Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 111 :Put-back near game-winner, 40-point double-doub

Lamar’s logo three sent the few Lumina fans in Iron Vault into a frenzy, their cheers swallowed by the ho crowd’s groan. On the visiting bench, the entire Lumina roster shot to its feet, whipping towels like windmills. The man was giving them life again, and everyone in the building could feel the montum shift.

Crawford didn’t call tiout. Not yet. He crossed his arms and let his guys ride the wave. He’d seen it before—burn a tiout every ti Lamar hits a bomb, and you’ll run out before the quarter’s really underway.

Lumina’s next trip down, Callaway brought the ball up instead of Lamar. That was by design. With the ball in Callaway’s hands, Roarers couldn’t blitz Lamar early. The trap only works if the man you want has the rock.

On a secondary break, Callaway dribbled up the right sideline, flipped a casual handoff to Lamar at the top. The tempo was slow, almost casual, but Lamar had a way of playing on a private rhythm, a beat no one else could quite hear. You’d think he was about to rise for the layup—then realize he had one more step in the tank. Stanley lunged, mistid the contest, and Lamar floated the ball over Malik’s outstretched arm. Two more for the board.

Another possession, Callaway called Lamar for a pick-and-roll, the play unfolding like a streetball hustle, all rhythm and deception. Stanley, hounding Lamar all night, got caught in the switch, forced to guard Callaway.

Callaway zipped a pass to Lamar rolling off the screen, and before Stanley could recover, Lamar rose for a midrange jumper—smooth, textbook, swish.

The ball kissed the net clean, a taunt to the Roarers’ defense.

It was clever basketball—change the initiator, mask the entry, deny the defense their double-team. And it was working. Bit by bit, Lumina chipped away.

Six minutes into the fourth, the scoreboard showed Roarers 112, Lumina 110. The once-rowdy ho crowd had gone tense.

Coach Crawford burned a tiout, his face a mask of focus as he gathered the Roarers. The huddle was tense, sweat dripping onto the hardwood, the arena’s roar a distant hum. He rolled out the closing lineup: Ryan, Darius, Malik, Kamara, and Stanley. Stanley had already logged 25 minutes, his wiry fra battered but relentless, a junkyard dog who’d been chewing up Lamar’s stamina. He hadn’t locked down the All-Star—nobody could—but his hound-like defense had slowed Lamar, forcing him to work for every shot. Lamar was at 34 points, his stat line a neon warning that 40-plus was in reach. Ryan wasn’t far behind, sitting at 31, his drives and dishes a lifeline for the Roarers’ fight.

Lumina countered with their starting five—no surprises there.

The problem for Iron City was the first six minutes of the quarter had been a graveyard for their periter shooting. Not a single three had dropped. Lumina’s coach slled blood and switched to a tight 2–3 zone, collapsing the paint. If the Roarers wanted the rim, they’d have to pry it open.

Inside, every cut drew a body. Every touch in the paint brought a second defender, and with Derrick Langley—the runaway favorite for Rookie of the Year—patrolling the baseline, even the illusion of an open lane disappeared fast. Langley’s arms seed to stretch forever; his timing was a surgeon’s scalpel.

Rebounding? Forget it. In a packed lane against a set zone, even Malik—veteran bruiser, relentless on the glass—was coming up empty. Every miss was swallowed by white jerseys.

"Roarers look bottled up right now," Sammy "Quicklip" Lee called from the booth, his tone half-concern, half-thrill. "That’s the third straight possession they’ve settled for a contested midrange. This zone is suffocating them."

Mad Dog Murphy’s gravelly voice answered, "Yeah, and Langley’s owning that paint like it’s rent-controlled. Malik can’t get a sniff down there."

Iron Vault Arena was electric, the roar of the crowd shaking the rafters.

Roarers vs. Lumina—a clash of the ho team’s backcourt firepower against Lumina’s ball-dominant superstar.

Atlantis had tuned in by the millions, watching a ga that was as much a chess match as it was a street fight.

Breaking a zone? Simple in theory—hit enough threes until they’re forced to stretch out.

The real question: who on the Roarers would break it?

Answer ca quick.

Ryan knifed into the paint, drew the help, and kicked to the corner—Kamara, wide open.

Catch. Release.

Swish.

Finally, a three for Iron City. But one shot doesn’t break a zone. On the next trip, Lumina still packed the paint, still crowding Ryan. Again, he swung to Kamara.

Sa motion, sa result—Swish.

Two straight. Now Lumina had to care. Leave a hot hand open, and it’s like feeding the fire.

Next possession, they stayed glued to Kamara... but that just freed Darius. Ryan found him beyond the arc.

Pull-up. Swish.

The Roarers were cooking from deep.

But Lumina didn’t flinch—because Lamar was still out there, swinging that scythe of a jumper.

Tired? Sure. But with him, fatigue only made the shots look harder—never less likely to drop. His threes, his midrange—pure enough to make you doubt your own eyes.

The Roarers’ offense flowed now, their outside shooting dismantling Lumina’s zone. Ryan was a maestro—every drive a dare, every pass a dagger. He slashed into the paint, dishing to Malik for a thunderous dunk. The backboard rattled, Iron City’s roar a tidal wave. Next, he lobbed to Stanley for an alley-oop, then hit Kamara for another slam, and found Darius for a corner three. Each pass was surgical, landing in his teammates’ hands like a streetball promise kept. Ryan was everywhere, his 37 points and 12 assists a stat line screaming dominance, his cold forgotten in the heat of battle.

With 1:20 left, Lumina called tiout, the scoreboard screaming 130-130, a tie that felt like a standoff in an old Western. Lamar, gasping, trudged to the bench, his stamina shot, his jersey clinging like a second skin. Lumina’s coach barked plays, desperate to rest their star for the final push. On the Roarers’ side, Coach Crawford kept it simple, his voice steady as steel in the huddle. "You’re playing perfect. Keep locking Lamar, wear him down. No changes." The team nodded, sweat dripping, their eyes locked on the mission, Iron City’s pulse in their veins.

The tiout broke, and Lumina attacked. Callaway drove, his speed a flicker in the arena’s haze, and hit Lamar cutting inside. Stanley stayed glued, refusing to lose position, and Lamar’s shot rimd out. But Derrick Langley, a Rookie of the Year contender, outmuscled Malik—a 15-year vet—for the offensive board, his youth a brutal edge. Lumina swung the ball, and Lamar, finding a sliver of space, sank a midrange jumper. 130-132, Lumina up. The clock showed 58 seconds, the arena’s air thick with tension.

Roarers’ ball. Ryan, his heart synced with Iron City’s chants, called for a switch, isolating Lamar. Lamar swapped onto him, his feet sluggish from exhaustion. Ryan exploded, his first step pure Westbrook, 90% synced and lightning-fast, blowing past Lamar before he could blink. Holloway lunged to help, a mad dog chasing a shadow, but Ryan pulled up, his fadeaway floating over Holloway’s outstretched fingers. The ball sailed, soft as a feather, kissing the net. Swish. 132-132. Ryan pounded his chest, his roar drowned by the crowd screaming "Ry-an!" Chloe, in the VIP seats, bead, her pride a lighthouse in the neon storm, her No. 0 jersey glowing as the jumbotron caught her smile.

The Roarers’ defense clamped down, forcing a Lumina miss. 38 seconds left, the arena a pressure cooker. Lumina burned their final tiout, their coach’s face a mask of desperation, but the play fizzled—Ryan read it, stealing a pass and flipping it to Malik for a soaring alley-oop dunk. Boom. 134-132. Iron City erupted, the stands a sea of fists and screams.

Lumina’s last gasp ca with Callaway driving, but Lamar, drained, couldn’t shake Stanley’s relentless defense. With 4 seconds on the shot clock, Callaway’s jumper clanged off the rim. 17 seconds left, Roarers up two. Lumina’s players glanced at their coach—no tiouts left. He shook his head, yelling, "Trap Ryan!" The Roarers’ fans stood, bellowing "Ry-an! Three!"—greedy for a win and a 40-point double-double.

Ryan took the inbound, crossing halfcourt into a double-team. He stayed cool, his eyes scanning like a predator. Darius broke free, and Ryan fired a pass. Darius caught it, stepped back, his defender lunging like a streetball rookie. Callaway joined the trap, sealing passing lanes. With 4 seconds left, Darius had no choice—he leaned back, tossing a fading jumper. The ball’s arc was short, a desperate heave, and Lamar sprinted forward, eyes on a fast-break chance.

Under the rim, Derrick and Malik battled, bodies colliding like steel in a mill. Derrick boxed out, leaping for the board—but a shadow lood. Ryan, a black blur in No. 0, soared over him, his hands clamping the ball like a vice. Derrick flailed, smacking Ryan’s arm, but it was too late. Ryan hamred the ball through the hoop, the dunk a seismic shock. Boom. The whistle blew—foul on Derrick. Iron Vault exploded, fans losing their minds, the jumbotron freezing on Ryan’s silhouette, his No. 0 blazing as he hung on the rim.

Ryan stepped to the line, the arena’s roar a heartbeat in his ears. He exhaled, flicked his wrist—swish. 137-132. Three seconds left, victory sealed. Ryan’s stat line: 40 points, 12 assists—a massive double-double. Lumina inbounded, but their halfcourt heave missed as the buzzer sounded. Roarers win, 137-132.