In America, March is not just the return of spring.
It is the season when the entire nation’s sports-addicted brain hits simultaneous orgasm.
Because March Madness is back.
A single-elimination slaughterhouse with zero margin for error.
Win and you advance.
Lose and you pack your bags, fly home, and rot in the dorm.
Sixty-four teams split into two regions.
One-seed versus sixteen-seed.
Every game can end in a buzzer-beater, a historic upset, or a mountain of tears from kids who thought they were destined for glory.
This year’s tournament was being called the prelude to a “Twilight of the Gods” super draft class.
Every blue-blood program was packing weapons of mass destruction: Kentucky had the nation’s fastest devil, John Wall, the beast in the paint DeMarcus Cousins, the versatile forward Patrick Patterson, and the meat-grinder guard Eric Bledsoe.
Wherever they went, the court turned into scorched earth.
Georgetown still rode their traditional low-post juggernauts, led by the classical post master Greg Monroe.
Ohio State owned the national player-of-the-year frontrunner, the do-everything point-forward Evan Turner.
And Fresno State?
In front of those traditional powers the Bulldogs looked like unarmed civilians.
Worse, their first-round draw was one of the best defensive teams in the country—Kansas.
… Inside the Kansas arena the two sides were locked in a death match.
Clang!
The halftime horn blared.
Fresno’s players trudged back to the locker room with their heads down.
The scoreboard frozen at 35–47.
Down twelve at the half.
“Fuck!
Are those two guys made of glue?
I can’t shake them for a second!” Paul George hurled his towel to the floor and sucked air like a drowning man.
The entire first half he had been buried under constant double-teams.
Kansas also owned one of the most famous perimeter locks in the country—Avery Bradley.
As a First-Team All-Big 12 defender, Bradley’s on-ball pressure was pure mad-dog energy.
That same elite wing defense had him locked into the first round of every draft board.
It wasn’t just George who was suffering.
In the paint Fresno was getting carved open by Tristan Thompson.
Thompson was a one-man storm on the glass, vacuuming offensive boards and turning Kevin Minusnett into a man questioning every decision that had ever led him to this moment.
“Coach… I really tried.” Minusnett’s eyes were empty.
Thompson’s ass felt like a double-door refrigerator.
Every time Minusnett tried to body him up, he was the one who got knocked three steps backward.
If this kept going he was going to spend the summer in a disabled basketball camp.
The locker room atmosphere was thick enough to choke on.
But everyone still knew Fresno was not dead yet.
One secret weapon remained on the bench.
Head Coach Steve Cleveland walked straight to Rex.
“Rex, I didn’t want to put you under national cameras this early.
My original plan was to save you for the Sweet Sixteen—a nice little surprise package.” He exhaled hard.
“But if we can’t stop Tristan Thompson from living in the paint in the second half, our March Madness run ends tonight.
You know how it works.
Nuclear weapons always come out last.” “I hear you, Coach.” Rex cracked his neck, a series of wet, unpleasant pops.
“The little island nation didn’t know the atomic bomb existed either… until two cute little presents fell out of the sky.
Then they suddenly learned how to praise peace.” A grin split his face.
“Time to deliver a little shock and awe to those Kansas kids.
From now on, call me the atomic bomb.” … Second half.
Both teams walked back out.
When Fresno’s lineup adjusted and the 7’1″ monster in the number-91 jersey—body built like the war god Ares—stepped onto the floor, the entire Kansas arena erupted in a collective gasp.
“OMG, who the hell is that tall dude?” “Look at those shoulders—wider than a Waldorf double bed!
Where did Fresno dig up a monster like that?” “He’s ?
The only basketball player I remember is Yao Ming.” The second Rex’s shoes touched the hardwood, the system’s cold, tech-tinged voice rang inside his skull.
[Ding!
Host has entered the game.
Side Quest triggered: Create an NCAA second-half miracle!] [Requirement: Lead Fresno State to reverse the 12-point deficit in the second half, take the lead, and secure the first March Madness victory.] [Reward: Destructive Hammer] “Side quest already?” Rex’s eyes lit up.
Destructive Hammer—Atsushi Murasakibara’s signature dunk skill.
Catch the ball, no dribble, spin and rise into a violent slam that ignores every defender in front of it, with a non-zero chance of ripping the entire rim and support down with it.
“Destructive Hammer… yeah.
I’m testing that tonight.” … Tip-off of the second half approaching.
Kansas’s starting big, the future championship piece for the Cavaliers and self-proclaimed Kardashian terminator, Tristan Thompson, sized up the giant standing in front of him.
When he realized the 7’1″ monster actually had a face, Thompson blinked.
“Am I seeing this right, man?” Then the classic American arrogance slid across his features.
“I’m actually looking at a soft, pretty-boy yellow guy on a March Madness floor?
Steve, it’s only halftime… y’all already surrendering?” He didn’t even bother talking shit directly at Rex.
He aimed the insult at the Fresno head coach instead—pure, open humiliation aimed at both the player and the program.
That was when a hand the size of a dinner plate shot out with zero warning.
Slap.
Rex’s grip strength was monstrous.
Thompson never even got the chance to react before those fingers locked around his jaw like an iron vise.
“The fuck are you—!” Thompson’s face twisted.
He tried to yank free and discovered the hand was a steel clamp.
Rex’s wrist flexed and forced Thompson’s entire face around until they were eye-to-eye.
Rex squinted, voice low and flat.
“Listen close, you inbred piece of shit whose mama and granddaddy must’ve been first cousins… I came here to win.”