Chapter 9 – The Gauntlet

The night was thick with smoke and static energy. Malik Torres stood beneath the flickering lights of an abandoned train station, turned into a half-court battle zone. The cracked cement under his feet, layered with graffiti and echoes of old games, felt like a stage set for war.

He was told to come alone—and he did. But he knew he was being watched.

"Yo, this Blaze Point initiation thing," he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers as he dribbled a worn Spalding ball. "Feels more like a trap."

Suddenly, a mechanical hum roared to life above. Industrial lights slammed on, casting harsh yellow light on the court. Out of the shadows, five figures stepped forward—fully masked, all wearing the sigil of the League: a flaming crown above a skull clutching a basketball.

A deep voice boomed through hidden speakers, disguised and distorted.

> "Welcome, Torres. This is The Gauntlet. You want in? Earn it."

Malik swallowed hard. His heart was pounding like a drumline in his chest, but he squared his shoulders. "Aight. Let's play."

The Rules Were Simple:

First to 21.

No fouls.

No out-of-bounds.

Win… or stay out of the League for good.

The five masked players circled him like predators. Malik held the ball tight, adrenaline flooding his limbs.

Then the whistle blew.

The first attacker lunged—a thick, bald dude with a linebacker build. Malik spun right, ducked low, then hit a behind-the-back crossover that left the guy sliding on dust. He flew down the baseline, leapt—reverse layup off the glass.

1–0.

But they weren't playing nice.

The next possession, Malik took a brutal elbow to the ribs. No call. No whistle. Just pain. He wheezed but gritted his teeth. The masked man smirked under the hood.

> "Thought this was basketball, not wrestling," Malik spat blood to the side.

Another masked baller, lean and quick, hit him with a deadly step-back three. 1–3.

The game escalated fast—drives turned to brawls, layups became dogfights. Malik's shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat and tension. He started to adapt, dancing between defenders with ghost-like agility, faking high then slicing low, until the scoreboard—an old train departure board above—read:

18–18.

Then came the silence. All five masked players stepped off the court. One remained.

Wraith.

His silver-and-black mask gleamed beneath the overhead lights. Without a word, he strolled to center court and spun the ball in his hand.

> "Let's finish this, Torres," Wraith said, voice low like a stormcloud. "No more training wheels."

Malik's pulse dropped to a still point.

The real test had just begun.

Wraith was fast—too fast.

His handles were wicked, switching direction mid-air, his footwork tight and unpredictable. Malik gave ground, studying him, waiting. Wraith charged, slashed left—Malik reached—

Swipe!

Clean steal.

The crowd hidden in the shadows erupted.

He flew toward the rim, but Wraith recovered instantly, like he teleported. Malik had to improvise. He stopped short, spun mid-air, and threw a hook pass off the backboard to himself.

Catch. Slam. 19–18.

The game was in his hands.

But Wraith wasn't done.

He came back stronger. He used shoulder fakes, faked a behind-the-back pass, then blew by Malik to lay it in.

19–19.

"Last point," Wraith said, bouncing the ball once. "This is where champions are made… or broken."

Malik was gasping for breath. He was bruised, battered, and on the edge. But something in his eyes turned steel.

Wraith inbounded.

Malik lunged.

They collided.

A blur of arms, sneakers screeching, the ball bouncing free. Malik dove, scraped his knees raw, secured the ball—

Spun out.

And rose for the three.

Wraith leapt.

Swat—

But Malik double-clutched in air, twisted sideways—

Bang!

The ball ripped through the net.

22–19. Game.

The underground crowd burst into roars. The train station lit up with flickering sparks and strobe lights. Somewhere, music started thumping—hard bass, raw celebration.

The masked figures approached. One by one, they took off their masks—revealing not just faces, but former legends of Blaze Point. Street kings from different boroughs.

Wraith was last. He pulled off his mask, revealing a face scarred but noble. Older than Malik, but not by much.

> "Welcome to the fire," he said, holding out a fist. "You didn't just win. You earned respect."

Malik bumped fists.

But before he could soak in the moment, another figure stepped forward from the far shadows. He wore a white suit with red lining, sunglasses on even in the dark.

Everyone went silent.

The whispers traveled fast: "That's Bishop."

The rumored founder. The architect. The man who built Blaze Point League from blood and broken boards.

He walked slowly up to Malik, eyes hidden, but aura undeniable.

> "You've got fire, kid," Bishop said, voice smooth but dangerous. "But Blaze Point isn't just about basketball. It's about loyalty. War. Survival."

He handed Malik a metal tag engraved with flames and numbers.

> "You're officially in. Player 089. But understand something…"

He leaned close.

> "From now on, everyone's coming for your head."

As Bishop walked away, Malik looked down at the tag. He could feel the weight—not just of the metal, but of everything it meant.

He was in.

Really in.

And there was no going back.

But just as he turned to leave, Wraith put a hand on his shoulder.

> "Watch your back. The League plays dirty, even when you're on the inside. You've made enemies tonight. Ones that don't forgive."

Malik nodded.

His journey had only just begun.