Nash sat on a bench. The system menu floated in front of him. The stats were all there. He had two Body Points to distribute.
His eyes hovered over the options. Height was Tempting. The idea of stretching a few centimeters taller was more than a fantasy; it was a form of revenge.
He could already see Roam's smirk wiped clean. No more shrimp jokes. No more looking up to everyone.
But then he hesitated.
Height wouldn't help with push-ups. It wouldn't make his muscles burn less. It wouldn't push him closer to dominance on the court. Not yet.
It would serve him later, but first, he needed to reach a level where he could complete each quest at least four times a day.
He needed something that mattered now.
His finger moved. Muscle Mass.
He selected it.
Muscle Mass Index: 24/100
The moment was... anticlimactic. No explosion of power. No transformation. Just a light pressure across his upper chest, like his body was remembering what it could be. A change of density under his skin.
"That's it?" he muttered.
He dropped to the floor, attempted a new push-up set, and nearly collapsed halfway through the second rep.
His arms trembled. Elbows locked. His breath came in sharp, defeated bursts.
Still recovering from his training.
He lay there for a second, catching his breath, before pushing himself up and deciding to move on.
A half-hour later, Nash stepped into one of the Underground's old half-courts tucked between abandoned metro pillars and twisted support beams. It was a rough patch of concrete rimmed by rusted chain-link fencing, its backboard cracked but intact.
He used to train here. Not with friends, just... players. Strays like him. People bound by the ball, not loyalty.
He grabbed one of the sad, half-inflated balls from the rack, bounced it once, twice, then took a slow breath.
His arms and legs still trembled slightly from the earlier training, and his chest felt tight, like his lungs were wearing a vest too small.
But the system demanded progress, and he wasn't about to back off now.
[150 wall passes. Alternate hands.]
He positioned himself at a graffiti-tagged wall, planted his feet, and started. Left, right, left. The rhythm came easy, he'd done this drill since he was ten, but the burn set in fast.
His shoulders ached, the tendons in his elbows tugged every time he whipped the ball from side to side. Sweat rolled down his temples and soaked the back of his neck.
By eighty, his form slipped. By one-twenty, he was growling between clenched teeth, trying not to drop the ball.
[50 cone-weave dribbles.]
He dragged out old water bottles and plastic cups to form a crude zigzag path. Legs low, he weaved through them, left hand, right hand. Quick crosses, shift, slide.
The coordination was still there, buried in fatigue. But his quads throbbed like he'd been sprinting uphill. His breath came shallow. A sour taste coated his tongue.
[30 fake-and-pass drills.]
This was where he felt most alive, ball in hand, tricking an invisible defender. He faked hard left, twisted his core, passed sharply to an old fence post as if it were a teammate.
One. Two. Three.
Each rep looked better than the last. But his legs wobbled, and the sweat was pouring again. His shirt stuck to his back like plastic wrap. Muscle memory helped, but it was carrying a body already on fumes.
Still, he didn't stop. Not until the final pass snapped off his fingers and smacked into the post with a clean thud.
He leaned over, hands on knees, chest heaving.
His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat. Arms jelly. Legs shaky. His breaths came fast and rough, each inhale scraping his throat. But a flicker of light in the corner of his vision pulled him upright.
[DAILY QUEST COMPLETED]Basketball Routine: SUCCESS +2 PP (Play Points) Earned.
He stared at the notification as a slow breath escaped his lungs, followed by something half-laugh, half-gasp.
No fanfare. No audience. But to Nash, it was louder than a roaring crowd.
It worked.
It actually worked.
He let the ball roll to a slow bounce against the cracked court, just as a sharp voice sliced through the air.
"Yo, Blaze. You tryna get picked back up or just jerkin' that ball for fun?"
A ripple of laughter followed. Nash glanced up slightly. A few guys were lounging against the side of the fence, watching him.
"Thought your team made it to the Underleague," another voice called. "Ain't you supposed to be training in some real facility, not here with us lowlifes?"
"Oh wait," the first guy said, smirking, "you got cut, huh? Damn, that's rough."
Nash didn't answer. He kept the ball in motion, tapping slow dribbles, though his fingers tightened with each bounce.
The words stung, not because they weren't true, but because they were.
These weren't enemies. Just local players. People he'd shot around with more times than he could count. Their tone wasn't hateful. Just amused.
That was worse.
He swallowed back a reply, trying to focus. Then a familiar soft chime flickered in his vision.
[SPECIAL QUEST AVAILABLE]
QUEST: Shut Him Up
TYPE: Performance Challenge
OBJECTIVE: Defeat the hostile in a 3v3 Breakball match
REWARD: +3 PP
BONUS OBJECTIVE:
Condition: Team with at least one female and create a flirtatious or emotionally charged moment during gameplay, touch, tease, or connect in a way that visibly affects her.
REWARD: +3 SP(Seduction Points)
STATUS: Not Started
Nash blinked. His fingers froze on the ball.
The system was listening. Not just tracking movement or progress, it was reading the room, watching the people, picking up on tension. It had responded to conflict.
It was understandable in a way; it didn't just want a hard worker. It wanted a conqueror.
No more waiting. No more playing small. It's time to take it back.
He turned slowly toward the voice. Rico, lean, wiry, and always grinning. A local trash-talker with a jumper as loud as his mouth.
"So? What's this, tryouts for the invisible team? Thought you got cut. Didn't the Dust Dogs leave your skinny ass in the dust?" Rico grinned, stepping forward, spinning a ball in his hand with an effortless swagger
Laughter spread through the group behind him, a bunch of street players lounging around with smug smirks and idle grins. One guy mimed a sad violin. Another called out.
"Yo Rico, be nice. He's just out here practicing for that ghost league."
Nash exhaled through his nose, suppressing the irritation. His fingers tapped against the ball in rhythm. He didn't bite, not yet.
Rico tilted his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity.
"Still grindin', huh? But real talk, why'd they ditch you? Weren't you the brain behind all their plays? Or did they finally figure out brains don't win games in the dirt?"
Nash looked up with a crooked smile, tone casual.
"Maybe they just got scared of a little structure. Not everyone wants to win the smart way."
Rico chuckled.
"Damn, you really are salty about it. You ain't lettin' that go, huh?"
Nash bounced the ball once, then caught it.
"Not salty. Just curious if I really am that trash."
Rico smirked wider, like he already had the answer. Nash added, cool and slow.
"How about we find out? Three-on-three. Ten minutes. See if I can hold up."
The boys around Rico howled with laughter.
"He deadass serious?"
"You gonna play solo, Blaze?"
Nash gave a half-shrug, unbothered.
"Unless you're scared of getting cooked by someone who just got dropped."
Rico raised a brow.
"Alright, alright. Let's spice it. I win, you owe me three creds."
Nash frowned.
"Too soft. Let's go full-throttle. I lose, I serve you for a week. Shoes, errands, whatever."
The laughter died off. That was serious. Real slum service. Total submission.
Rico paused, grin faltering just a little.
"You feelin' alright, Blaze?"
Nash's voice dropped, hard and sharp.
"Nah. Just tired of clowns acting like I didn't build half the game they play. Y'all laugh when I pass, when I don't dunk, or when I ghost. But guess who made your highlights possible, Rico?"
The court went quiet. Nash stepped forward.
"I carried squads you couldn't even waterboy for. Now you got jokes?"
Rico's jaw clenched. The mood shifted fast.
"Aight. You wanna talk tough? Let's settle it on the court."
Nash nodded.
"Let's."
Rico raised an eyebrow.
"And if you win?"
"Ten creds. From each of your boys. No ghosting."
Whistles and laughs popped from the crowd. One guy called.
"He wild for that!"
Rico turned to his crew, shrugged, then nodded.
"You're on. Hope you like being my bitch."
Nash nodded once, firm. Then turned away to scan the players nearby.
Time to build a team.
Most people around here played loose and dirty. A lot of flair, not much discipline. He needed steady hands, good feet, and speed.
First choice was easy: Taz.
Built like a spring, always jumping out of nowhere for rebounds or blocks. The kid wasn't flashy, but he moved with intent.
The next choice made him pause. Meko was a decent shooter, steady, but Nash remembered the system's words: Team with at least one female... Bonus: +3 SP.
That changed his way of reasoning. SP meant seduction points, an entire stat track he hadn't touched yet.
I need that growth. Double reward, one match. It's stupid not to.
He looked around. There, among the faces he knew.
Sarra.
Hoodie drowning her frame, glasses slipping low, hair tied back in a lazy twist. She sipped something out of a dented can and avoided eye contact like it was a sport.
She wasn't strong, but she had good hands. And more than anything, she was a shy girl.
Nash had seen her make quiet plays, hesitation fakes, sneaky bounce passes. She just never liked the spotlight.
He stepped toward her slowly, like approaching a stray cat.
"Sarra," he said. "You in?"
She blinked.
"Huh?"
"3v3. I need a third. You'd help a lot."
She pulled her hoodie tighter around her face, eyes darting to the court and then back to Nash.
"Nah," she said, voice low. "You see that crowd? I'm not tryna get clowned today."
Nash gave a small laugh, not mocking, just soft.
"You won't. I'm not asking for highlight reels. Just ball movement. Smart plays. I'll do the rest."
Before she could answer, Lina stepped up beside her. Her eyes narrowed, arms folded.
"You tryna drag her into your comeback story, Blaze?" she asked. "Why should she help you get your groove back?"
Nash didn't flinch. He kept his tone calm, not defensive.
"Because it's not about me. I'm not trying to win the league right now. I just need ten minutes. One game. You know how this court works, talk's cheap, play talks louder."
Lina raised a brow.
"And what do we get out of it?"
Nash looked at her straight.
"A favor. Or three. I'll owe you. Food, creds, errands, you name it. And Sarra won't even have to do much. Just play smart. Keep the ball alive. That's it."
Sarra shifted awkwardly, eyes dropping to her beat-up sneakers.
"For real, man?"
"Yeah," he said. "You've got clean passes. I've seen you play, even if you think nobody was watching. I need that today."
Lina looked between the two of them, skeptical but thoughtful.
"You gonna back her up, or you gonna yell at her the moment things go south?"
Sarra hesitated. The crowd was a problem. The stares, the pressure. She hated the feeling of being under the lens.
But something about the way Nash asked, earnest, like he really believed in her, cracked through.
She looked at Lina. Lina gave her a small shrug, then nodded.
"Fine. I'll do it."
Sarra sighed.
"Okay. But you owe us, even if you lose."
Nash grinned.
"Fair deal. I got you."
He offered his fist. She tapped it gently.
His team was set.
Taz, the springboard. Sarra, the reluctant brain. And him, the ghost with a chip on his shoulder.
From the sidelines, Rico's crew cracked up.
"That your squad?!"
"Shy Girl and Dunk Hobbit? Y'all wild."
Nash didn't bite. The system shimmered at the corner of his vision.
[QUEST: ACTIVE]
Objective: Win.
Bonus Condition: Flirtatious or emotional contact that deepens your connection with Sarra and shifts how she sees you
He cracked his knuckles. One game. Two rewards.
Time to earn it.
The court was watching.
And this time, Nash wasn't going to disappear.