He walked forward and met them halfway, the "Sharpshooter" reuniting with his brothers. "Welcome to the Philippines, boys. Get ready, because the heat is the easy part. Wait until you try my mom's cooking."
Mico stepped forward, nodding curtly to Lynx before turning his gaze to Ian. "You must be Ian. Good to see you're not as lazy as your brother."
Ian stood as straight as a board. "H-hello, Captain."
"Alright, enough talk," Jairo barked, slapping Lynx's back with enough force to make him wince. "Take us to the water! Castillian is taking over this island!"