Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 57 :Rising Stars Assemble!

The Roarers had no practices scheduled until after All-Star Weekend, but Ryan was anything but free.

In the two days leading up to his flight to Vega City, he was everywhere—driving his new K3 from shoot to shoot, juggling endorsent gigs, press stops, and product stills.

The quiet deals he’d signed just a month ago were finally coming to life.

First up was Vola Active, the anti-sweat fragrance line. The shoot was simple—just stills for packaging and displays. It wrapped in under an hour at a sleek downtown studio, all bright lights and clean backdrops.

Then ca the shoot for that niche headphone brand. It wrapped fast—just Ryan dribbling on an outdoor court, earbuds in, nodding to a beat only he could hear.

Then ca the litter box comrcial.

Ryan sat on a cozy, staged living room set, a fluffy tabby nad Muffin purring in his lap. The director—a wiry guy with a man bun—kept shouting, "More tenderness, Ryan! You love this cat!"

Ryan gently stroked Muffin’s fur, doing his best to look affectionate.

Next, he walked over to the litter box, scooped with mock seriousness, then turned to the cara with a soft smile.

"Clean ga. Clean box."

"Cut! That’s a wrap!"

The crew burst into applause. Eddie and Jamal, watching from off-set, laughed and gave him matching smug thumbs-ups.

Ryan walked over to the side and dropped into a folding chair, sipping water and shaking his head.

"This better make a cat person magnet, Eddie," he muttered.

Eddie just grinned. "Trust , man. Cat people spend money."

Of course, they couldn’t skip Zero9—though with the tight schedule, this round was just a hardware shoot. The only disappointnt? Chloe Palr wasn’t there that day.

On Tuesday night, February 11th, Ryan finally boarded a flight bound for Vega City. The league had covered his ticket, along with the hotel accommodations for the week. Naturally, Eddie and Jamal had booked the sa flight and hotel, joining him for the trip.

Vega City greeted them with its signature neon glow, a sprawling tropolis that made Iron City look ta. After a smooth ride from the airport, Ryan checked into the opulent Stellar Grand Hotel, its lobby all marble floors and chandeliers that scread money.

The next morning, Wednesday, February 12, Ryan was up early for the 10 a.m. call ti set by the ABA. His first stop: the Zentron Celestial Center, ho court of the Vega Tigers and the epicenter of All-Star Weekend. The arena buzzed with controlled chaos—staff darting around, dia setting up caras, and the faint echo of sneakers squeaking sowhere in the distance.

Ryan made his way to the temporary office the league had set up for the Rising Stars Challenge, a sleek space with ABA banners and a table stacked with gear.

One by one, the fourteen players for the challenge trickled in, each exuding that mix of confidence and curiosity unique to young hoopers on the cusp of stardom.

Ryan’s eyes landed on Colter Frye, Atlantis’s golden boy, striding in like he owned the place. Standing at six-foot-nine, with striking good looks and a head of flowing blond hair, Frye was the guy everyone in the ABA was watching. Ryan had seen him on highlight reels, but in person, the kid’s aura was undeniable.

The room filled with easy chatter as the players swapped introductions and fist bumps. Most knew each other from college circuits or earlier ABA gas, but Ryan, with just nine gas under his belt, was the odd man out. Still, the vibe was warm, and he found himself trading contact info with nearly everyone.

The league’s event coordinator, a crisp-suited woman nad Carla Reyes, stepped in to get things rolling. "Alright, gentlen, welco to the Rising Stars Challenge," she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Let’s get you suited up."

Staff passed out jerseys, first for Team Vess—crisp white, numbers 1 through 7—then for Team Nealson, bold red, numbers 8 through 14.

No duplicate numbers, no picking your own; the league had assigned them weeks ago.

Ryan’s jersey was red, Team Nealson, with "Rising Star" blazoned across the chest in bold black letters.

He held it up, admiring the clean design, and checked the number: 10. Not his usual 0, but he caught the zero in there and smirked to himself. Close enough.

He folded it over his arm, already picturing himself on the court, the arena lights hot, the crowd roaring.

The temporary office at the Zentron Celestial Center humd with energy as the fourteen Rising Stars players milled about, clutching their freshly issued jerseys.

Carla Reyes, the ABA’s event coordinator, clapped her hands to corral the group.

"Alright, gentlen, let’s move to the locker rooms to change. Photographers are set up for your headshots and team shots. After that, we’ve got the dia session. Keep it tight—schedule’s packed."

Ryan slipped into his jersey in the locker room, the number 10 catching the light under the harsh fluorescents.

It wasn’t his usual 0, but the fit was perfect, and the "Rising Star" text across the chest gave him a quiet jolt of pride. He caught his reflection and smirked. Not bad for a guy with nine gas in the ABA.

The other players were already in their jerseys, so joking, others flexing for imaginary caras.

The photo setup was in a brightly lit corner of the arena, with a massive ABA logo backdrop and a crew of photographers barking directions. "Team Vess, you’re up first!" one called.

Ryan watched as the white-jerseyed players lined up, striking poses—so serious, so hamming it up with finger guns or mock dunks.

When it was Ryan’s turn, he stepped forward and hit a few classic poses—arms crossed, one finger pointed skyward, ball in hand as if ready to launch.

The photographer called out cues between shutter clicks:

"Three, two, one—strong! Give that shoulder tilt! Perfect!"

As the flash faded, a staffer handed him a slip of paper.

"dia zone next. Press conference prep."

The press conference was short and snappy—just three minutes per player.

When it was Ryan’s turn, the cara flashes kicked into overdrive. Reporters leaned forward, voices overlapping as the questions started flying.

"Ryan! You’ve only played nine gas in the ABA—what’s it feel like wearing that Rising Stars jersey today?"

"It’s definitely sothing special," Ryan replied, voice steady. "There are a lot of great players here. I’m honored to share the court with them."

"Do you think you belong in this ga?"

He paused for half a second, then gave a small, confident smile.

"I’ll answer that on the court."

By noon, the official duties wrapped, and Carla laid out the schedule. "No practice today, gentlen. Team Vess, you’re on tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. Team Nealson, you’ve got 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. Rest up, stay sharp."