Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook’s MVP Powers in Another World!

Tuesday, 9:00 PM — Celestial Arena, home of the Nova City Starships.

The crowd was already a storm, the kind of roar that shook your chest and made the floor vibrate. As the players poured out of the tunnel, the noise hit another level—thunder and neon colliding.

Ryan strode onto the court, his Roarers jersey catching the spotlight as he scanned the floor. He spotted Amin Thomas, the Starships' lockdown defender, and jogged over, extending a fist. Amin grinned, his eyes glinting with challenge. "I'm locking you down tonight," he said, his voice low and sharp.

Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, you said that last time. Got anything new?"

Amin smirked, unbothered, and turned back to his warm-up.

Then Jalen Hardell, the Starships' star, approached, his frame loose but his gaze intense. He pulled Ryan into a quick bro-hug, their shoulders bumping. "You know you stole my Player of the Week, right?" Hardell said, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. "My numbers were this close."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging his lips. "So?"

"So I'm blowing you up tonight," Hardell shot back, his smile sharp.

Ryan shook his head, laughing. "You guys ever come up with fresh lines? Feels like reruns."

Hardell leaned closer, voice dropping.

"Don't hop that flight tonight. Stick around—I'll take you out, show you Nova City's nightlife."

Ryan burst out laughing and jogged back to warm up, the arena's buzz wrapping around him like static.

At 9:30, the ref tossed the ball skyward. The Roarers' starting five—Ryan, Darius, Malik, Kamara, and Gibson—locked in, their focus razor-sharp.

Malik leapt, fingertips brushing the rafters, and won the tip, swatting the ball toward Ryan to start the night.

Ryan pushed the ball upcourt, two long strides carrying him to the three-point line. Amin slid in front, chest tight to his path, eyes locked in.

Ryan didn't bother looking for space—he rose straight over him, a sudden stop, a quick rise, testing his touch on the night's first shot.

No chance Amin could block it clean, so he went for the next best thing—hand in the face, his arm stretched, palm flashing right across Ryan's vision.

Clang!

The ball smacked off the rim and ricocheted out.

Amin burst out laughing. "Told you—I'm locking you down tonight!"

Ryan didn't bite, already sprinting back on defense.

The Starships grabbed the rebound, pushed the other way. Hardell pulled up from deep in transition—wide release, perfect form—only for his shot to rattle out as well.

The Roarers set up on offense.

Ryan crossed halfcourt, the ball a natural extension of his hand, his eyes scanning the floor like a hawk.

Amin stepped up to meet him.

Amin might've only been a sophomo, but single-coverage skills were elite, his claim to "lock down" Ryan no empty boast. Most saw him as a natural—blessed with defensive instincts—but few knew the grind behind it. In his downtime, Amin pored over film, dissecting every ball-handler in the ABA.

Ryan's tape? He'd studied it to death, every crossover and hesitation burned into his brain.

Amin planted himself, legs splayed, arms wide like a net. "C'mon, Ryan," he taunted, voice low and sharp. "Get past me if you can."

Ryan smirked, his focus razor-edged. "Alright, let's see." He started his move, dribbling slow, eyes locked on Amin's. Then, in a flash, he unleashed his signature—scissors step. His legs crossed, front to back, a blur of motion. His right foot slammed the floor, propelling him forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. Ryan's burst, a shade off peak Westbrook's 90% sync rate, was a weapon, his scissors step so sharp it could slice through most defenses like a hot knife.

Most players would've been dusted, left grasping at air.

But Amin, locked in, caught the tell—Ryan's quick glance right, a habit from his film. Amin read it like a playbook, sliding right in the same heartbeat Ryan launched. The scissors step was lethal, but it had a flaw: too fast to adjust mid-flight. Amin was already there, a wall in Ryan's path.

Ryan couldn't stop. His momentum carried him straight into Amin, their bodies colliding with a dull thud.

Boom.

Amin flew backward, sprawling across the hardwood. Ryan stumbled, crashing to the floor in a heap. The crowd gasped, then roared, a mix of cheers and jeers shaking the arena.

Beep!

The referee blew the whistle, raised a fist behind his head, and then thrust his other arm forward—charging foul on Ryan.

Ryan sat up, brows knitting together. In his mind, that had been a blocking foul all the way.

The Roarers' bench shot to its feet, a unified wall of red and black. Coach Crawford, his grizzled face twisted in fury, flung his arms wide, bellowing, "He was still moving! That's a block!" His voice cut through the crowd's roar, a streetballer's defiance against the refs.

On the court, Amin popped up, dusting his hands with a cocky grin. He pumped a fist toward the stands, soaking in the thunderous applause, the Starships faithful chanting his name like a war cry.

His swagger was pure Nova City, a middle finger to the Roarers' challenge, the arena's pulse matching Iron City's steel heart.

Ryan, climbing to his feet, shot a glance at Crawford. His brow was still furrowed from the call, his gut screaming it was a block—Amin had slid late, hadn't he?

The Roarers' assistant coaches leaned in, their voices urgent. "Challenge it, Coach?" one asked, clipboard in hand, eyes darting to the ref.

Crawford's jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the jumbotron replay. "No shot," he growled, shaking his head. "It's a split-second call. Even if we challenge, it's their house—good luck flipping it."

The moment had been a blur, less than a second, and the refs would likely stick with the charge on a coin-toss play like that. With the game just starting, score tied at zip, burning a challenge now risked wasting it for later.

Crawford's call was Iron City pragmatism—save the fight for when it counts, like a streetballer picking his battles on the blacktop.

The officials handed the ball to the Starships, and play moved on. Later, Crawford would replay the moment over and over—if he'd taken the gamble and used that challenge, maybe, just maybe, the momentum would have tilted their way. Because if he'd seen what was coming, he would have known: this possession was the spark that set Hardell ablaze.

Hardell dribbled deliberately across the midcourt stripe, the ball bouncing with a cadence that hushed the crowd for a half-second, as if they were waiting for a storm to break. Hardell brought it to the top of the arc, just outside the three-point line, his body angled slightly, shoulders loose, head bobbing with the rhythm of the dribble.

Ryan stepped up to meet him, lowering his center of gravity, legs spread wide, arms fanned just enough to threaten a steal without overcommitting. He knew exactly what he was dealing with. Hardell was a lefty. Every coach in the league preached the same defensive gospel when facing him: take away the left hand, force him right, make him uncomfortable. On film it sounded simple. On hardwood, with twenty thousand screaming fans and a scorer's eyes staring you down, it was something else entirely.

Ryan shaded Hardell's left, baiting him toward the right. That was the textbook. But textbook defense didn't always hold against players who'd made a living rewriting the textbook. And with Hardell, you had to remember the golden rule: don't reach. Ever. His bag of tricks was deeper than a magician's hat. One ill-timed hand in the cookie jar, and he'd hook your arm on the way up, flinging the ball toward the rim. Two points, maybe three, with your foul stapled on top.

Ryan had felt that sting before in the last game, and he wasn't about to get suckered again.

Hardell tested the waters, pressing forward, then rocking back, the dribble quickening. He slid the ball through his legs once, twice, then again, his hips swiveling, shoulders shifting like he was dancing to a beat only he could hear. The crowd began to rise, because they knew. This was the prelude. Hardell's signature.

Ryan recognized it too. The cross-leg dribbles weren't just window dressing—they were tells, rehearsals for something bigger. Nine times out of ten, when Hardell hit that rhythm, he was winding up for the dagger: a step-back three. Occasionally he'd fake it and slash left instead, exploding downhill. But Ryan trusted the odds. He crouched lower, every nerve firing, his body a coil ready to spring.

Then it came. Hardell snapped his dribble between his legs a fifth time, planted his left foot hard, and jabbed forward as if he'd decided to attack. Ryan bit—just a half-step, just enough to contest the drive. But Hardell wasn't driving. His left toe barely kissed the hardwood before he retreated, snapping back a full step.

Ryan lunged forward to contest, arm extending, reading the move. He was ready for the step-back. But Hardell wasn't finished.

His left foot dug in again, this time sliding diagonally, his body drifting right, pulling back one more time. The patented double step-back. It was a move so sudden, so clean, that defenders swore it had to be illegal. Fans cried "travel" every time they saw it. But Hardell had mastered the timing. On the first retreat, the ball was still live in his left hand, mid-dribble. On the second, he gathered, rising fluidly. Perfectly within the letter of the rulebook, even if it shredded the spirit of it.

That second retreat created a canyon of space, a vacuum Ryan couldn't fill. Even with his explosive first step, Ryan's outstretched arm fell short. Hardell had manipulated the geometry of the court, bending it until he stood alone, the ball cocked high above his head.

He let it fly.

The ball rose on a smooth parabola, kissed by the lights, a golden arc etched against the rafters. Ryan could only twist helplessly as it sailed over his fingertips. The shot descended, slicing the silence with inevitability.

Net, clean.

Swish.

The arena detonated.

"Bang!" the broadcaster howled over the roar of twenty thousand. "Hardell opens the scoring tonight with his patented step-back three! Starships lead, three-nothing!"

Ryan clenched his jaw, retreating downcourt. He'd done everything right—anticipated the move, contested early, avoided the foul. But against Hardell, "right" wasn't always enough. Sometimes it felt like guarding a ghost. You reached, he vanished. You stood tall, he slid under. You jumped, he floated higher.

The scoreboard read 3–0.

This wasn't just another possession. This was the ignition.