“Easy, Rex.
Take it easy!” United States.
California.
Fresno State University campus gym.
Clang.
Clang.
Heavy steel plates slammed together, the sound bouncing off the empty walls of the weight room.
“If that bar comes down on us, we’re both throwing a double funeral at the San Diego cemetery this time next year.” The speaker was Fresno State’s star, Paul George.
His eyes were wide, both hands hovering under the barbell like a midwife waiting to catch a baby.
On the bench lay his roommate, the exchange student Rex.
Rex was shirtless.
The body under the lights looked carved from the same stone as the Greek god of war.
Seven-foot-one.
Two hundred sixty-five pounds.
Shoulders wide enough to block a doorway, a perfect inverted triangle of lats, and a chest that rose and fell like a mountain range with every breath.
The bar held four hundred eighty-five pounds.
Rex exhaled once, slow and controlled, and pressed the weight up like he was opening a refrigerator door.
Paul George swallowed.
His entire view of the world took a clean shot to the jaw.
“My God… did you grow up eating vibranium, Rex?
That bench already puts you past Karl Malone.
Only Ronnie Coleman could even think about matching it.” They had only been roommates for three days.
Paul George had spent those three days hunting for one true alpha teammate who could help him make a real run at March Madness in his senior year.
Rex was starting to look like the answer.
Basketball wasn’t the only reason they clicked so fast.
They shared a certain wavelength.
The first time they met in the dorm, Paul George had one hand on his phone scrolling Kim Kardashian’s Instagram and the other hand busy under the waistband.
Rex had walked in, glanced once, and said flatly, “Mind if I borrow that?” … “That’s not even my max, PG.” Rex shook his head.
“Load it.
This is just the warm-up.” “The fuck?” Paul’s voice cracked.
“Four-eighty-five is a warm-up?” “You understand what that means?
Man, if you walked into the League right now you’d be the strongest motherfucker alive.” Rex only shrugged.
In truth he was a transmigrator.
He had not just landed in 2010 as a exchange student at Fresno State.
He had also bound himself to a system called [Black Basketball].
The second the system activated it dropped the starter package straight into him: the complete physical template of Atsushi Murasakibara, the monster center of the Generation of Miracles from Kuroko’s Basketball.
Fusion rate: already ninety percent.
That meant this 7’1″ frame did not just own the kind of strength that could shatter a backboard.
It also moved with the speed and agility of a guard.
After the reward, the system issued its first main quest: [Officially become a member of the Fresno State basketball team.] Clear it and fusion would jump to one hundred percent.
He would unlock Murasakibara’s absolute defensive skill—[Zeus’s Shield].
In real basketball that skill meant owning the entire paint alone, with a defensive radius that stretched all the way to the three-point line.
Opponents would feel like every shot they took was already blocked.
To finish the quest Rex had used his new connection with Paul George to land a private tryout with head coach Steve Cleveland.
… The gym door creaked open.
A wave of footsteps poured in.
“Rex.
Coach is here.” Paul George made a show of rubbing the massive shoulders while muttering under his breath, “Bring the same energy you use to pull girls at the club.
Give this old man a little shock and awe.” Rex looked up.
A middle-aged white man with a receding hairline and a hard face walked in—head coach Steve Cleveland.
Behind him came the entire core of the Fresno State roster.
The moment those self-proclaimed muscle-heads of the NCAA laid eyes on Rex, the weight room went dead silent.
“Holy Mary…” “This dude’s gotta be on the juice.” “Looks like a T.
rex that walked out of Jurassic Park.” Every gaze drifted toward the big Black guy standing in the middle of the group.
The current starting center.
A stretch big.
Kevin Minusnett.
The second Minusnett saw Rex he felt a cold draft straight up his shorts.
Years of experience told him this motherfucker was here for his starting spot.
He still forced himself to stay calm.
“Don’t get fooled by the size.
If basketball was only static measurements, Manute Bol would’ve been better than Shaq.
In the NCAA, athleticism and speed are king.
A guy this heavy?
He’ll run like a grandma with bound feet.” Then the testing started.
Minusnett’s mouth zipped shut.
Barefoot height: 7’1″.
Weight: 269 pounds.
Wingspan: 7’4½”.
Max bench: 551 pounds.
Vertical: 47 inches.
And the number that broke the room— When the assistant coach read out the lane agility time of 11.82 seconds, the entire gym exploded.
Every set of eyes swung back to Kevin Minusnett.
This time he actually looked relieved.
“This guy isn’t coming for my starting spot.
He’s coming for a starting spot in the NBA.” Under the weight of all those stares he muttered one last line: “Nuclear option.
I’m not touching that.” … “Come on, Coach.
This is the guy I told you about.” Paul George was grinning so hard his face hurt.
“So?
Can we get Rex’s scholarship papers out right now?” Steve Cleveland stood there completely numb.
If this isn’t the universe paying me back because the president’s been sleeping with my wife… then my ancestors must’ve done something right for once.
He forced the pure joy down and spoke with a straight face.
“Basketball isn’t track and field, PG.
I still need to see what he can actually do on the floor.” Cleveland’s eyes found Kevin Minusnett.
“Kevin.” “You.
One-on-one with Rex.
First to five.
I want to see his game through you.” “Me?” Minusnett pointed at his own nose.
The expression on his face was pure “please don’t make me do this”—the look of a man who had just been ordered to take down an entire army by himself.
“Coach… if you want me dead, just say so.”