Malik stood frozen as the masked figures surrounded him. The alleyway behind The Pit was dead quiet, the only sound the low buzz of a flickering street lamp above. Five shadows circled him, dressed in all black, faces hidden behind street-style basketball masks painted like animal skulls. One wore a wolf, another a raven, the third a snake, and the fourth had a shark's toothy grin. The fifth... wore a blank white mask with two Xs over the eyes.
He'd been followed. He knew that much now.
"What is this?" Malik asked, fists clenched, scanning for an opening. "You here for trouble, or for a game?"
The one with the white mask stepped forward. "We're here to see if you survive. Welcome to Blaze Point, rookie."
Then, without warning, they attacked.
Not with fists—but with the ball.
A no-look bounce pass whipped at Malik's chest, forcing him to catch or get hit. His reflexes snapped into gear. He caught it — just in time to see the Raven-mask lunge at him with a crossover so slick it blurred under the street lamp.
They weren't trying to hurt him. They were testing him.
Malik shifted his stance. "Streetball rules, huh? No mercy."
The concrete beneath his feet felt uneven, broken in spots, but Malik moved like he was born on it. One by one, the masked players came at him — fast, dirty, unpredictable. Each had a different style. The Shark was raw power, throwing elbows and using his size. The Snake was slippery, using spins and ankle-breaking footwork. Raven attacked with aerial moves, leaping off walls and park benches like a spider.
Malik countered with grit and fury. He'd grown up on cracked courts. Learned from getting dropped and dunked on until his lungs burned. This wasn't new — but the stakes were.
Every shot, every block, every dodge in that dimly lit alley felt like it meant something bigger.
Half an hour passed before the Wolf-mask finally stepped in.
"You pass," Wolf growled. "You've got fire. But fire alone doesn't get you in."
"In where?" Malik panted, wiping sweat from his brow.
The White Mask walked closer, voice lower now. "To the heart of Blaze Point. You're not even in the real League yet, Torres. What you've seen so far? That's just surface-level."
White Mask handed him something—a ring. It looked like an old washer wrapped in black tape, with the letter B carved into it.
"Keep that on you. You'll need it to enter the real game. You lose it—you're out."
Then, just like that, the masked five vanished, melting into shadows like street ghosts.
The next morning, Malik woke up sore, but alive.
He sat on the edge of his bed staring at the ring.
What the hell had he just stepped into?
Coach Briggs barely looked up when Malik walked into The Pit later that day. "So… they found you."
"They jumped me."
"No," Briggs corrected. "They welcomed you. In their own way. You passed the first threshold. But the road ahead? That's the real mountain."
Malik didn't reply. His mind was still on those masked players. The styles. The discipline. The danger.
"They were streetballers," Malik said finally. "But way sharper. Organized. Like a gang or a... cult."
Briggs tossed him a towel. "They're more than that. Each of them leads a sector of the underground League. The ones you faced? They're captains. Below them are teams, players, hustlers, scouts, even fixers. Blaze Point isn't just a court—it's a system. Win, and you rise. Lose, and... well... you fade."
"You knew about all this. Why didn't you warn me?"
"Because warning you wouldn't have changed a thing," Briggs said, locking eyes with him. "Only experience teaches you how real this world is."
Malik nodded slowly.
Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
📍Industrial District, 3rd Warehouse, midnight. Bring your fire. Don't bring fear.
Attached was an image: a graffiti-painted wall with a flaming basketball skull tagged in red. The Blaze Point logo.
That night, Malik left his apartment without saying a word to anyone.
No cameras. No refs. No rules.
Only the court.
The 3rd warehouse looked like a forgotten factory, but inside, it was alive. Street lights rigged to the rafters. Bleachers built from pallets and crates. Crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, screaming and filming with their phones. DJs spun beats between games. The floor was scorched with burn marks and graffiti tags of all the League crews.
This was The Inferno — Blaze Point's true underground arena.
And Malik? He wasn't a spectator tonight.
A huge man with chains on his neck pointed at him. "You the rookie who faced the Masks?"
"I guess so."
"You guess wrong. You're in now. And you got a target on your back."
The man nodded toward the far end of the court, where a player in a red-and-black bandana warmed up. The guy was tall, cocky, and surrounded by three others hyping him up.
"That's Kael 'The Reaper' Nox," the man said. "One of the deadliest newcomers last season. You want in? You go through him."
Malik looked around at the roaring crowd. Phones flashed. Names were whispered. His name.
"Malik Torres. New blood. Word is, he handled the Captains."
"He's fast. Got heart. But heart don't beat long down here."
Briggs' voice echoed in Malik's head.
"Only experience teaches you how real this world is."
Kael stepped to the court and pointed. "Rookie! Let's see if the fire's real—or just smoke."
Malik walked out, heart pounding. He slipped the Blaze ring onto his finger.
The music dropped. The whistle blew.
And hell opened up.