Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 80 :The Design Concept of the WhyNot Zero1 Signature

Managing player emotions was part of the job, and Coach Crawford knew it well.

After his talk with Darius, he asked Miles to bring in Lin.

"Starting next ga, you’re coming off the bench," Crawford said.

Lin had seen it coming ever since Ryan’s 35-point explosion in a single quarter during his debut. He’d braced himself for the day Ryan would take his starting spot, but when the mont hit, it still stung.

Unlike Darius, Lin wasn’t one to push back. His quieter nature took over, and he just nodded, lips tight.

He’d spent most of the past few years bouncing around the league, rarely starting. It wasn’t until he landed with the bottom-feeding Roarers that he found a place in the starting five. And now, that was gone again.

Crawford studied him. "You’ll still get solid minutes, Lin. I’m not burying you. When Darius or Ryan sit, you’ll spell them. Your ti won’t drop much."

Lin’s jaw twitched, a flicker of frustration he couldn’t hide. He’d heard promises like this before—coaches swearing minutes would co, only to see them vanish. But he swallowed it, gave another curt nod, and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

As the door clicked shut, Crawford let out a slow exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose. No coach enjoyed these talks—not even ones who’d seen it all.

Once Lin left, it was Ryan’s turn.

"You’re starting from now on," Crawford said bluntly. "But tonight, Darius is coming off the bench to ease back in. Starting next ga, it’ll be you and him in the lineup together."

Ryan didn’t blink. With the kind of numbers he was putting up, he’d be a starter on any team in the league.

No surprise there."What about Lin?" Ryan asked, a flicker of concern in his voice. "He holding up okay?"

Crawford’s eyes narrowed. "Worry about yourself, kid. You slip up, and I’ll yank you from the starting five faster than you can blink."

Ryan flashed a cocky grin. "Not gonna happen, Coach."

Crawford leaned forward. "You and Darius will split ball-handling duties. But I need you working on your off-ball ga. Last night’s threes were lights-out—9-of-11 is no joke. Keep that up, and you’re a threat even without the rock."

Ryan offered a dry smile. That shooting night had co with system bonuses—it wasn’t going to be easy replicating it.

He had been synced to Russell Westbrook’s 2016–17 ability. That was Westbrook’s best shooting year, but even then, he only hit 34.3% from deep—below the league’s 35.8% average.

Off-ball play? Ryan knew he could outdo Westbrook there, given the effort. Westbrook’s weak off-ball awareness stemd from his mindset—years of being the centerpiece of every offense had wired him to need the ball.

By the ti he tried to adapt, it was too late.

Ryan wasn’t about to let that happen to him.

"I’ll put in the work," Ryan said with a nod, his smile steady.

When he walked out, Crawford didn’t call anyone else in. He didn’t need to.

Technically, Ryan’s promotion hit Stanley the hardest—his minutes were bound to shrink. But Stanley had always been a bench player. A few less minutes didn’t warrant a eting.

——

Iron Vault Arena, 9:00 p.m.

The tunnel lights cast long shadows as the Roarers and Drayport Talons stride onto the court.

The ho crowd, filling nearly 80% of Iron Vault Arena, roars to life.

Kamara scans the stands, nudging Ryan with a grin. "Man, been a minute since we had this many."

In the VIP courtside section, Roarers owner Victor Crane sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Iron City’s wealthiest man, Steven Palr. Crane wore a subtle grin.

Eight out of ten seats filled? Compared to last season’s dismal sub-50% turnout, it’s a resurrection. The fans are back, and they’re buzzing, convinced the Roarers will cruise to a ninth straight win.

The Talons, a middling seventh seed in the East, don’t scare anyone.

The jumbotron flashes the Roarers’ starting five: Ryan, Lin, Kamara, Malik, Gibson.

At the broadcast table, Richard Mason adjusts his headset, voice crackling with anticipation. "Folks, Darius is back from his five-ga suspension, but he’s coming off the bench tonight."

Color analyst David Wilson chis in, skeptical: "What’s that an, Rich? Ryan stealing his starting spot for good?"

Mason shakes his head. "Unlikely. Darius is still the Roarers’ highest-paid player and consistently solid. If Ryan stays in the starting five, it probably ans Lin’s the odd man out."

"That would make sense," Wilson agreed. "Tonight’s probably just a way for Coach Crawford to ease Darius back in."

Tip-off hits, but the Roarers look like they’re wading through quicksand. Last night’s overti war against the Mistfoxes has drained their legs. All five starters are off—shots clanking, passes sailing wide.

The offense lacked rhythm. Cuts were slow, screens weren’t set clean, and spacing broke down with every possession.

Lin’s the worst of the bunch, rattled by the looming threat of losing his starting spot. Six minutes in, he’s scoreless, 0-for-3, and Crawford yanks him for Darius.

The switch flips sothing. Darius, fueled by the sting of competition, cos out swinging, a predator unleashed.

His first bucket—a silky mid-range jumper—ignites a spark, but the Talons keep pouring it on, their fast breaks slicing through like knives.

The Roarers bleed points every quarter, never sniffing the lead—not even a tie.

By the final buzzer, it’s a grim 88-104 loss to the Talons.

The eight-ga win streak dies.

Ryan struggled all night—16 points on 6-of-15 shooting, 1-of-3 from deep, 3-of-4 from the line. He chipped in 3 rebounds and 4 assists, but it was a far cry from his 48-point explosion the night before.

The irony? Darius, the bench spark, steals the show. In 29 minutes, he’s a flathrower: 11-of-14 from the field, 2-of-3 from three, 6-for-6 from the line, dropping a crisp 30 points.

Unlike Lin, who wilted under pressure, Darius thrives on it, proving a point to Crawford, Ryan, and anyone watching.

The postga presser belongs to him, not Ryan.

Ryan ducked out of the locker room after a quick shower, avoiding the dia swarm.

He headed to the players’ parking lot, slid into his K3, and drove to the arena’s main gate.

He had a pickup to make.

Damon Ruiz, Lead Footwear Performance Engineer at Vantix, had watched the ga from courtside.

They’d arranged to et that afternoon.

Ryan pulled up. Ruiz jumped in.

Ruiz shook his head. "Tough one, man. Sorry about the L."

Ryan shrugged, easing onto the road. "Back-to-back, legs were dead. Whole team was off."

They arrived at Ryan’s place in under fifteen minutes and Ruiz was all business, whipping out a tablet and notebook, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Alright," he said, "let’s talk signature shoe. Got any ideas?"

Ryan had wrestled with this for days. Should he go with sothing fresh, or build on the legacy of Westbrook’s Why Not Zer0 line?

But he knew.

The Basketball Soul System had reborn him with Westbrook’s fire, his gifts. It wasn’t mimicry. It was inheritance.

His soul ran with the wind. Relentless. Explosive.

So going with the Why Not Zer0 line made perfect sense.

For his first signature shoe, he naturally chose the Zer0.1—the sa pair he once owned in his past life, the iconic "Triple-Double" edition in blue, orange, and black.

He took the notebook from Ruiz and scribbled the na: WhyNot Zero1, stylized slightly differently.

"Na’s this," Ryan said, sliding the notebook over. "What do you think?"

Ruiz’s eyes lit up. "Perfect. Matches your ga—grit and flash. We’re locking it in."

The Vantix deal had given Ryan a say in both naming and design, and Ruiz was all-in.

"What about visuals? Design cues?"

Ryan paused, then took the pen. He wasn’t a great artist—his lines were rough, his shading uneven—but he managed a concept sketch.

"Front’s your call," he said, tapping the page. "But the heel? I’ve got sothing specific."

He sketched a bold, oversized triangular structure jutting from the heel’s outer edge, its sharp, angular surface filled with slashed embossing—like the wing of a fighter jet.

Ruiz squinted at the sketch. "What’s this supposed to be?"

Ryan hesitated, unsure how to explain. "Hold up, grabbing a drink."

He ducked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and muttered, "System, what’s that heel piece on Westbrook’s Why Not Zer0.1 called again?"

The system had granted him permission to ask anything related to Westbrook,

so it responded instantly:

[Woven upper with hot-lt technology, full-length Zoom Air cushioning, and a compression-molded Phylon (CMP) integrated heel designed for ’flight.’]

Ryan snagged two cans of Zero9, tossed one to Ruiz, and relayed the system’s answer like it was his own.

"Compression-molded Phylon integrated heel, molded for lift. That’s the vibe—sleek, explosive, like you’re flying."

Ruiz’s eyes lit up. "CMP integrated heel? That’s bold. If this design actually hits the shelves, it’s gonna blow up."

They kept talking—materials led to lasts, structure gave way to emotion. An hour later, Ryan finally dropped him off at the hotel.