Chapter 9: Not Today

As Boeheim watched the new players stride onto the court, a sharp breath caught in his throat.

The four towering figures, freshly substituted, stood like bouncers, their eyes locked onto Oliver with a predatory gleam.

The way they flexed their fingers, the restless shift of their feet—it was the stance of wolves poised to pounce upon their prey.

It was obvious. They were subbed in to make Oliver suffer.

"Kid, listen to me."

Boeheim grasped Oliver by the arm, his voice grave.

"Have you ever heard of the 'Bad Boys' Pistons? The team that even made Michael Jordan suffer?"

"They played a brutal, punishing game. And now, the other team has seen your brilliance. They intend to snuff it out the same way."

"Look at them closely. Every single one of them is built like a fortress."

"These men aren't true basketball players. Their coach pulled them from the football team—for one reason only: to do the dirty work."

Oliver's gaze flickered over to the opposing giants. His mind registered their jersey numbers.

7, 9, 12, 66…

"But this is also a trial for you," Boeheim continued.

"Show them your skill, but above all—protect yourself."

Oliver nodded, his fingers clenching into fists.

The whistle shrieked through the air. The game resumed.

Alabama had possession.

From the moment he stepped onto the court, Oliver found himself swallowed by an unforgiving double-team.

The sheer bulk of 7 and 9 loomed over him like a wall, their presence suffocating.

Not far behind, 12 and 66 lay in wait, coiled like vipers, ready to strike.

Alabama's coach had set his trap. He knew that if he could cripple the heart of the opposing team, victory was assured.

Those 4 weren't there to defend Oliver.

They were there to hurt him.

Williams dribbled toward the three-point line, his gaze fixed on Oliver.

Oliver squared his stance, ready to defend.

But before five seconds had passed, a brutal screen blindsided him.

A human wall.

One of Alabama's enforcers slammed into him, locking him in place.

Oliver could only watch as Williams slipped past effortlessly.

For Williams, the path to the basket stretched wide open.

Gorin stepped in. His defense in the paint was nearly unmatched.

Williams soared for the layup. Gorin leaped to meet him, arms outstretched for the block.

But Williams was cunning.

With a masterful sleight of hand, he pulled the ball back, twisting into a reverse scoop.

The ball danced off the backboard and curled into the net.

"Oh-ho! A vintage Dr. J move!" The commentator's voice cracked with excitement.

"A thing of beauty!" his partner echoed.

Now, it was Oliver's turn.

Dribbling just beyond the arc, he felt the crushing weight of those massive defenders.

Stay calm.

He repeated the mantra in his mind, steadying his breath.

Observing their stance, he noticed their weakness. They were strong—immensely so—but they lacked the discipline of trained defenders. Their footwork was sluggish, their lateral movement amateurish.

Speed would be his dagger.

A flicker of movement—then a sudden burst.

Oliver sliced through the first defender with ease.

With the entire defense collapsed onto him, the paint lay wide open.

Perfect.

He surged forward, leapt, and focused on his right hand.

Just like that. Soft touch. Let it go.

The crowd held its breath, the entire gym frozen in anticipation.

He felt it—the shot was good.

Then-

"Not so fast."

A monstrous shadow swallowed him whole.

Number 66 had launched himself from behind, a predator closing in.

With reckless abandon, he crashed into Oliver mid-air.

His left elbow drove into Oliver's ribs, a brutal, calculated strike.

At the same time, his right hand lashed out, swatting the ball like a hunter striking down a falcon.

The perfect arc of Oliver's shot crumpled.

The ball, once destined for the net, twisted grotesquely mid-air, slamming into the backboard before spiraling away.

And it wasn't just the ball that plummeted.

Oliver's body followed.

BANG!

Number 66 landed on top of him, crushing him into the hardwood.

"Ref! Are you seeing this?!" Boeheim's voice erupted from the sidelines, a tempest of rage.

"That was intentional!"

Regret gripped him like a vice. Had he just let this prodigy be destroyed before his very eyes?

'Nice.'

Klint whispered slightly. He was maintaining a poker face but inside he saw an opportunity to play again.

The crowd recoiled, many covering their faces.

They had seen it too many times before—rising stars shattered by cruel, careless injuries.

The whistle shrieked again. Timeout.

Medical staff sprinted onto the court.

Pinned beneath 66's mass, Oliver's world blurred into agony.

His lower back screamed in protest, pain radiating like fire through his core.

Darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

'Is this it? Is this where it ends? Damn it! I was finally playing some good basketball!'

Then—

Ding!

A voice, mechanical and absolute, echoed in his mind.

"Detected severe bodily trauma."

"Congratulations!"

"Achievement: First Injury"

" Reward: Experience Card—The King's Physique"

"Activated: Peak LeBron's physical resilience and strength."

Oliver's mind grasped onto the words

like a lifeline.

"Hey! Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

The medical team wrenched 66 off him, revealing Oliver's still form.

But something had changed.

A burning energy flooded his veins.

Strength surged through his limbs.

His body ignited with a newfound force.

"Get the stretcher! We need to get him off the court!" a medic shouted.

Others rushed to lift him.

But then—

"Stop."

Oliver raised a hand.

"I'm fine. No need for a stretcher. Thank you."

The arena fell into stunned silence.

With slow, deliberate effort, Oliver pushed himself up.

Then he jumped.

And when he did-

It was higher than ever before.

The crowd erupted.

Eyes widened in disbelief.

"He's up! The kid is standing up again!"

The commentator's voice shook with excitement.

Oliver turned to Alabama's players.

A smile formed in his lips.

With an almost lazy motion, he wagged his index finger—just as Michael Jordan had once done to Mutombo.

"Come again."

His voice cold as Ice.

He had only just begun.