Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!
Chapter 76: The Team That Defies Modern Basketball

Chapter 76: Chapter 76: The Team That Defies Modern Basketball

The Roarers vs. Zerith City Domes.

Most media outlets had the Roarers as clear favorites—and for good reason. They were riding a six-game win streak, playing at home, and looking more locked in with every game.

Sure enough, the Roarers delivered, grinding out a 108-102 victory to claim their seventh straight win.

At 15-34, they vaulted into the West’s eighth seed, seizing the final playoff spot—for now.

Ryan was a sparkplug, erupting for 30 points, 4 rebounds, and 7 assists.

With that performance, he inched closer to triggering his signature shoe clause, the finish line in sight.

——

Sunday, February 23rd.

The Roarers kicked off practice at 8 a.m. sharp at their training center.

The ABA schedule’s about to get brutal—three, maybe four games a week starting next.

Their next test? A Tuesday road trip to face the Hervi Mistfoxes, the West’s fifth seed, a team built for speed.

And finally—Darius showed up.

He’d been suspended for four games and had just one more to sit out before being eligible to return.

Ryan spots him lacing up and can’t resist a jab. "Well, look who decided to show up." Darius shoots him a side-eye, smirking. "What, you miss me already?"

Ryan grins. "Didn’t you hoop with the Mistfoxes three years back? Too bad you’re sitting out against your old squad."

Darius rolled his eyes.

"Old squad? Man, before I landed here, I’d been on four teams. The Mistfoxes ain’t that special."

"You tagging along to watch the Mistfoxes game Tuesday?" Ryan asks, tossing a ball between his hands.

Darius scoffed. "Check the ABA rulebook, kid. Suspended players can’t step foot in the arena."

Ryan chuckles, not missing a beat. "Tch, if you knew the rules so well, you wouldn’t have thrown a punch in a game."

Ryan smirked. Darius let out a groan.

——

By noon, the team’s huddled in the film room, eyes glued to the screen.

Darius didn’t want to be here—practice was enough, and he was ready to bolt—but Coach Crawford wasn’t having it.

Given his two seasons with the Mistfoxes, the coach demanded input.

Crawford cues up footage of the Hervi Mistfoxes, zeroing in on their linchpin. "Key guy: Javell Monroe, their core point guard."

Kamara leaned toward Ryan, slipping into analyst mode.

"All-Star last season and the one before. Would’ve made it this year too, but he missed 15 games early on—suspension and an ankle tweak."

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Suspension?"

Kamara nodded.

"Yeah—early in the season, during our game against the Mistfoxes, Darius and Monroe got into it. Threw punches, both got tossed. One-game suspension each."

Ryan shoots a glance at Darius, who’s slouched in his chair, arms crossed.

Darius catches the look and shrugs.

"Never liked the guy. Still don’t."

Kamara smirks, dropping his voice further.

"Back when Darius was still the Mistfoxes’ starting point guard, Monroe came up and took his spot. Darius clashed with the whole organization and got traded."

Darius leans forward, glaring.

"You mind not narrating my life story while I’m sitting right here?"

Kamara just grinned and leaned back.

Knock! knock!

Crawford rapped the table twice—he snapped. "You three done yapping?"

All three nodded like scolded schoolkids.

Crawford continued, pulling up a fresh clip.

"Monroe’s a downhill attacker—elite at getting to the rim. But it’s not just him. All five starters can drive. Mistfoxes basketball boils down to one thing: speed."

He signaled to assistant coach Miles to roll the offensive clips.

"Their offense is unique. It’s not modern basketball—not by today’s standards."

The screen rolled on—fast breaks, isolations, straight-line drives. Ryan scribbled nonstop, eyes tracking every cut and slash, no hesitation in sight.

Crawford breaks it down.

"Modern ABA offenses rely heavily on pick-and-rolls and handoffs to generate points. On average, teams score off about 20 pick-and-roll possessions per game.

The Mistfoxes? Dead last—just 9. As for handoffs, the other 19 teams average between 5 and 12 scoring plays per game. The Mistfoxes? Again, dead last—with just 2. And yet—they rank fifth in total scoring league-wide."

Ryan’s pen moves faster, soaking it all in.

Crawford turned to Darius.

"Anything to add?"

Darius shrugged.

"Not much. Back when I was there, we played a completely different style. Whatever this is—it’s not the Mistfoxes I knew."

Coach Crawford killed the Mistfoxes’ film and cast the tactical schematic onto the screen—lines and arrows crisscrossing like a battle map.

"This is how they operate. No screens, no fancy sets—just one move: attack. First step, gone. They drive hard and either finish at the rim or kick out for a three. Simple, but lethal."

He points to the diagram, eyes sweeping across the team.

"What gives them trouble? A clogged paint. You take away the lane, and it throws off their rhythm."

"We’re running Pack Line Defense," he continues, tapping the screen where a dotted line forms a tight perimeter inside the three-point arc. "Everyone collapses inside this line. If someone drives, the nearest guy steps up to contest, while the others rotate to cover the perimeter. No gaps, no easy looks."

He paused, scanning the room.

"Mistfoxes wins with tempo. So we kill the tempo. Make them hesitate. Make them second-guess. Force the extra pass. Just don’t leave the arc wide open—they’re ranked ninth in three-point percentage. They can burn you if you slack off."

He pointed again—this time at the rim.

"And keep an eye on the glass. Zeke Ender is one of the best offensive rebounders in the league."

Ryan nodded. He’d played alongside Ender in the Rising Stars Challenge and knew first-hand how relentless the kid was around the boards.

With that, Crawford dove into the fine points of Pack Line coverage, breaking down every rotation, every contingency.

"Discipline wins this game," Crawford says. "Stick to the plan, and we’ll suffocate their offense."

——

That night, Ryan sprawled across the bed in his new place, the quiet sinking in like an uninvited guest.

No Jamal chirping away with endless banter, no Kylie wrestling him for the TV remote.

The vibe was off—too still, too empty.

A pang of loneliness hit, and he muttered to the system, "System, who won the NBA championship?"

[Host lacks query privileges for original world events.]

Right—he remembered. He could only ask about Westbrook.

"Fine," he sighed, "is Russ still with the Nuggets?"

[Westbrook declined his player option and is now an unrestricted free agent, yet to sign with any team.]

Ryan blinked, surprised.

Gone from Denver?

He and Jokic had been the perfect pairing—his best shot at a ring.

If Russ joined another squad, that title dream might be dead.

"Alright," Ryan muttered. "I’ll ask again next time about where he ends up."

——

Tuesday night rolls in fast, and the Hervi Mistfoxes’ home—MistBank Arena—is electric, nearly packed to the rafters with a roaring crowd.

At 8 p.m. sharp, players spill out from the tunnels—some launching jumpers, others stretching or bouncing balls.

Ryan spots Zeke Ender, the Mistfoxes’ rookie center, and tosses him a quick wave. Ender just nods, his face as blank as a stone wall.

The guy’s known for keeping words to a minimum, like the whole world’s got a debt he’s waiting to collect.

The Roarers’ starting five is unchanged: Ryan, Lin, Kamara, Malik, and Gibson.

Just before tip-off, Ryan pulled up the system interface.

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 85.1%]

Still creeping upward. He didn’t bother asking if a reward had unlocked—he already knew the answer.

No complaints, though.

The system’s gift of Westbrook’s peak-MVP sync rate is already a cheat code.

At 85% of prime Westbrook?

He was already more explosive than most players in the ABA.

And the stats backed it up—Ryan wasn’t just surviving here anymore.

He belonged.

At 8:30 p.m. sharp, the referee’s whistle sliced through the charged air of MistBank Arena.

The ball shot upward, spinning beneath the floodlights.

Zeke Ender—a towering 7-foot-4 rookie—rose like a skyscraper and cleanly out-jumped Malik, the Roarers’ 7-footer.

The Mistfoxes secured first possession. No surprise there—Ender almost never loses the opening tip. With that kind of height and wingspan, it’s practically automatic.

The Roarers dropped back on defense—but a step too slow.

Javell Monroe was already in fifth gear, snatching the tip and rocketing down the court.

He wasn’t just quick—he was a blur, and the rest of the Mistfoxes moved like they were synced to his pulse.

The Roarers knew the Mistfoxes played with pace. They just didn’t expect the first punch to come that fast.

They’d watched the film, practiced the rotations—but knowing what’s coming is one thing. Stopping it? Whole different story.

Ryan, tasked with shadowing him, gets dusted on the first step—Monroe blows by like he’s dodging a ghost.

The Roarers’ help defense is still scrambling, out of position and late to rotate.

Monroe glides through the lane and lays it in with ease.

Mistfoxes lead 2–0.

Coach Crawford’s voice booms from the sideline, veins popping. "Get back faster!" he roars at his starting five.

They’d drilled the Mistfoxes’ transition game to death in practice, warned a hundred times about their speed, but here they are, caught flat-footed on the first play.

Crawford’s glare could melt steel—he’s not letting this slide.