Michael didn't sleep that night.
How could he?
He spent the hours between midnight and sunrise testing his body like a madman. Push-ups, sprint intervals, core circuits—things that would've had him doubled over and gasping in his old life. Now, he burned through them like a machine.
The system's interface was minimal, but every now and then it pinged with a soft gold glow.
[Progress: 1.02%]
He grinned like a lunatic each time the number ticked up. The grind was real. And so was the reward.
But it wasn't just the physical edge that had him buzzing.
Every time he stepped into a stance, squared his feet, or tried a fadeaway, his body subtly corrected itself. A whisper of instinct. A glimpse of something deeper.
It wasn't him. It was Jordan.
Or rather—Jordan through him.
The footwork wasn't flawless, but it was cleaner than any 14-year-old had a right to be. The timing on his pull-up jumpers was almost unnaturally crisp. His fingertips rolled the ball off the release like they'd done it ten thousand times.
Because somewhere, they had.
"Damn," he muttered, panting between drills. "I'm really back."
He slept for maybe two hours. When he woke, it was with the same energy high as the night before.
By 7:30 AM, he was in the school's outdoor court.
Old rusted rims. One side of the backboard was cracked. Perfect.
He pulled up in beat-up trainers, shorts too short for modern style, and a shirt that clung to his still-growing frame. A group of kids already shot around, none of them taller than six feet. A few looked his age. One or two younger.
"Yo," one of them said. "You new here?"
Michael bounced the ball once. "Something like that."
A kid in a Curry shirt stepped forward. "We're playing threes. You in?"
Michael shrugged. "Sure."
He didn't say anything else. Didn't need to.
They picked teams. He got last pick.
He smiled. That was a mistake.
The game started like most street games did—too many long threes, too little defense.
Michael stood still for the first few possessions, just watching. Letting the system guide him.
Then, on a lazy crossover from the kid in the Curry shirt, he struck.
Swipe. Clean steal.
He exploded down the court, one dribble, then two—and leapt.
His hand hit the backboard.
No dunk yet. But the height? The hang time? Everyone saw it.
Next play, he posted up. Triple-threat. Fake left, jab right, one-dribble spin. Fadeaway jumper.
Swish.
The court went silent.
Next trip, someone tried to press him. He crossed them left, then hard right. Got into the lane and hit a scoop layup while drawing a foul.
"Bro," someone said. "Who is this guy?"
Michael didn't answer.
The game ended 11–3. His team had been down 0–2 before he touched the ball.
"Yo," Curry-shirt said after. "You tryna try out for the school team?"
Michael gave a half-smile. "You think I wouldn't make it?"
"No—no, I mean, you should."
Michael picked up his ball, turned to walk away, then paused.
"Tryouts are when?"
"Next week. Coach only takes fifteen."
Michael nodded once. "He'll have to make room."
[Progress: 1.28%]
The grind had begun. And Michael Schmidt wasn't planning on stopping until he broke the game wide open.