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Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 645 Vault · Oct 12, 2026

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Chapter List (1266)

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601 Chapter 601 Random 2026-10-12
602 Chapter 602 Sensei 2026-10-12
603 Chapter 603 Tail 2026-10-12
604 Chapter 604 Point 2026-10-12
605 Chapter 605 Blatant 2026-10-12
606 Chapter 606 Top 2026-10-12
607 Chapter 607 Rising 2026-10-12
608 Chapter 608 Fog 2026-10-12
609 Chapter 609 Muscle 2026-10-12
610 Chapter 610 Fair 2026-10-12
611 Chapter 611 Forum 2026-10-12
612 Chapter 612 Screen 2026-10-12
613 Chapter 613 Pen 2026-10-12
614 Chapter 614 Swarm 2026-10-12
615 Chapter 615 Archon 2026-10-12
616 Chapter 616 Mountain 2026-10-12
617 Chapter 617 Pinnacle 2026-10-12
618 Chapter 618 Ground 2026-10-12
619 Chapter 619 Nanny 2026-10-12
620 Chapter 620 Everything 2026-10-12
621 Chapter 621 Grit 2026-10-12
622 Chapter 622 Trick 2026-10-12
623 Chapter 623 Swamp 2026-10-12
624 Chapter 624 Line 2026-10-12
625 Chapter 625 Genius 2026-10-12
626 Chapter 626 Tap 2026-10-12
627 Chapter 627 Crystal 2026-10-12
628 Chapter 628 Pillar 2026-10-12
629 Chapter 629 Under 2026-10-12
630 Chapter 630 Staff 2026-10-12
631 Chapter 631 Absolute 2026-10-12
632 Chapter 632 Art 2026-10-12
633 Chapter 633 Gacha 2026-10-12
634 Chapter 634 Guts 2026-10-12
635 Chapter 635 Meant 2026-10-12
636 Chapter 636 Trigger 2026-10-12
637 Chapter 637 Slumber 2026-10-12
638 Chapter 638 Charisma 2026-10-12
639 Chapter 639 Relic 2026-10-12
640 Chapter 640 Swap 2026-10-12
641 Chapter 641 Bunker 2026-10-12
642 Chapter 642 Name 2026-10-12
643 Chapter 643 Wings 2026-10-12
644 Chapter 644 Elements 2026-10-12
645 Chapter 645 Vault 2026-10-12
646 Chapter 646 Sonic 2026-10-12
647 Chapter 647 Believe 2026-10-12
648 Chapter 648 Amazons 2026-10-12
649 Chapter 649 Controversial 2026-10-12
650 Chapter 650 Dream 2026-10-12

Chapter 645 Vault

Beeep!

The first whistle pierced through the deafening cheers, and just like that, Game One of the finals was underway.

The atmosphere inside the arena was electric—fans packed every seat, waving banners, chanting, and holding their breath in anticipation.

It wasnʼt just any finals match. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for: the beginning of Rossʼs run for his tenth consecutive championship.

The hype was unreal. People werenʼt here just to watch a game—they were here to witness a legend at work.

And with Ross on the court, anything felt possible. His fanboys were out in full force, decked in his jersey, screaming his name like it was a war cry.

The whole arena seemed to throb with expectation.

Rossʼs team won the tip-off, and within seconds, the ball was in his hands.

There was no hesitation, no warm-up. He pulled up from deep and sank a flawless three-pointer on his first touch of the ball.

The crowd exploded. That single shot was like a signal flare—the beginning of the end for the opposing team.

From there, things spiraled fast. Ross was everywhere—driving, dishing, dunking, draining shots from half-court like it was a training drill.

His teammates played well, but Ross played like he was from another planet.

By halftime, the scoreboard read a soul-crushing 80 to 30.

The other team looked shell-shocked, like theyʼd wandered into a nightmare they couldnʼt wake from.

It didnʼt feel like a competitive match. It felt like a demolition. An exhibition. A warning.

Thatʼs what every Ross-led game eventually turned into—a public reminder of how far above everyone else he was.

And through it all, he hadnʼt missed. Not once. Every shot, every move, was flawless.

No one dared challenge him physically, either. Not anymore.

The league had learned the hard way: messing with Ross didnʼt just get you embarrassed—it got you injured.

Seriously injured. He wasnʼt just the best player on the court—he was a walking career-ender.

Elbows, ankles, knees—it didnʼt matter.

If someone came at Ross the wrong way, they ended up on the floor, in the hospital, or worse: out of the league entirely.

The list of players forced into early retirement by crossing paths with him was as long as it was brutal. Some called him a demon.

Others said he was karma in sneakers. But everyone agreed on one thing—when Ross played, you either watched in awe… or prayed you didnʼt end up his next victim.

And this was just Game One.

”This canʼt go on,” Colton muttered under his breath, staggering back to the bench during a timeout.

His vision was blurred with sweat, his breathing ragged, his arms trembling from sheer fatigue.

Every muscle in his body screamed for relief, but the game wasnʼt even close to being over.

Worse yet—Ross didnʼt look like heʼd even started sweating.

Colton had tried everything. Man-to-man. Zone help. Double teams. Triple teams, even.

But it was like trying to cage a shadow. Ross danced around every trap with insulting ease, slipping past defenders with that same casual arrogance heʼd worn since the tip-off.

It wasnʼt just skill—Ross made it look personal, as if humiliating his defenders was part of the show.

No matter what Colton threw at him, Ross had an answer. A spin. A step-back. A no-look pass.

A fadeaway three that barely touched the net.

The guy played like gravity didnʼt apply to him—and it was breaking Coltonʼs spirit.

And what could he do about it?

Get physical?

Heʼd thought about it. God knows heʼd thought about it.

A well-timed elbow, a hard shove on the drive—anything to rattle Ross and knock him off his rhythm.

But then he remembered what happened to the others. The list was long.

Veterans, enforcers, even rising stars who thought they could play tough guy.

They all ended up the same: broken bodies, shattered careers.

Ross didnʼt just retaliate—he finished you.

One guy tore his ACL trying to take a charge.

Another caught an elbow to the temple and never played again.

Word around the league was clear: you donʼt mess with Ross unless youʼve already updated your will.

So Colton kept his distance. Physically, anyway.

But mentally?

He still had one card left to play.

If he couldnʼt beat Ross with defense, and he couldnʼt bully him with contact, maybe he could get inside his head. Rattle the cool, cocky superstar.

Push the right buttons. Force a mistake. Maybe—just maybe—make him snap.

The halftime ended. The buzzer sounded.

Ross jogged back onto the court, barely looking winded.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The ball was back in play. Ross had it again.

Colton squared up, forcing his exhausted legs into a defensive stance, but this time, he didnʼt watch the ball.

He watched Rossʼs eyes. Waiting for his moment.

Then he leaned in.

”Hey, Ross,” Colton said, his voice low but sharp, like a knife pressed against skin.

”I hear some of your wives are stepping out on you.”

Ross didnʼt blink.

”Youʼve got what, thirty? Forty wives now? I guess when you collect women like trading cards, itʼs hard to keep track. Harder still to satisfy all of them.” He gave a theatrical sigh.

”But donʼt worry. Iʼm sure those young studs theyʼre seeing can pick up the slack.”

Ross dribbled once. Twice. His eyes remained fixed forward.

Colton smirked, encouraged.

”Your knees arenʼt what they used to be, old man. Theyʼre out there chasing real athletes now. Fresh meat. Strong backs. Guys who donʼt need to ice their joints after one quarter of play.”

He chuckled, trying to sound casual, but underneath, he was bracing himself. He half-expected a blow. A shove. Anything. But Ross just kept dribbling.

”I mean, think about it,” Colton went on, desperate to twist the knife. ”Why else would they be so bored? Theyʼve seen the legend. They want someone who actually moves in the bedroom.”

Still nothing.

Colton leaned in closer, pushing his luck.

”I bet even now, while youʼre out here showing off, one of them is getting handled by some fresh-out-of-college rookie with a six-pack and no bedtime.”

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