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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Reborn in 2014

Countless golden and silver confetti fluttered down from above, clinging to Chen Yilun’s shoulders and hair. He stared upward in a daze—the massive arena ceiling was completely hidden beneath a glittering storm of paper. Through gaps in the falling gold and silver, the high-frequency arena lights shone like a field of stars.

Where… am I?

As he hesitated, Chen Yilun suddenly felt someone’s eyes on him. Turning, he saw an elderly white man, hair and beard completely snow-white, seated beside him in an old-fashioned suit, grinning mischievously.

Who is this old man? He looks so familiar…

Before he could figure it out, two tall men in basketball jerseys charged toward him—one with a thick European-style beard, the other with messy dreadlocks. The old man pointed straight at him, still grinning.

“Get him! Get him!”

“Huh?”

Chen Yilun suddenly felt his feet leave the ground as the two grabbed him from either side.

“Pour it on him! Pour it on Ailen!”

Looking up, he saw a massive Gatorade cooler tipping toward him. In an instant, ice and sports drink came crashing over his head. The freezing shock jolted his thoughts into sudden clarity.

I think… I’ve been reborn!

Chen Yilun had been born into a wealthy family in southern China and had loved sports—especially basketball—since childhood. He had once dreamed of making it his career, but family opposition and the lack of opportunities in China had ended that dream.

But in this timeline, it seemed his family had supported him. He had come to the United States, studied at a basketball-focused university, and after graduating, spent two years as an assistant coach for the San Antonio Spurs.

Then it hit him—that smirking old man… wasn’t that Gregg Popovich?

Chen Yilun looked again at the two players holding him. One was unmistakably Marco Belinelli, the other Patty Mills. And the tall, laughing white guy with the Gatorade cooler—wasn’t that the Brazilian Tiago Splitter?

Wait… Belinelli and Splitter retired years ago, didn’t they? And Mills was supposed to be with the Nets. What were they doing here?

Breaking free from their grip, Chen Yilun froze at the scene before him.

The huge basketball court was packed with celebrating players and staff, hugging in clusters, laughing and crying. Ginobili? Parker? And that tall-and-short pair embracing over there—wasn’t that Duncan and Leonard?

A flood of tangled memories rushed through his mind. Not only had he been reborn, but the timeline had changed. This was 2014! The Spurs had just won the championship!

At some point, Popovich walked over, eyeing Chen Yilun’s once-white shirt, now stained pale blue from Gatorade.

“Good thing I pushed you out there,” he said. “Otherwise, my shirt wouldn’t have survived.”

He patted Chen Yilun on the shoulder.

“Go enjoy it. You’ve all worked hard this year. It’s time to rest.”

And it was true. The Spurs had been through a grueling season. In last year’s Finals, Ray Allen’s three-pointer hadn’t just broken Duncan’s streak of “Finals appearance means championship”—it had struck at the pride at the very heart of the Spurs. For a full year, they had fought like an army on a mission of revenge, dismantling the Miami Heat without mercy.

Chen Yilun had played his part in that grand regicide as an assistant coach.

Standing in the familiar yet strange AT&T Center, Chen Yilun clenched his fists. Once, circumstances had forced him to let go of basketball. Now, given a second chance, he wasn’t going to waste it.

Summers in Texas were hot and brimming with energy, and San Antonio, with its unique geography and history, carried a strong Latin flavor.

To celebrate their first championship in seven years, the city held a grand parade. Sitting on a float decorated with giant plastic feathers, Chen Yilun watched Popovich, wearing a floral shirt, standing at the railing and flashing the “5” hand sign to the crowd, proudly showing off his fifth Larry O’Brien Championship Trophy.

If history here unfolded the way he remembered, this would be the last championship the Spurs would see for many years.

The return of the Kings, Curry’s rise, Zaza Pachulia’s infamous step, the betrayal of the young star—event by event, all would chip away at the 20 years of heritage the Spurs had built.

Forget it. No point thinking about that now.

Chen Yilun rubbed his still-dizzy head. He could think about the future later. For now, he’d just enjoy the moment. Slowly standing, he gazed at the endless sea of fans stretching toward the horizon.

Whatever came next, he would leave to fate.

Because right now… we are champions!

Chapter Text

“Got a minute, Yilun?”

After the celebration, Chen Yilun was alone in his office, sorting through some files, when he suddenly heard someone call his name.

He looked up to see a middle-aged man with curly blond hair and a slight paunch standing in the doorway, grinning. A name instantly came to mind—**RC Buford!**

The man who pulled the strings from behind the Spurs’ silver banner. To the world, the Spurs’ dominance came from the “Big Three” of Duncan, Parker, and Ginobili. But few knew that within the front office, there was another “Big Three”:

Head coach Gregg Popovich, team owner Peter Holt, and the man standing before him—general manager RC Buford.

Buford’s track record was legendary: landing French speedster Tony Parker late in the first round, grabbing Argentine *“Manu the Magician”* Ginobili near the end of the second, and turning castoffs like *“Emperor Green”* (back then still *“Little Green”*) and *“Australian Irving”* Patty Mills into core rotation players.

Unlike other general managers who favored sweeping overhauls, Buford preferred slow cooking—rarely making moves, but never missing when he did. In San Antonio, they even called him *“The Ghost Hand.”*

So why was Buford here today? A flicker of confusion crossed Yilun’s mind. Sure, they were on good terms, but not close enough for a casual visit like this.

“Ahem, Yilun. I came to ask you something.” Buford pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.

*Wait… was this about to be the axe?* Yilun’s stomach tightened. In every workplace drama he’d ever seen, when the big boss suddenly got polite, it usually meant you were packing your things.

“Relax,” Buford said, noticing the color drain from his face. “I just want to have a chat.”

He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one for himself, and offered the pack across the desk. “Want one?”

Yilun accepted with unsteady hands but forgot to light it. Buford took a long drag, then exhaled slowly.

“Yilun, you’ve been with the Spurs for almost three years now. How do you like it here?”

“Ah!” The cigarette slipped from Yilun’s fingers onto the desk. This was bad. *“Let’s just talk.” “Have a smoke.” “Been here a while, huh?”*—the three classic signs of a firing, all lined up.

His mind flashed over the past three years. No way… He’d worked hard, stayed humble, never made enemies. How had the chopping block found him?

Seeing his pale face, Buford quickly reassured him. “You’ve got it wrong. Everyone here sees the work you put in. We all value you. This is about a job offer, and I wanted your opinion.”

*A job offer?* That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“There’s another team looking for someone in their uniform department,” Buford continued. “They couldn’t reach you, so they came to me.” He took another slow drag, the smoke curling around his head and hiding his expression.

*Another team?* Yilun frowned. “Does Coach know?”

Indeed, Spurs owner Peter Holt had long been dead last among NBA owners in net worth—by a wide margin. Despite the team’s consistent success, running the franchise meant squeezing every cent out of the budget.

“Then… which team is it?” Knowing Popovich was in on this steadied him. As a championship contributor with two old foxes as mentors, he trusted their guidance.

Buford’s face tightened slightly. “Uh… Sacramento.”

*The Sacramento Kings?* Yilun inhaled sharply. No wonder the old fox had looked uneasy—the Kings were a mess.

Since the breakup of the dazzling 2007 Kings, Sacramento had been stuck in a seven-year playoff drought, the only result of their rebuilding being DeMarcus Cousins, the so-called *“All-Star from the Neck Down.”*

What Buford didn’t know was that their misfortune would last until 2022, setting the NBA record with 16 straight years out of the playoffs. They burned high draft picks on bust after bust… until *“You’re running it like the Kings”* became an insult in front office circles.

This was basically throwing him into the fire.

And the head coach? Mike Malone—the model case of a top assistant promoted to head coach. It was only his first season in 2013–14, but his years in the league gave him far more clout and experience than Yilun could match.

Sensing his hesitation, Buford added, “Of course, it’s not to replace Mike. He’s doing well. No plans to move him.”

Good, good… at least he wouldn’t be sent in as a scapegoat. But before he could breathe—

“They want you to be the general manager.”

*What?! Be the Kings’ GM?!*

Being head coach meant risking blame. Being GM of the Kings? That was career suicide. No one who’d taken that job had ever left unscathed. No way.

Watching Yilun shake his head furiously, Buford smiled faintly, as if expecting it. “Don’t be so quick to refuse. Hear others out first.”

Yilun immediately went on guard. Here came the pep talk. After three years in the Spurs’ front office, he knew that look—it was Buford winding up to persuade.

“This offer from the Kings surprised me too,” Buford said, unfazed by the skeptical glare. “Pop and I think the safest path is to keep you here a few more years, train you, then send you out.”

He remembered the Belinelli deal—nights spent poring over film and data until he’d practically researched the Italian’s whole family tree. And it had paid off: Belinelli perfectly filled the perimeter gap left by Gallinari’s departure, becoming a crucial piece in the title run.

Still, at just 26, Yilun was young for management. Most people his age were still learning from the veterans. You only graduated when the rookie turned into a fox himself.

The warmth in Buford’s voice wasn’t lost on him. He knew exactly how much the two old foxes had looked out for him as the youngest in the department.

“Do you know Vivek Ranadive?” Buford’s eyes locked on him like a predator’s.

“Vivek Ranadive?” The name triggered a flood of memories—the battle to *“Save the Kings”*!

In 2014, Kings owners the Maloof brothers faced a financial crisis in their casino business. To stay afloat, they put the entire team up for sale.

Steve Ballmer, then CEO of Microsoft (and future Clippers owner), teamed up with a Seattle consortium to offer \$500 million—on one condition: move the team to Seattle and resurrect the SuperSonics.

The news infuriated Sacramento, from the mayor down to the fans, sparking a massive *“Save the Kings”* movement.

At the same time, Warriors minority owner Vivek Ranadive jumped into the fight. To beat Ballmer, he sold all his Warriors shares, joined forces with a local group, and kept the Kings in town.

“After buying the Kings, Ranadive was desperate to turn them around,” Buford said, lighting another cigarette. “Owners like that always think everyone before them was clueless and that they alone can revive a team.”

He let out a short, dismissive laugh and muttered under his breath, “Naive capitalist.”

Chapter Text

“What does that have to do with me?” Chen Yilun’s confusion only deepened as he listened to Buford, his mind now filled with even more questions than before.

Buford didn’t answer right away. He casually picked up an empty Coke can, flicked his cigarette butt into it, and said, “Because they want reform—but there aren’t many people willing to take on the mess that is the Kings.”

“They originally wanted to poach me, but I ignored them. So now, they’ve set their sights on you.”

*So I’m the fall guy, huh?* Chen Yilun almost cursed on the spot. Couldn’t get the veteran, so now they’re after the rookie, is that it?

“Of course, I’ve already reviewed the salary and authority the Kings are offering—it’s a sincere deal. Maybe they’ve heard about your good reputation in the league, or maybe they just want to bask in a bit of championship glow. Either way, the offer’s on the table.”

Buford stood up, brushing the ash from his clothes. “Pop and I both believe that even though you’re still young, you’re ready to stand on your own in this league. We kept you close before only because we didn’t want to see you go. Sacramento may be shunned by general managers across the league, but don’t forget—”

“You’re our student!”

With that, he walked out, leaving Chen Yilun frozen in place.

His mind churned. The Spurs, with their unique culture, had always carried a quiet sense of composure and humility—whether among players or the front office staff.

Come to think of it, in his three years here, this was the first time he had ever heard Buford speak with such confidence, even a touch of arrogance. But he was right—Chen Yilun was a disciple of Popovich and Buford, the greatest coach and one of the best general managers in NBA history.

Maybe it was because they rarely boasted, preferring to let their work speak for them, that so many people had forgotten—the Spurs didn’t just have Popovich; they had one of the strongest front offices in the league.

But now… should he accept the Kings’ offer? He’d always wanted to step out from under their protection and stand on his own. Now that the chance was here, the decision felt impossibly hard.

...

“You have doubts.”

As the evening lights of San Antonio began to glow, Popovich swirled a glass of red wine slowly, then drank it in one gulp. A flush spread across his wrinkled cheeks.

“It’s not your fault—you’re only 26. Taking on a mess like that all at once is a lot to ask.” He spoke as if to himself, but his eyes never left Chen Yilun.

“Pop, I’m willing to take the challenge. But I don’t want to do it recklessly or irresponsibly. This is about running an entire team—drafts, arenas, ticket sales, sponsors. I’m just not sure I can handle it all.”

Chen Yilun took a small sip from his glass, voicing his concerns.

To his surprise, Popovich burst into hearty laughter. “Yilun, before this, I told Buford your chances of success or failure in Sacramento were fifty-fifty. But just from what you said now—”

He refilled his glass and grinned. “I can guarantee you’ll be an excellent general manager.”

“A GM isn’t like a coach. A coach works with the roster he’s given and puts together the best lineup he can. But a GM… you have to search, pan for gold in a crowded mine, argue endlessly with other GMs over the smallest deals—and all of it is for the good of the team.”

“I’m too old now. I’ve seen people come and go in this league—countless faces, countless motives. Most arrive full of ambition and leave quietly when the wave passes. But in this endless tide, there’s one kind of person who always comes out smiling in the end.”

Popovich’s slightly drunken gaze locked on him. “The ones who merge themselves with their team, who truly put the team’s interests first, and are willing to sacrifice for it. And you… already have that quality.”

“So… you think I should take the Kings’ offer?” Chen Yilun straightened, asking nervously.

For just a moment, Popovich’s eyes turned razor-sharp—clear and focused, like the commanding presence he had on the sidelines. Then, just as quickly, he slipped back into the look of a tipsy old man.

“Kid, this is your call. We can only give advice.”

And with that, Popovich went back to sipping his wine, ignoring him.

*This sly old fox—he’s not drunk at all!*

Chen Yilun cursed inwardly. How could a man famous for holding his liquor get drunk after just one bottle between the two of them?

But soon, the irritation in his chest was replaced with warmth. This aloof old man had been pretending to be drunk just to open his heart.

With that realization, Chen Yilun clenched his fists and stood. “Pop, I’ve decided. I’m going to be the Kings’ GM. And in the future, I’ll develop the greatest players—and challenge you!”

“Good!”

Popovich’s eyes gleamed with pride as he stood as well. “Go. Go make your mark in this league, your way. And I, San Antonio, and the Spurs will be right here, waiting for your challenge!”

The two gripped hands firmly.

“Don’t make me wait too long—you know I’m getting old,” Popovich said with a playful wink.

“Don’t worry, mentor,” Chen Yilun replied, shaking his hand hard. “It won’t be long!”

Chapter Text

After signing his name with deliberate care on the thick contract, Chen Yilun let out a long breath. Moments earlier, he had officially left the Spurs and stepped into his new role as General Manager of the Kings.

Across the table sat five people he would be working closely with from now on.

At the center was the team owner, Vivek Ranadive — a veteran Indian tech entrepreneur from Silicon Valley, his gaze sharp and calculating.

Seated beside him was the only woman in the room — his daughter, Anjali. The moment Chen’s eyes met hers, he instinctively swallowed.

Having been reborn, he recognized her instantly. Online, she was often mentioned alongside the Bucks owner’s daughter as two celebrated beauties from opposite coasts. Anjali had a striking mix of features — a vivid red bindi between her brows, paired with high cheekbones and a strong nose bridge that gave her an elegant, cosmopolitan look.

Rebirth had its perks: people he’d once only seen in news photos were now right across the table.

At the far end sat head coach Mike Malone, dressed in a tracksuit and baseball cap, watching Chen with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. The media had been buzzing nonstop since the news broke:

“Chen Yilun Becomes the Youngest GM in NBA History”
“Desperate Gamble or Bold Vision? Inside the Kings’ Latest Move”
“The Mysterious Man from the East — What Makes Him GM Material?”

Most coverage was skeptical, dismissing Chen’s abilities and speculating on how soon he’d be fired. A few outlets — mainly in San Antonio and among Chinese-run publications — voiced support, but they were drowned out by the criticism.

On the far right sat two figures who would be his future partners: Kings legends Peja and Divac.

Just as Chen drew a breath to give his first speech, a sudden voice echoed in his mind:

“Host contract detected. Matching system…”
Beep! “Strongest General Manager System activated. Please check immediately!”

…I…

Chen froze. So I have a system too? He had thought his second life was simply a chance to start over — but this was even better.

“Manager Chen, what are you thinking?” Anjali asked, blinking with curiosity. She had to admit, he was an impressive-looking man — sharp-featured, confident, and composed.

“Ah, sorry,” he replied, her voice snapping him out of his thoughts. “I was just considering our next steps now that the contract’s signed.”

“Oh?” Ranadive leaned forward. “Mr. Chen, could you explain in detail? I’m very interested in your ideas. Hiring you was a big decision.”

This boss wasn’t going to be easy. Chen had heard about Ranadive’s controlling nature and short temper, and now the rumors seemed true.

“The Kings are still in rebuilding mode,” Chen began. “We have the eighth pick this year, which isn’t a top position. My thought is to focus on adding young talent, build for a year, and then push for the playoffs next season.”

It was a cautious, logical approach. The Kings had finished 13th in the West last year — a leap to the playoffs now was unlikely and risky. Better to strengthen the foundation first.

“No.”

The word came sharply from Ranadive. “Anyone can tank. If that’s all I wanted, I could have hired anyone. You’re Popovich’s protégé — this year, we’re making the playoffs. That’s an order.”

Chen’s jaw tightened. Popovich’s protégé, sure — but not a miracle worker. Did the man even realize what roster he had?

Still, Chen noticed Malone giving him a small nod. The coach clearly agreed with his assessment.

Malone, a seasoned hand, understood roster building far better than the half-formed ideas of Ranadive. In the brutal Western Conference, turning this roster into a playoff team in one year was near impossible.

Chen took a steadying breath. “Mr. Ranadive, I’m a manager, not a magician. I can’t turn stones into gold. What I’ve learned is to wait, prepare, and act when the moment is right — like a crocodile.”

“A crocodile?” Ranadive frowned slightly.

“A crocodile can float motionless for hours, looking like driftwood. But the moment prey appears, it strikes with incredible speed, dragging it under until the hunt is finished. That’s what we need to be right now — patient but ready.”

The metaphor seemed to resonate. Ranadive admired the crocodile’s cold, ruthless nature — traits he sought to emulate in business.

“But I can promise you this,” Chen added. “The Kings will improve this year — maybe even surprise you.”

It was a classic Popovich tactic: deliver the hard truth, then offer a motivating promise.

Ranadive’s expression softened. “You mentioned the eighth pick earlier. What’s your view on the draft?”

Chen straightened. The 2014 first-round eighth pick was their most valuable asset after Cousins, especially with the hype around this class as the best since 2003.

“What was the original plan?” he asked.

“The main targets are Noah Vonleh, Elfrid Payton, and Nick Stauskas,” Ranadive said. “We’ll decide after workouts, but right now management leans toward Stauskas.”

If not for professional restraint, Chen would have buried his face in his hands. Of all the options, they had managed to steer away from the right choice. Stauskas was a perimeter shooter with limited physical tools, unlikely to become a core piece.

Sensing his hesitation, Malone asked, “Mr. Chen, do you have a different take?”

“Just call me Yilun,” Chen replied. “With a mid-lottery pick, we’re in a no-man’s land. I’ve reviewed this year’s class thoroughly, and my idea is… trade the pick down.”

“Trade down?” Divac’s tone carried disapproval. Stauskas had been his suggestion — he saw in him echoes of his old teammate Peja. Nostalgia for the Kings’ glory days ran deep, and now this newcomer wanted to disrupt their vision.

“My point is,” Chen continued, ignoring Divac’s glare, “this pick won’t land us a top-tier prospect. We could trade it for a later pick and an additional future first-rounder. Using the eighth pick on a player without elite upside is not good asset management.”

“And you think getting a lower pick will keep us from sliding further?” Divac shot back.

“I’m the GM,” Chen said evenly. “My job is to protect the team’s interests, secure our future, and grow revenue — not indulge unrealistic fantasies. Even if we keep the pick, as long as I’m here, Stauskas will not be our choice at number eight.”

“You—!” Divac started, but Ranadive raised a hand to stop him.

Chen’s stance, though firm, appealed to Ranadive. Performance mattered, but profit came first. Why else buy a team if not to make it stronger financially? Chen’s reasoning fit perfectly: secure stability, then chase success.

---
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Chapter Text

Chapter 5 Preparing for the Heist

“Yilun, you must already have a plan in mind. Can you tell me what you’re going to do with the eighth pick?” Ranadive looked at Chen Yilun, encouraging him to continue.

“I’m planning to trade down from the eighth pick for a late lottery selection plus either a future first-rounder or an NBA-ready contributor,” Chen Yilun laid out his plan without hesitation.

“I’ve done my homework. At the back end of the lottery, there are plenty of players with strong development potential—Zach LaVine, T.J. Warren, or Jusuf Nurkić, for example. All safe picks.” He took a sip of tea to moisten his throat before continuing.

“Then we add a couple of players who can contribute right away. They don’t have to be stars—just reliable rotation pieces. That way, we keep our lottery pick while adding depth to the roster.”

After being reborn, Chen Yilun looked at the draft list like it was a pile of gold bars. Blind box? Please—here, everything is in plain sight.

“Since you already have a plan, then go for it. You’re the GM—you have the authority,” Ranadive said, waving off Divac, who had been about to speak. As the new owner, Ranadive didn’t care much for the old Kings loyalists in the front office. Doing Chen Yilun this favor was a way to win his loyalty and quietly expand his own influence within the team.

Ranadive might not know basketball well, but when it came to office politics, he was an expert.

When he went against the grain to bring in Chen Yilun, it was for two reasons. First, Chen was personally endorsed by Gregg Popovich as his protégé—pure Spurs pedigree. In NBA management circles, that was a golden calling card.

The league isn’t that big, especially among executives. It’s as tangled as medieval Europe—you were my apprentice, I was his assistant coach—everyone has their own turf, fighting for their faction. And the strongest faction right now? Popovich’s Spurs network.

Popovich isn’t just a great coach—he’s a master teacher. Over decades, he’s produced a legion of protégés who now hold positions across the league, many of whom have trained protégés of their own. The Spurs coaching tree runs deep, and its branches cover nearly every team.

With the Popovich disciple label, who wouldn’t show Chen Yilun some respect?

Second, Chen was young, and young leaders can be easily isolated by veterans. A few gestures of goodwill from Ranadive, and he’d have Chen hooked. All he was really doing was granting power that technically already belonged to him—pure profit.

Thinking of this, Ranadive allowed himself a cold smile. He’d already used the same trick on Mike Malone a few days earlier.

If all went as planned, both the GM and the head coach would end up as his loyal subordinates. When that happened, no amount of protest from the veterans would matter—the team would remain firmly in his hands.

“If you’ve got the plan, then make it happen. That’s exactly why I hired you.” Ranadive stood, radiating the authority of a man ending a meeting.

“Talk often with Coach Malone and listen to the coaching staff’s views. And no matter how you do it, by the end of this season, I expect to see real change. Obvious change.”

With that, he left the conference room with his daughter Anjali, ignoring the sour looks on Divac and Peja’s faces.

“All right, gentlemen!” Chen Yilun exhaled in relief as Ranadive walked away. Looked like he’d cleared the first hurdle. “The offseason might be downtime for players, but we’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s skip the small talk. Coach Malone, I’d like a word with you alone.”

As Chen Yilun and Malone left, Divac’s expression darkened like a thundercloud. “Who does he think he is—coming in here to criticize our decisions and change them at will?”

Peja, seated beside him, sighed. “Calm down. He’s the GM now. Like it or not, we’re his deputies. Just bear with it, old friend.”

“Bear with it? You want me to put up with this green rookie?” Divac snapped. “One day, I’ll show him how cruel this league can be.”

...

In Malone’s office, Chen Yilun flipped through the team roster. “Coach, it’s just us. Tell me your read on the current lineup and what needs improving.”

“Ball handler,” Malone answered without hesitation. “We badly need a quality perimeter ball handler. Last year Isaiah Thomas ran the offense fine, but his size killed us on defense. We had no choice but to move him.”

Back in 2014, Thomas hadn’t yet become “the best 5’9” player on the planet,” so the Kings’ decision to let him go was understandable—few teams want to build around a point guard significantly shorter than his opponents.

In Chen Yilun’s memory, the Kings would soon splash big money on Darren Collison as their new point guard, but Collison’s performance would be merely average—well short of expectations.

“I see. What else?”

“We need a consistent scoring threat. Cousins is dominant in the paint, but…” Malone tapped his temple, “he’s not always stable. And Rudy Gay—no real complaints, but…”

Malone trailed off. The Kings’ two current cornerstones were indeed a challenge. All-Star center DeMarcus Cousins had plenty of talent but was a hothead prone to baffling plays. On the wing, Rudy Gay was the definition of good but not great.

Gay had posted a strong 20.1 points, 5.1 rebounds, and 3.1 assists per game last season, but anyone who watched the Kings play knew the feeling—he seemed good at everything, but great at nothing.

What a mess. Chen Yilun rubbed his temples. So many problems, all tangled together. He’d have to untie them one knot at a time, and just thinking about it gave him a headache.

“Got it. I’ll let you know before I make any final decisions. If you spot a good fit, bring it to me.”

After a handshake, Chen Yilun left with the roster sheet in hand. Time was short, and he needed to act fast.

If things unfolded as he remembered, LeBron James—fresh off having his title hopes crushed by the Spurs—would soon opt out of his contract and return to his hometown Cavaliers. Cleveland would then trade their prized No. 1 pick to the Timberwolves for All-Star power forward Kevin Love.

That blockbuster would shake the league to its core. After all, this was peak LeBron—not the older Lakers version, but the sky-soaring King James.

To profit from this trade, he had to stir the waters while the league was in chaos. Exploiting chaos? That was the first lesson Buford ever taught him.

Once that was settled, Chen Yilun finally had a chance to check his system. A transparent screen appeared before him:

Host is now the Sacramento Kings GM. Assigning tasks—
Complete a trade to strengthen the Kings and start the season with five straight wins. Reward: Beginner’s Boost Pack
Achieve an A+ offseason trade rating. Reward: Intermediate Boost Pack
Challenge: Win 2014–15 GM of the Year. Reward: Ace Manager Badge
Challenge: Lead the Kings to the playoffs. Reward: Top Boost Pack + Random Badge

Gift packs? Badges? Were they going to send him a medal or something?

As he puzzled over it, the system spoke again: “First-time binding detected. Issuing newbie rewards: 1 Random Boost Pack, 1 Random Badge. Use now?”

“Use!”

Two spinning wheels appeared before his eyes, covered in text. Squinting, he read: Beginner Three-Point Card, Beginner Defense Card, Bronze Rebuker Badge, Silver Heartthrob Badge…

Before he could finish reading, the wheels spun on their own. “Huh? Already? Don’t I get to say ‘Go’ first?”

They stopped quickly. A flash of white light, and two cards floated before him. “Congratulations, host—Beginner All-Around Attribute Card. Negotiation Expert Bronze Badge.”

He inspected them—Beginner All-Around Attribute Card: Select a player to increase all attributes by 2 points. Binding is permanent. Negotiation Expert Bronze Badge: Slightly increases negotiation success rate, making it easier to secure favorable deals.

Perfect. The attribute card could boost one of his players, while the badge compensated for his lack of negotiation experience.

Chen Yilun bound the badge to himself at once. A sly smile crept across his face. Time to go rob some teams.

Chapter Text

Nuggets General Manager Connelly was in his office reviewing the rookie list when the phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the caller ID—an unfamiliar number.

“Hello, this is Chen Yilun, General Manager of the Kings.”

That simple sentence made Connelly straighten in his seat. Of course, he knew the name of the Kings’ new GM, and he wasn’t naive enough to believe the rumors that this unknown figure was as incompetent as outsiders claimed. In this league, no one is a fool.

If the GM was young, that only made him more dangerous—very likely a sly fox. And to top it off, he came from the Spurs organization!

Generally, when one GM calls another, it’s for one of two reasons: either to fish for information about your team’s plans, or because he thinks he can get something out of you.

“Hello, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a trade proposal and wanted to know if you’d be interested.” Chen Yilun’s voice came through clearly.

In an instant, Connelly mentally ran through the Kings’ roster.

“I’m sorry, Manager Chen, but the Kings don’t have any players we’re looking for right now. Still, thank you for calling.”

“No, no, I think you’ve misunderstood. I believe you’ll definitely be interested in this year’s eighth pick,” Chen Yilun replied with a smile.

The eighth pick! Now you’re talking.

Connelly’s tone shifted immediately. “Hahaha, of course, of course. If you’re looking to trade the eighth pick, we’re very interested.”

This year, the Nuggets had the 11th pick. Moving up to No. 8 would be a jump of three spots—significant in a deep draft like this. It could greatly improve their chances of landing a quality player.

The Kings really were the Kings—willing to sell their own assets without hesitation. Connelly mentally dropped Chen Yilun into the “third-rate GM” category without even realizing it, and his guard lowered.

The Negotiation Expert’s bronze badge was already at work. “Of course, if you’re trading the eighth pick, what do you want from us in return?”

“The eleventh pick you hold,” Chen Yilun replied. A standard move—trade down for a slightly lower pick and ask for a little extra. “And Wilson Chandler.”

“That’s impossible!” Connelly shot up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Chandler was the team’s third-leading scorer—his ceiling might be limited, but he still averaged 13.6 points last season.

You want a throw-in, and you’re aiming for one of our core pieces? Do you think I’m an idiot? “That’s off the table. At most, I’ll give you a 2016 first-round pick with lottery protection.”

It was a fair offer. By 2016, the Nuggets’ rebuild would likely be done, and that pick would probably fall in the 16–20 range. Trading a future late first plus No. 11 for this year’s No. 8 wouldn’t be a bad deal for Chen Yilun.

“No, no,” Chen Yilun shook his head like a rattle. “We want players who can contribute now. 2016 is too far away.”

“In that case… What about Andre Miller?” Connelly offered after a brief pause.

“Miller? He hasn’t retired yet?” Chen Yilun’s voice carried a touch of mockery. Miller had entered the league in 1999. Forget whether the engine still had oil—he was an old car. Even if it did, how fast could it still run?

“Then what do you want?” Rejected twice in a row, Connelly was getting irritated. He threw the question back.

“At least give us Hickson. That’s my bottom line.”

No chance. Hickson was a key rotation player, averaging 11.8 points last season. “Starting players are off-limits. That’s my bottom line.”

In truth, Chen Yilun would’ve been nervous if Connelly had agreed—he’d be shooting himself in the foot. 2013 was Hickson’s last season averaging double digits, and he’d soon fade from the league entirely.

“Then… Mozgov. And you need to include your 41st pick this year. Otherwise, it’s not worth it for me.”

Now his true intentions were out. Mozgov might be a raw, lumbering big man now, but in the future he’d be part of what Chinese fans called Cleveland’s “Seven Samurai,” even if only for a short two-season run. With proper development, he could become the Kings’ defensive anchor inside, covering for Cousins’ massive defensive holes.

Mozgov, huh? Connelly didn’t reject the idea outright. Trading him would weaken their interior defense, but they could always pick up another big in the market. As for the 41st pick, Connelly chose to ignore it, seeing it as Chen Yilun squeezing for a little extra.

“If that’s the case, we can discuss it further. But I’ll need to review the details with management.”

Connelly played the “management” card.

“Of course,” Chen Yilun said. “Personally, I’m fine with the deal, but if you swapped Mozgov for Fournier, I think it’d be even better.”

Still trying to bargain, this old fox. Chen Yilun snorted. “Do you really think the Kings need another shooter like Fournier? We’re already stacked with Ben McLemore, Ray McCallum, and the ‘Lonely God’ Fredette. Adding Fournier would be pointless.”

Realizing his suggestion didn’t make much sense, Connelly chuckled awkwardly. “I’ll get in touch with management right now and give you an answer tonight.” Then he hung up quickly.

Hearing the busy tone, Chen Yilun’s lips curled into a small smile. Barring surprises, his first trade was in the bag.

In the end, the 2014 draft class proved to be more media hype than real talent—few true stars emerged, and everyone around the eighth pick turned out to be a bust. But there were some gems in the late lottery and second round. None of that mattered, though—he had nabbed the Nuggets’ 41st pick.

The same pick they once used to draft future MVP Nikola Jokić.

Sure, Chen Yilun could have gone all-in for more picks and stockpiled potential stars, but he knew you can’t build a contender overnight. These prospects were still raw, and the Kings didn’t have the infrastructure to develop them all.

This wasn’t just a matter of “trade for a future star and he’ll be just as good.” The training system, coaching support, the player’s own effort, and opportunity—all of these were essential. After careful thought, Chen Yilun decided that, given the Kings’ current situation, two promising players were the limit.

The next day, the trade between the Kings and Nuggets was announced. After a night of haggling, Chen Yilun ended up including veteran Reggie Evans in the deal.

The market buzzed with debate.

In TNT’s live studio, Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith discussed the trade.

“As expected, I think this is a reasonable move for the Kings,” Kenny began.

“By trading down, they added Mozgov, boosting their rim protection and interior presence. Mozgov showed great defensive instincts last season, and replacing Evans with him should shore up their weak-side defense.”

“No, no,” Barkley shook his head like a rattle. “Mozgov’s a good defender, sure, but his offense—especially creating his own shot—is terrible. And with such a lumbering frame next to Cousins, I’d bet their transition defense takes a big hit. Plus, they gave up that valuable No. 8 pick.”

“They didn’t completely give it up,” Kenny countered, wagging a finger. “They still have the No. 11 pick. It’s two spots down, but still in the lottery.”

Then he grinned. “Besides, their GM is Chen Yilun. Back with the Spurs, he had a knack for finding talent late in the draft—and a pretty good success rate.”

“That’s only because he had no choice. When have the Spurs had a high pick in recent years?” Barkley shot back, drawing laughter in the studio.

No one could yet say who truly won the trade—it was too early to tell. Especially with dark clouds already gathering over Miami…

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Taking Advantage of the Chaos

A thunderclap rocked the NBA when LeBron James opted out of his contract and returned to Cleveland. Not long after, the Cavaliers traded the No. 1 overall pick to the Timberwolves for Kevin Love, one of the league’s premier power forwards.

The news sent shockwaves through the entire league.

No one had predicted that the once-dominant Miami Heat would fall from the throne so suddenly. Just last season they were chasing a historic three-peat—now they had collapsed overnight.

In his office, Chen Yilun jumped to his feet as he read the headlines. As expected, history’s pull was too strong—James had returned to the Cavaliers after all.

It was time to capitalize on the chaos. James’ return had thrown many general managers’ plans into disarray, and this was the perfect moment for him to make his move.

Soon, another breaking headline appeared: the Kings had traded Jimmer Fredette and a 2017 first-round pick protected through the top five to the Trail Blazers in exchange for second-year guard CJ McCollum.

The deal had fans and analysts laughing. The Kings had finally cut ties with Fredette, the poster child for their failed draft picks. He could shoot, sure, but was a defensive liability and physically below NBA standards. To move him, they’d even had to attach a first-rounder.

When CJ—still asleep at home—was woken by his agent and told he was heading to Sacramento, his mood soured instantly, like he’d just swallowed something rotten.

After all, when it came to wrecking rookie careers, the Blazers and Kings were like big brother and little brother. But the Blazers were still a powerhouse in the West. With Damian Lillard and LaMarcus Aldridge, they had knocked the Rockets out at the buzzer last season—though they were dismantled by the Spurs in the second round.

However you looked at it, Portland’s future was brighter than Sacramento’s. And with Cousins running the Kings without much discipline—how could he even compare to Aldridge?

Watching the Kings work out on the practice court, Chen Yilun began to feel more at ease. CJ McCollum was destined to become one half of the “Trail Blazers’ twin guns” alongside Lillard. Later, after being traded to the Pelicans, he would become their offensive centerpiece when Zion was injured, leading them back into the playoffs.

As long as the head coach didn’t drop the ball, CJ would thrive this year if given enough touches.

“Coach, I’ve got some ideas for next season’s offense. Of course, the final call is yours—I’m just putting my thoughts out there.”

Mike Malone, standing nearby, stared at him. No need for such politeness—after all, Yilun outranked him.

Truth be told, Malone was pleased with Yilun’s recent moves. Timofey Mozgov had already shown, in a single scrimmage, his excellent rim protection and help defense. And CJ… Malone still couldn’t believe Portland had let him go for Fredette and a pick.

One practice was enough for CJ to win him over—smooth shooting stroke, sharp ball-handling, and clear on-court leadership. Most importantly, CJ’s perimeter threat created constant space for teammates.

That was great news for Ben McLemore, who had been miserable in Sacramento. Drafted the same year as CJ and picked higher, Ben had been wasted in the Kings’ chaotic perimeter system. Last season had been a lost year for him, and without Yilun’s arrival, he might have kept sinking until the team cut him.

Now, with CJ’s arrival opening up the floor, Ben could finally let his shot fly.

It wasn’t that Portland lacked vision—they were a playoff lock. Lillard and Aldridge dominated the offense, with key contributors like Nicolas Batum and Brook Lopez. In that setup, CJ had no offensive role. His breakout only came after Aldridge left, freeing up touches.

“This year’s trade market is a mess. I’ve done what I can to add strength on paper, but how these guys perform is on you,” Yilun said, instinctively reaching into his suit pocket for a cigarette—then remembering the no-smoking policy in the arena and pulling his hand back.

Malone noticed the small gesture. “Let’s go talk in my office.”

Yilun shot him a knowing look, patted his shoulder, and they walked off together.

On the court, Rudy Gay called out, “Hey! McLemore!”

Three heads turned. “You talking to me, bro?”

Gay blinked, confused. Next to him, Mozgov burst out laughing—there wasn’t just one McLemore on the roster. They had Ben McLemore, Ray McCallum, and the newcomer CJ McCollum. Gay’s shout had summoned all three.

With the trio staring at each other, Gay scratched his head. “Man, your names are too damn similar. We’ve gotta figure out a way to tell you apart—or we’ll be calling out the wrong guy in a game.”

That sparked the interest of the rest of the team. In basketball, nicknames matter—every player wants a cool one. Just ask Cousins: when he learned during a trip to China that fans there called him a nickname that translates to “Big Cousin,” he stayed salty for days.

Meanwhile, unaware of the locker-room banter, Yilun followed Malone into his office, dragged the ashtray closer, and lit up.

He hadn’t always smoked much, but the GM job brought enough stress to make cigarettes a habit.

“Mike, I want to talk about the upcoming draft.”

That got Malone’s attention. At first, he’d just been curious about Yilun—but now he saw him as a vital part of the front office.

Yilun’s recent trades might have looked minor, without sweeping roster changes, but as head coach, Malone knew they had already made the team much stronger.

“With the 11th pick, I’m taking Zach LaVine.”

Malone pictured him instantly—a lean, fresh-faced guard who didn’t draw much contact, but who, during his workout, had thrown down a 360-degree dunk that stunned everyone.

“LaVine?” Malone considered. “Flashy game, but his jumper isn’t consistent enough to be a steady perimeter weapon. Athleticism’s his big strength. I think 11’s a little early—he’s more of a mid-to-late first-rounder.”

Yilun gave him an invisible thumbs-up. Spot on. In his own timeline, LaVine had gone 13th to the Timberwolves, starting the post-Kobe trend of taking guards at that slot.

“You’re right,” Yilun nodded. “But I still want him. I trust my judgment. Ben and Ray are solid shooters, but that’s all. Ben’s got the tools to be a solid 3-and-D, but we need a second ball handler. I don’t want Thornton running the offense when CJ’s on the bench.”

Malone smiled wryly. Thornton had shown flashes last season, but he wasn’t a natural playmaker. Roster chaos was part of the problem, but he simply couldn’t generate enough offense for the team.

“So next season, I want CJ as the focal point of our perimeter offense,” Yilun continued. Malone nodded—he’d been planning that anyway. CJ was far ahead of Thornton.

“And if we get LaVine, I want you to give him some usage. Maybe draw up a couple of plays for him. We’ve got a bad rep with rookies—I want that to change starting now.”

Malone thought for a moment. “If we do that, won’t our backcourt be too crowded?” With three McLemores, LaVine, and Thornton, they’d have five guards.

“That’s a problem,” Yilun admitted. “I’ll take care of it. Thornton still has some trade value—I’ll see what we can get.”

Just when Malone thought the conversation was over, Yilun added, “One more thing. I’ve got my eye on another rookie. Won’t go high in the draft, but he’s got a lot of upside. If I can, I’ll bring him in for you to see.”

He smirked. “You know—we like finding hidden gems where no one else is looking.”

That made Malone laugh. “We,” of course, meant the Spurs—famous for turning overlooked players into stars. Years of low draft positions and tight budgets had made it a habit, backed by one of the best development systems in the league.

“Alright, I get it. Happy hunting.”

“I like the sound of that,” Yilun said with a grin, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray. 

Chapter Text

The streetlights outside Madison Square Garden shone brightly, and inside the Green Room it was even more crowded and electric. Team executives and reporters hurried back and forth, while one young basketball prodigy after another—dressed in sharp suits of various colors—sat nervously beside their families.

NBA President Adam Silver, his polished forehead gleaming, stepped up to the podium in a custom-tailored suit, smiling warmly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the 2014 NBA Draft is now underway!”

Chen Yilun sat in the Kings’ private conference room with the rest of the management team, two cameras aimed squarely at him. In his past life, he’d watched plenty of drafts, but this was the first time he’d seen the behind-the-scenes setup—each team had its own private room for strategy discussions.

Coach Michael Malone seemed a bit distracted. In his view, even without those two rookies, the Kings already had a decent level of competitiveness. At least this year he wouldn’t be completely in the dark like last season.
Be content with what you have—what more could you ask for?

Chen Yilun, however, was so tense that sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt. This was his first draft—he couldn’t afford to embarrass himself in front of the team’s top brass.

Before the draft started, he slipped out to the restroom to catch his breath. With his mind racing, he walked almost on autopilot. He’d run this moment a thousand times in his head, but now, standing here for real, all those rehearsals were gone.

As he reached the restroom door, he ran into Buford. It had been two months since they last met. Buford smiled in greeting, and without a word, they walked inside together.

“Yilun, the draft atmosphere get to you?” Buford teased.
“Old fox, cut it out. My head’s about to explode,” Chen Yilun replied, forcing a smile worse than a grimace.

“Relax,” Buford chuckled. “You’ve got it easy. At my first draft, I was such a wreck I hit the bathroom three times in ten minutes. Pop was so annoyed he called me and asked if I was planning to draft a toilet to take home.”

Hearing Buford share his own embarrassing story eased some of Chen Yilun’s tension.

“Don’t worry—you’re only 27. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, and there’s a draft every year. Remember, kid—nobody gets it right every time, and nobody stays unlucky forever. Just stick to your plan.”

Buford gave his shoulder a pat, then walked out humming a tune.

Those words snapped Chen Yilun out of it. He’d prepared as much as humanly possible; with his future knowledge, what was there to fear?

Back in the Kings’ conference room, he rejoined the discussion with renewed confidence. After a short meeting with management, he made a call.

...

On stage, Adam Silver’s assistant handed him a slip of paper. Silver read it carefully, took a deep breath, and stepped to the microphone.

“With the first pick in the 2014 NBA Draft, the Cleveland Cavaliers select Andrew Wiggins from the University of Kansas!”

The Green Room erupted in applause. Wiggins, the undisputed top pick, flashed a charming smile as he accepted the Cleveland cap from staff and shook Silver’s hand.

“With the second pick, the Milwaukee Bucks select Jabari Parker from Duke University!”
“With the third pick, the Philadelphia 76ers select Joel Embiid from the University of Kansas!”

Familiar NCAA names rolled off Silver’s tongue, and each time, a player would rise to greet the cheering crowd.

That’s the magic of the draft—overnight, a college kid becomes the center of the basketball world.

Until the seventh pick, every selection went exactly as Chen Yilun had predicted. Malone glanced at him in surprise. They had gone over the draft order together earlier, and so far, Chen hadn’t missed once. This kid really knew his stuff.

Malone’s opinion of him rose even higher. Then came the eighth pick. Silver read from the Nuggets’ card:
“With the eighth pick in the 2014 NBA Draft, the Denver Nuggets select Noah Vonleh from Indiana University!”

As expected—different!

Chen Yilun’s fist tightened. The butterfly effect of his earlier trade had appeared. The original eighth pick, Stauskas, had now become Vonleh.

If LaVine went before the Kings’ turn, his whole plan would be thrown off. He’d have to settle for TJ Warren—14th in the original timeline—or work another trade to get LaVine back. Either way, it would raise costs.

The Nuggets had also liked Stauskas—after all, he was still the pride of the University of Michigan. Chen’s future knowledge told him otherwise, but that didn’t mean other teams agreed.

However, taking Mozgov in the trade had left the Nuggets thin in the frontcourt. With Randle snatched by the Lakers at No. 7, they had no hesitation in taking Vonleh.

At ninth, the Hornets—missing out on Vonleh—went all-in on Nurkic. Fans slammed the move at first, but a few seasons later, it proved to be a move that aged very well.

At tenth, after some deliberation, the 76ers picked Stauskas to boost their perimeter shooting.

When Silver announced Stauskas’ name, Chen Yilun clenched his fist and pumped it in the air—he’d guessed right. Without hesitation, he locked in LaVine.

“With the 11th pick in the 2014 NBA Draft, the Sacramento Kings select Zach LaVine from UCLA!”

With that announcement, it was done. The Slam Dunk Contest champion was his!

The rest of the first round went smoothly, ending with the Spurs taking Kyle Anderson at No. 30.

Silver wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped down with a smile. The second-round picks would be announced by the NBA’s vice president.

After two picks, the vice president returned to the podium:
“We have a trade to announce. The Sacramento Kings have traded Marcus Thornton and the 41st pick to the Cleveland Cavaliers in exchange for an unprotected 2016 first-round pick and this year’s 33rd pick.”

With the first round over, the Green Room was far less crowded. Scattered murmurs—and curses—broke out.

Most of the anger came from Eastern Conference fans. “The Kings are helping the enemy!” a Knicks fan shouted. The Cavaliers were already elite with the Big Three, and now they’d landed Thornton for almost nothing, further weakening the East’s competitiveness.

Ignoring the protests, the vice president continued:
“With the 33rd pick in the 2014 NBA Draft, the Sacramento Kings select Nikola Jokić, center, from Serbia!”

In the Kings’ conference room, Vlade Divac looked at Chen Yilun in puzzlement. Noticing his gaze, Chen said,
“Vlade, I think Jokić has huge potential. He still needs a lot of development, but if you have time, I hope you can mentor him.”

Jokić and Divac were both Serbian—fellow countrymen. As one of the greatest centers in Yugoslavian basketball history, with a style similar to Jokić’s, Chen had no doubt he could thrive with the Kings.

And the coach who would one day shape Jokić’s rise? None other than Michael Malone—now sitting across from him idly drumming his fingers on the table.

Hearing Chen’s words, Divac’s expression softened. “Of course. Serbian basketball has never been inferior to anyone’s.”

Divac took Jokić’s selection as a friendly gesture—choosing a fellow Serb to ease his regret at not drafting Stauskas. But when he later realized just how wrong he’d been, Jokić was already looking far beyond him.

Chapter Text

Coach Malone stood on the sideline, frowning as he watched the players scrimmaging. Rookie LaVine had been steady but unspectacular—his biggest weakness, the pull-up jumper off the dribble from the perimeter, had improved somewhat over the summer, but still wasn’t reliable enough to be a consistent weapon. For now, his main value was spacing the floor, moving into open spots for threes, and attacking the rim.

“LaVine should start the season on the bench. His ball-handling and perimeter threat can be the spark for our second unit,” said Chen Yilun, appearing at Malone’s side without anyone noticing.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same,” Malone nodded. With CJ now in the lineup, trying to shoehorn LaVine into the starters could be counterproductive. After some testing, the CJ–Ben pairing on the perimeter seemed to work best.

“I’ve got a small idea,” Chen Yilun said again.

“Go ahead.”

“What if Rudy Gay played power forward this season?”

“Power forward?” Malone was surprised. “He’s only 2.03 meters. Can he handle that?” He was about to object when the idea clicked. “Wait—you’re talking about running a run-and-gun offense or a four-out, one-in system?”

The run-and-gun style was introduced by Don Nelson and later evolved into the “7 Seconds or Less” offense—getting a shot up within seven seconds to exploit defensive gaps before the opponent could set. It had its glory days in the NBA, most famously with the electrifying 2007 Phoenix Suns.

The four-out, one-in system was popularized by the Orlando Magic, with prime Dwight Howard anchoring the paint and four shooters spread out to create space. Opponents either got dominated inside by Howard or buried by their perimeter shooting—pick your poison.

But for the current Kings, neither approach was ideal. Run-and-gun demanded elite conditioning, and their franchise cornerstone, Cousins, had size and skill but not quick lateral movement—he’d be gassed by halftime.

And four-out, one-in? That was giving Cousins too much credit. He didn’t have Howard’s dominance under the rim.

“No, no, that’s not it.” Seeing Malone’s misunderstanding, Chen Yilun explained, “Gay’s athleticism makes him perfectly capable of playing the four. He even spent a lot of time there last season.”

“If he plays power forward, he can stretch the floor for Cousins. And against slower, heavier bigs, Gay can put the ball on the floor and attack one-on-one.”

Malone’s eyes lit up. “Right—and he’s actually more dangerous on the perimeter than inside. Keep him outside and he’ll draw extra defenders, opening shots for our perimeter guys!”

A tactical concept began to form in Malone’s mind. “That could work. Then we could put a tall, shooting-oriented small forward at the three—not exactly four-out, one-in. With Gay and CJ both on the perimeter, we’d have enough shot creation out there, and Gay could still drop inside to help Cousins defend. That way we protect the paint, too!”

The more Malone thought about it, the more excited he got. Chen Yilun always seemed to hand him the perfect solution exactly when he needed it. If he didn’t have to keep up his head coach’s composure, Malone might have hugged him right there.

...

The offseason ended, and the Kings adjusted their starting lineup:
Point Guard: CJ McCollum
Shooting Guard: Ben McLemore
Small Forward: Omri Casspi
Power Forward: Rudy Gay
Center: DeMarcus Cousins

Off the bench, Zach LaVine, Nikola Jokić, and Timofey Mozgov led a second unit capable of providing firepower during rotations. Jokić, however, sat with the look of someone who’d lost the will to live—he’d just given up soda when he was confronted by his arch-nemesis: Vlade Divac.

Divac might have butted heads with Chen Yilun in management, but there was no denying he was a great athlete—and deeply patriotic. Whether it was the former Yugoslavia or present-day Serbia, Divac had poured his heart into it. So when he heard another Serbian player was joining the NBA, he ditched the suit without hesitation, pulled on training gear, and spent the entire summer personally putting Jokić through the wringer.

The poor “Professor Jokić” barely had time to adjust from European play before being thrown into Divac’s brutal training regimen. By summer’s end, he was noticeably leaner.

“Do your best and leave the rest to fate,” Chen Yilun sighed, arms crossed as he watched the players. He had followed his rebuild plan to the letter, even exceeding expectations.

Sure, part of him wanted to gamble big—package Cousins and Gay for a superstar—but years of Spurs-style roster patience and his own cautious nature kept him from making such a high-risk move.

“Beep! Host has completed all transactions. Now assessing trade quality!”

The system’s voice returned after months of silence, startling Chen Yilun. When he first got the system, he had studied it, but it seemed indifferent to him. Once the trade market opened, he got so busy he’d nearly forgotten it existed.

After all, even without the system, he believed he could still be a great GM.

“Trade quality calculated: successfully acquired MVP Nikola Jokić, Slam Dunk Champion LaVine, and Most Improved Player McCollum. Trade rating: A+. Task complete. Distributing rewards now!”

An intermediate enhancement pack appeared before him. Without hesitation, Chen Yilun opened it.

“Ding! Congratulations, host—acquired ‘Dual-Threat Guard 101’ badge. Acquired ‘Team Three-Point Boost’ card.”

The badge could be permanently bound to one player, granting: +5 dribbling, +5 passing, +10 three-point rating. If applied to an interior player, the boost would be halved.

The boost card temporarily increased the entire team’s three-point rating by 10 points for 20 minutes—usable once per game.

Chen Yilun let out a sharp breath. This was a serious mid-tier reward. Used together, he could raise a player’s three-point rating by 20 points for a game—enough to make a decent shooter rival Ray Allen or Peja in their prime for a brief stretch.

“Now that’s good stuff.” He quickly stored both items in the system. Along with the beginner pack’s all-around attribute badge, he now had two badges and one boost card unused.

The boost card was easy—use it in-game, get it back. But the badge? That was a permanent bind. If he gave it to someone who later left, it’d be a huge loss.

He’d have to choose wisely. Looking out at the players, he thought, The opportunity’s here. Let’s see who can seize it.

“Coach Malone, with our current roster, do you think we can take another step forward this year?” Chen Yilun asked casually.

He meant it offhand, but Malone took it as a challenge. Thumping his chest, he vowed, “Yilun, with a squad like this, if I can’t deliver, I’ll step aside and let someone else take over.”

“Good, good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Since recognizing Malone as one of his own, Chen Yilun had warmed to him considerably. “But I still need results for the boss. Let’s push hard at the start of the season, get a winning streak going, and I’ll have something solid to report.”

What Chen Yilun really wanted was to hit the system’s target of five straight wins to start the season. But as GM, he couldn’t directly control the games, so he was subtly nudging Malone.

“No problem!” Malone nodded firmly. It wasn’t just Chen Yilun’s wish—last season’s rookie year as head coach had been a disaster, sparking claims that he “wasn’t head coach material.” He badly needed a signature run to prove otherwise.

“Alright, guys, gather up!” Malone walked to the sideline and stopped practice. “You all know who this is—our GM, Mr. Chen Yilun. Many of you are here because of him.

Zach, you’re the rookie he fought hard to draft, and he asked me to design plays to help you grow quickly.”

Hearing that, LaVine glanced at Chen Yilun with gratitude. Most predictions had him going after the 13th pick, but the Kings took him at 11—a big boost to his confidence.

“Nikola, you’re in the NBA thanks to him—and he’s the one who brought in Divac to train you.” Jokić had been touched—until he realized the man responsible for bringing in the coach who’d made him vomit during workouts was standing right there. Divac was a great mentor… just punishing on his students.

“And CJ—Chen traded away Thornton just to make sure you had the ball in your hands. Ben, Ray, and many others here were on the trade block, but he kept you. So let’s stick together like a family, play for each other, and prove we’re the best!”

Malone knew how to rally his team. Many players had tears in their eyes as they nodded with determination.

Standing off to the side, Rudy Gay, now the team’s co-star, cradled a basketball, his face calm. He was a consummate professional—basketball was his job, a way to provide for his family. Glory had never been his main drive. Life was bigger than the game.

“DeMarcus, you used to complain you had no help. How’s the roster look now?” Malone asked with a grin.

“I’m happy. Really happy. I can’t wait for the season to start so I can smash all those clowns!” Cousins said, swinging his fist with boyish enthusiasm.

“Hahahaha!” Laughter filled the gym.

Chapter Text

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Arco Arena! We are thrilled to bring you the Sacramento Kings’ first game of the 2014–15 season! Tonight, the Kings take on the Golden State Warriors in their home opener!” The arena DJ’s booming voice whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

After the successful “Save Our Kings” campaign, Sacramento’s unity was at an all-time high. The 20,000-seat arena was sold out, and the roar of the fans felt powerful enough to blow the roof off.

“Alright, guys, it’s time to show what we worked for all summer,” Coach Malone said, standing in the middle of the locker room with his hands on his hips. “The Warriors are tough, no question. But we’re no pushovers. At the level we’re playing now, there’s no reason to fear anyone. Our goal this year is the playoffs — and when you face a strong opponent, you meet them head-on!”

“Yeah!” the Kings roared back, slamming their fists together in a tight circle. “Victory!”

So this is the Warriors?

Sitting courtside in a prime spot, Chen Yilun wore a floral shirt under a casual suit jacket, looking more like a wealthy vacationer than a general manager.

From this season on, the Warriors were expected to rule the West, and the Cavs–Warriors rivalry would dominate the Finals for years — unless he had something to say about it.

Yilun wasn’t the type to sit back. His eyes swept across each Warriors player in turn, sizing them up like prey.

On the Warriors bench, head coach Steve Kerr, dressed in a gray suit, caught the look. “That the Kings’ new GM?” he asked his assistant.

“Yeah. He’s been busy all offseason. No clue what his endgame is.”

“Then find out. You never know when a guy like that will start making moves on us.” Kerr’s brow furrowed. “I’ve got a feeling he’s going to be trouble.”

Technically, Kerr and Yilun came from the same coaching tree — Kerr had played for the Spurs, won the 2003 title, and spent time under Gregg Popovich. By Eastern custom, that would make Kerr the “senior” in their shared lineage.

...

In the broadcast booth, O’Neal and Kenny were breaking down the matchup.

“No doubt the Warriors have the upper hand,” Kenny began. “Curry and Klay have become the league’s most dangerous backcourt. Meanwhile, the Kings are starting two second-year guards — CJ and Ben.”

“I agree,” O’Neal nodded. “But I’m curious why the Kings moved Rudy Gay to the four. That’s a big change from the Cousins–Mozgov twin-tower setup everyone expected.”

“I saw that too. Maybe it’s a new wrinkle from Coach Malone. Oh! Here we go!”

The tip went up, and Cousins easily beat David Lee, tapping the ball to CJ McCollum. CJ took a deep breath and dribbled across half court.

Stephen Curry crouched low in front of him, eyes locked.

Stick to the play, CJ. You’ve got this. This is a golden opportunity — don’t blow it.

CJ called for the set, and Rudy Gay stepped up to set the screen. Barnes, guarding Rudy, reacted quickly, ready to switch. CJ crossed over, shaking Curry, who got hung up on Rudy’s pick just long enough to lose position.

CJ drove toward the lane, but Barnes slid over to cut him off. The play looked broken — until CJ smirked. A pump fake froze the defense, and he whipped the ball to Ben McLemore in the corner.

From the moment Rudy set that pick, Ben and Casspi had been running a crisscross cut. Klay Thompson sprinted to contest but slammed into a wall of muscle — Cousins setting a hard screen. With no one in front of him, Ben squared up and fired.

Swish!

“Beautiful!” Kenny pumped a fist. “Perfect execution — the threat at the top pulled the defense away, leaving the weak-side corner shooter wide open.”

“Exactly,” O’Neal added. “And it was all run by two second-year players, while Cousins and Rudy just turned into relentless pick-and-roll machines.”

Last season’s Kings were all isolation and chaos. Now? They looked like a well-drilled war machine.

...

On the other end, Curry called for a screen from Draymond Green, stepped right, and buried the three.

Swish.

A textbook response. Malone frowned — as long as Curry was on the floor, perimeter defense would always be under maximum stress.

“Run play two!” CJ signaled, and Rudy took the ball at the top. Three shooters spaced the arc, with Cousins battling for position inside.

Rudy spotted him and fed the pass. Cousins backed Lee down like a charging bull, then faked, spun, and hammered it home with both hands.

“Yeah!” The arena exploded.

“Great footwork inside,” O’Neal said. “That’s how you maximize Cousins in the paint.”

Kerr folded his arms. First game of the season, and the Kings were already making a statement. The West was going to be interesting.

...

Midway through the quarter, the Kings led 14–9. Sensing Lee as the weak spot, they kept feeding Cousins, who poured in six quick points.

“Trap him!” Kerr barked. Draymond left Rudy to double. Cousins calmly lobbed it to Rudy, wide open at the top.

Swish.

Kerr’s expression darkened. This felt like a stripped-down four-out, one-in — and he hadn’t seen it coming. “Timeout!”

The whistle blew. The Kings had forced the Warriors to regroup early.

“David, take a breather. Bogut, you’re in. Forget scoring — just shut down Cousins.”

Bogut nodded firmly. After the break, Curry curled around a screen and knocked down a mid-range jumper, cutting it to 17–11.

CJ found Cousins inside again, but Bogut held his ground, forcing an awkward hook that clanged off. Bogut grabbed the rebound, and moments later, Barnes was slamming it home on the other end.

“Sorry, I rushed that. Give me another shot,” Cousins muttered sheepishly.

“Nope,” CJ said flatly. “Coach says we’re running play one.”

“Pfft, stingy,” Cousins joked, sticking out his tongue before jogging back.

“Is he actually an adult?” CJ asked, still baffled.

Rudy sighed. “You’ll get used to it. That’s just him — hopeless.”

...

With Bogut in, the Warriors’ pace slowed. Rudy ran a pick-and-roll with Cousins, pulled up over Draymond, and drilled the jumper.

At the end of the first quarter, the Kings led 28–21.

Chapter Text

“The Splash Brothers just don’t have their touch today,” O’Neal said from the broadcast booth. “Maybe it’s the Kings’ defensive strategy. Right now, the Warriors’ biggest offensive threat is the Curry–Klay combo, but today the Kings’ defense is putting a lot of trust in their perimeter guys.”

“As soon as the Warriors run a pick-and-roll, the Kings switch everything—no hesitation. They’re not even asking for much, just enough to contest the shot. And it’s making the Splash Brothers really uncomfortable.”

Courtside, beer in hand, Chen Yilun glanced at Mike Malone, who was busy drawing up plays, and had to admit—Malone knew what he was doing.

The “switch-everything” scheme, which D’Antoni was supposed to unveil two years later to counter the Warriors, had somehow been stumbled upon by Malone ahead of schedule.

Halfway through the second quarter, both teams sent in their bench units.

“Mike!” Chen Yilun strolled over, beer sloshing slightly. “Let LaVine and Jokić try that tactic.”

Malone’s eyes lit up. He nodded, then sketched a new play on the board.

“Now entering the game—this year’s rookies, Zach LaVine and Nikola Jokić!” The PA announcer’s call drew an immediate roar from the crowd. Fans love rookies—symbols of limitless potential. Every team hopes their rookie is the winning lottery ticket.

LaVine dribbled to the top of the arc, facing Livingston, half a head taller. One quick look, and Jokić stepped up to set the screen.

“This year’s Kings love to start with a high pick at the top, and I’ve got to say—it’s working,” Kenny said, impressed.

LaVine used the screen to drive inside, drawing Bogut from the paint and Iguodala nearby. Seeing the defense collapse, he immediately kicked the ball out.

It landed cleanly in Jokić’s hands beyond the arc. Bogut’s eyes went wide—when had he gotten there? Instead of rolling after the screen, Jokić had popped out to the perimeter.

Jokić adjusted, rose, and buried a three.

That shot wiped the smile off Kerr’s face. The Warriors had hoped to use their bench to chip away at the deficit during rotations, but the Kings had hit them first.

Next possession, the Warriors rushed. Iguodala drove hard but missed under Mozgov’s towering defense.

Mozgov grabbed the rebound and fired ahead. Jokić caught it near midcourt, saw David Lee sprinting back, took a beat, and floated the pass forward.

Lee felt a rush of wind overhead, then a purple blur streaked past. LaVine caught Jokić’s pass, two strides inside the free-throw line, and exploded upward—hammering the ball through the rim.

“Oh my god! That kid is flying!”

O’Neal and Kenny Smith gaped. “That hang time is insane! For a moment, I thought time stopped. The Kings really struck gold this year! Maybe with LaVine, they can finally shed the ‘rookie graveyard’ label.”

The arena erupted. The roar was deafening.

On the court, Iguodala and Livingston exchanged a glance. The two veterans were clearly rattled.

“Slow it down. These kids’ll run us into the ground,” Livingston muttered, shaking his head.

The Warriors’ pace eased. Livingston went at LaVine in isolation, using his size and experience to score repeatedly.

But on the sideline, Malone just smiled. He made no substitutions. The Warriors were playing right into Malone’s trap.

The Kings weren’t idle either. LaVine and Jokić kept running a two-man game on offense—both able to attack the rim and shoot, with high basketball IQ, wearing down the Warriors’ defense. Meanwhile, the other perimeter shooters kept knocking down threes.

By halftime, the Warriors hadn’t closed the gap. In fact, the Kings led 56–42, up by 14.

...

In the locker room, Malone was grinning ear to ear. This was the most comfortable game he’d coached. He glanced at Chen Yilun, quietly scrolling on his phone in the corner, and felt even better.

“In the second half, Rudy Gay goes back in, LaVine and Jokić stay out there. Cousins—this is a tough one. I need you fresh for the closing stretch.”

Cousins was about to protest, but a well-timed compliment from Malone had him sitting back down, smiling.

“CJ, what do you think of the team right now?” Chen Yilun asked quietly, leaning toward the player beside him.

Though still relatively new, CJ had a nice locker spot in the back. Hearing the team manager address him, he immediately grew wary.

Managers didn’t just chat—unless they were about to ship you out. He thought he’d been playing well… was Mr. Chen trying to trade him?

“I mean…” Chen Yilun caught the guarded look and quickly clarified. “Don’t worry, I’m just curious—when your rookie deal’s up the year after next, would you want to stay with the Kings?”

CJ’s expression brightened instantly. The league was a business, and job security mattered most—especially for a second-year rookie who could be cut any time.

“I like the atmosphere here,” CJ said after a moment. “With the Kings, I’ve got a role I never had in Portland. The coach and manager care about me. I’m grateful for that, and I’d like to stay if I can.”

Hooked. Chen Yilun smiled inwardly. “Of course. If you want to stay, you’re always welcome. Honestly, if I had the right to extend you now, I’d lock you in long-term.”

He leaned a bit closer. “The league wouldn’t allow it officially, but I can give you a verbal promise—when your rookie deal ends, I’ll offer at least a three-year contract. As long as you show competitiveness and loyalty.”

Three years—that was serious money. Based on his current play, CJ figured he could easily land a 3-year, $33 million deal next year. With the cap still pre–TV deal, that was a strong offer.

He filed away Chen Yilun’s words and nodded firmly. “I understand, Mr. Chen. I’ll work hard to prove my worth.”

“I’ll have the contract ready when the time comes,” Chen Yilun said, patting his shoulder before heading out. He was building his own allies in the team, laying groundwork for future moves. Those growth badges in his system weren’t going to sit unused forever.

...

After halftime, Kerr noticed LaVine and Jokić were still on the floor and smirked. “Malone’s too cocky—keeping two rookies out there now?”

He turned to his stars. “Stephen, Klay—get out there and close the gap.”

Curry and Thompson sprang up.

“Oh? Curry and Thompson are in. Looks like they’re going for a run,” O’Neal observed. On one side, the Warriors had nearly all their starters; on the other, the Kings still had plenty of bench players.

“What’s Malone thinking, not bringing Cousins back?”

On the sideline, Malone met Chen Yilun’s gaze. They exchanged a look. “Run Play Three!”

LaVine got the message. Crossing half court, he handed the ball to Rudy Gay at the top. Gay sized up Draymond Green, crossed over twice, looking to penetrate—but Green’s defense was airtight. No luck.

With Green glued to him, Gay gave a wry smile and fed Jokić, who had sealed position inside.

Jokić backed Bogut down twice but couldn’t create space. With the clock winding down, he spun into a shot—then sold the pump-fake, flicking a pass past Bogut.

LaVine, having shaken off Curry, cut hard to the rim and rose for the dunk off a standing jump.

Curry, trailing behind, could only watch. For a small guard, his athleticism was solid—but against a freak like LaVine, he was powerless.

Chapter Text

The game swung from defense to offense. Curry brought the ball up, attacking with a series of crossovers that left rookie LaVine completely disoriented. That’s the gap between a veteran and a rookie—LaVine, new to the league, just didn’t have the reaction speed to handle that kind of move. In a heartbeat, Curry blew past him, cutting hard to the right.

Ben rushed in to help, but Curry whipped a no-look pass straight to Thompson on the perimeter. “Swish!” The ball dropped cleanly through the net. Klay, face blank, turned and jogged back on defense.

“Damn it! Don’t fall for his fakes!” Mike Malone shouted from the sideline. LaVine flushed at the rebuke but quickly steadied himself and pushed forward on offense.

One thing was clear—Jokić was proving to be a revelation. Watching him work in the paint, Malone’s satisfaction grew. The stocky big man could do it all: his footwork inside left the rugged Bogut looking lost, and he could even stretch the floor with a three.

Malone glanced over at Cousins, sitting on the bench staring into space, and a thought crossed his mind: Did Chen Yilun bring in Jokić to replace this hot-headed big man?

Maybe all of Popovich’s guys were built like this. From what he’d seen tonight, this second-rounder Jokić was holding his own against lottery picks. So the later the draft pick, the better? Fine by him.

Across the court, Kerr’s face darkened. The goal this season was the championship—so how was the first game against a so-called bottom-feeder turning into such a grind?

He called another timeout. The scoreboard read 88–80, Kings up eight. “We’re here to win it all this season. But right now, the Kings look like they could be a playoff threat. Next possession—run that play.”

Plans had gone out the window. Kerr hadn’t expected the Kings, who rolled over last season, to make this kind of leap in one offseason. Rookie, you’ve got skills. But now it’s time for the vet to show you what a real contender looks like.

Out of the timeout, Curry passed to Thompson and then cut hard. Malone’s instincts fired—something was off. “Why is Curry moving without the ball while Thompson, a spot-up shooter, is handling it?”

Before he could react, Curry darted to the three-point line. Ben McLemore tried to chase, but Livingston and Iguodala slid in from both sides like closing doors.

Ben was trapped in the middle, helpless. Curry took Klay’s pass, saw daylight, and pulled the trigger.

“Swish!” Another perfect shot.

“Hey! That’s a moving screen! That’s a violation!” Malone exploded at the refs.

The crew chief looked to the sideline official, who hesitated. Technically, it could be called a moving screen, but the shift was minimal once the screen was set. If they called that, they’d have to whistle nearly every screen in the game.

That would wreck the flow. Referees weren’t just there to enforce rules—they managed pace and kept the game watchable. Sometimes what looked like a bad call wasn’t corruption at all, but a choice to keep things competitive. The league didn’t mind.

The sideline ref frowned and shook his head. Even as the home official, he wasn’t making that call.

Meanwhile, Chen Yilun—leaning back in his seat, chatting up a stunning fan—saw the play and shot up like he’d been stung, startling her.

“elevator doors?” His eyes widened. That play wasn’t supposed to debut until next year with the Death Lineup. Damn it—Kerr already had it in the bag!

“Timeout! Timeout!”

Malone, visibly rattled, called for one, drawing gasps from the crowd. The Kings had just forced the Warriors to burn a timeout, and now, one possession later, the tables had turned.

In the broadcast booth, the tension was palpable. After a pause, O’Neal said, “That play from the Warriors… scary stuff.”

Kenny Smith shifted in his seat. “Yeah. That play sacrifices everyone else’s offense just to give Curry the perfect look. If he or Thompson stay hot, they can shoot the Kings out of the game from deep.”

Both were thinking the same thing: trouble for the Kings. The score was still 88–83, but Curry was red-hot, hitting six of eight from three. With that set in their arsenal, a lead change felt like only a few possessions away.

“Next play—lock down the perimeter! Cousins, get out there too. If we can’t stop Curry, we’d better be scoring ourselves!”

Coming out of the timeout, Cousins checked in, bringing the crowd to its feet. He delivered immediately, bulldozing Bogut for two. But the Warriors came right back with the elevator doors, and Curry nailed another three. 90–86.

By the end of the third, the Kings’ lead was down to 92–91. The cushion from the first half had evaporated.

“Is there really no way to shut that play down?”

Malone rubbed his forehead, mentally running through every defensive scheme he knew. Nothing worked.

“Mike,” Chen Yilun’s voice cut in. “They’ve got threes, but so do we. And we’ve got the inside edge. Play at our pace. Don’t let them dictate it.”

Malone straightened. “Alright—on offense, run Play One to free our shooters. CJ, Ben—if you see that play coming, collapse on it right away. Casspi, Gay—stick to Curry and Thompson. If they even think about passing, get in their face.”

“Got it!” The players nodded grimly. The coach was going all in.

Chen Yilun watched them head out and sighed. Three-Point Boost Card—activate!

An invisible light shot from him, flowing into the five players. A progress bar appeared: Boost remaining: 19:59 .

You’ve got the elevator doors? I’ve got the boost card. Sorry, Coach Kerr—time to flip on the cheat codes.

CJ brought the ball past half court, saw the setup, and lobbed to Cousins in the paint.

Matched against backup Speights, Cousins’ size and power were overwhelming. He backed him down with ease.

He turned for a hook—but a huge hand flashed into the path. Smack! A clean block sent it out of bounds.

Bogut had rotated over and, catching Cousins off guard, delivered a volleyball-style swat.

“Damn it!” Cousins had waited for his moment, only to be stuffed immediately.

The Kings kept possession, and Cousins called for it again, but Bogut, ready this time, forced a miss. He grabbed the rebound and hurled it downcourt.

Two blue streaks shot toward the Kings’ basket—Curry and Barnes.

Curry caught it and charged. Only Ben was back, planted under the hoop, eyes locked on him. But Curry zipped a bounce pass that grazed Ben’s fingertips and landed in Barnes’ hands.

Barnes went up strong, and Ben couldn’t contest in time. The dunk slammed home.

Groans filled the arena. 92–93—the Kings trailed for the first time all night, and in the fourth quarter no less. Malone clenched his fists. Was all their effort about to slip away?

“No! Run Play One! And Cousins—stay put!” Malone barked.

Embarrassed from the earlier misses, Cousins set a firm screen on the perimeter.

CJ handled up top, noticing the Warriors focused on the cutters, barely watching him. An idea sparked.

Cousins stepped up for the screen, and Bogut didn’t immediately follow—Cousins could shoot threes, but his percentage wasn’t threatening.

CJ seized the moment, crossed over, and Curry, chasing, ran straight into Cousins.

Seeing the opening, CJ rose and fired. “Swish!” The ball dropped clean through the net.

Chapter Text

“What a great answer! No complicated tactics—just a simple pick-and-roll and pull-up jumper. The Warriors paid the price for underestimating their opponent.”
Kenny praised. “Honestly, I thought this was going to be a one-sided game, but it’s been full of twists and turns!”

On the court, CJ McCollum glanced at his shooting hand, a hint of puzzlement in his eyes. When he’d taken that last shot, a familiar but long-lost feeling had returned.
It wasn’t that he’d never felt it before—on the contrary, it was once second nature to him. Back in college, when he dominated the NCAA as the team’s core player, every shot felt like that—smooth, certain, unstoppable.

But after entering the league, facing the game at its highest level and realizing his own limitations, that feeling had vanished… until now.

“CJ McCollum for three! The Kings take the lead again!” The arena DJ jumped on the mic, igniting the home crowd.

Stephen Curry glanced at the scoreboard—CJ’s three had put the Kings up 95–93.

The Warriors ran their elevator doors action again. Curry got the ball and, despite CJ’s desperate closeout, still got the shot off.

Bang! It clanked out. Curry shook his head as the ball veered away. The look was there, but he couldn’t convert. Even for a player who built his career on threes, not every shot will drop.

To be fair, Curry had been on fire all night—seven makes on ten attempts from deep. Without him, the Warriors might’ve been run off the floor by the Kings’ relentless offense.

The Kings struck again, putting on a dazzling display of ball movement that ended in the corner with Ben McLemore. Klay Thompson flew out to contest, but McLemore—a Ray Allen–type—rose straight up and drilled a picture-perfect jumper.

“Nice shot!” Mike Malone pumped his fist on the sideline. Those two threes were a lifesaver, keeping the Kings’ momentum alive and pushing the lead back to five.

Meanwhile, Steve Kerr frowned. By all rights, neither of those two shots should have gone in. CJ’s pull-up after a dribble and McLemore’s contested triple over tight defense? Ridiculous.

Curry answered with a drive, gliding past DeMarcus Cousins for a soft layup. But that was the Warriors’ last gasp. In the fourth quarter, the Kings looked like a different team—pouring on the offense, raining threes from everywhere.

The final blow came when Andrew Bogut ran out of gas. He’d played nearly the whole game with barely a rest, forced to guard Cousins or Nikola Jokić on every possession—two bigs who could punish him inside.
Malone had carefully managed Cousins’ minutes, keeping him fresh. By the late fourth, Cousins was flying around the paint while Bogut could barely keep up, huffing and puffing.

With two minutes left and the Kings up double digits, Kerr waved the white flag, pulling his starters. Malone followed suit, putting in the bench for garbage time.

When the final buzzer sounded, the arena erupted. Fans celebrated like they’d just won the championship.
After years of being a league doormat, Sacramento finally saw the light of revival. How could the city not be fired up?

Final score: 126–118. The Kings secured their first home win by eight points.

CJ McCollum finished with 18 points and 7 assists. Rudy Gay added 15 points, 8 boards, and 6 assists. Cousins powered to a huge double-double—25 points and 17 rebounds—thanks to big bursts in the first and final quarters.

The pleasant surprise? Zach LaVine’s 18 points and Jokić’s near triple-double—13 points, 9 rebounds, and 12 assists—despite playing extended minutes to conserve Cousins’ energy.

After the game, Kerr shook hands with Malone, then spotted Chen Yilun near the stands. Smiling, he walked over.

“Chen!” Kerr gripped his hand firmly and patted his arm. “Pop (Gregg Popovich) told me a while back to look after you if I ever got the chance. Guess tonight you ended up looking after me.”

Chen Yilun chuckled wryly. “Steve, the credit goes to Mike and the players. I can’t take it.”

Kerr laughed, then slung an arm over his shoulder. “Rookie, ever think about joining the Warriors’ front office? After tonight, people are going to know your name. Jerry’s not here today, but I’m sure he’d want you on board too.”

The “Jerry” he meant was none other than Jerry West, the Logo, and the Warriors’ head of basketball operations.

“Thanks, but I just joined the Kings. Not looking to change bosses yet. Besides…” Chen smirked. “You guys are already perfect—no need for me to mess with it.”

“Hahaha!” Kerr found that genuinely amusing. “Alright, let’s have dinner tonight—good to strengthen our coaching-tree ties.”

…

As expected, Chen was swarmed at the post-game press conference. Hard not to be, with five players in double figures—three of them new offseason acquisitions. He was clearly the architect behind it.

Plus, Kerr had just finished showering him with praise at the Warriors’ own presser, making him sound like he could turn anything to gold.

“Chen, as the team’s GM, how do you respond to Coach Kerr calling you the primary force behind the team’s revival?”

Chen took a deep breath. “First, I appreciate Coach Kerr’s recognition of our management team, but I’m definitely not the main contributor. The coaches’ training and the players’ hard work over the summer—that’s what’s driving this revival. And it’s only game one. We still have a long road ahead.”

“Take Jokić for example—when I first met him, he was round as a ball.” The room erupted in laughter, and Jokić ducked his head in embarrassment.

“But after he got to the U.S., our Vladi Divac trained him intensively all summer. That’s why you saw the performance he had today.”

Chen spread his hands. “There’s no single hero here. Everyone’s united, working toward the same goal. That’s the secret to bringing the Kings back to the top. I’m glad we’re on this path, and I believe we’ll meet again soon—with even better results.”

Leaving the arena humming a tune, Chen ran into Divac in the parking lot.

“Chen, I owe you an apology,” Divac admitted, looking awkward. Not only had he watched tonight’s game, but the player he’d once championed—Nik Stauskas—had been destroyed in another matchup earlier.

One win, one disaster—proof his earlier decision was dead wrong.

“Hey, forget it, Vladi.” Chen tilted his head back to meet Divac’s gaze. Talking to him like this regularly might cure his neck pain.

“We’re all working for the team. Sure, we’ll disagree sometimes, but as long as we’re aiming for the same goal, we’ll never be enemies.” He tried to pat Divac’s shoulder, but realizing he couldn’t reach, settled for a pat on the arm.

“Don’t dwell on it. We all make mistakes. We won tonight—let’s enjoy it.”

…

The next day, the Kings’ win over the Warriors was splashed across Sports Illustrated headlines:

Purple Whirlwind Strikes Again? Kings Defeat the Warriors
Kings Complete Rebuild, Princeton System Back in Force
Rookie GM Chen Yilun Powers the Kings’ Revival

The news rippled through the league, but no one felt the sting more than the Trail Blazers’ front office.

“Someone tell me—why did we trade CJ McCollum and only get Fredette and a first-rounder in return?” The Blazers’ owner slammed a newspaper onto the GM’s desk.

The GM could only sigh. He hadn’t seen this coming either. CJ had been merely average last season. Trading him for a first-round pick and Fredette had seemed like a win.

Who could’ve guessed that the joke would be on him? Now, it was a loss for the ages.

Chapter Text

Two days after beating the Warriors, the Kings returned home to face the Portland Trail Blazers. This matchup came with a grudge. After the Blazers had practically given CJ away for next to nothing, their front office became the punchline of countless jokes.

The Blazers’ front office, fuming, dismissed CJ as just a flash in the pan before tip-off, insisting the “real” point guard was still Damian Lillard.

When Chen Yilun heard about those comments, he immediately had the Kings’ official Twitter fire back: “Let’s see who the real point guard is.”

It was exactly what he needed. Chen Yilun had been debating for days whether to go all-in on developing CJ. Now, the Blazers had handed him the perfect rallying point—nothing pulls a team together faster than a shared enemy.

“Guys, I’m sure you’ve all seen the chatter out there,” Mike Malone told the players in the locker room, hands on his hips. “CJ is one of our best players and an irreplaceable part of this family. We need to protect his dignity. Today, I want everyone creating as many opportunities for CJ as possible. Help him prove he’s every bit as good as anyone else out there!”

“Got it!” the players responded in unison.

Locker room culture in the NBA is simple: veterans might mess with rookies, but if someone from outside targets them, the vets have their back. Malone’s words made that loyalty crystal clear. If he was willing to tweak the game plan for a second-year player who’d just joined in the summer, anyone could count on the team when they needed it.

After quickly running through the new tactics, the team began warming up. An ESPN reporter approached CJ as he practiced his shooting.

“Hey CJ, this is your first game against your former team, the Trail Blazers. Any thoughts on the comments going around online?”

CJ paused briefly. “I’m not concerned with what people are saying. All I know is I’m on a great team now, where the players genuinely care for each other. I’m happy to be with the Kings. As for responding—our only goal is to win. Victory is the best answer.”

The reporter pressed. “So, would you say the Kings are the best team you’ve ever played for?”

A loaded question. CJ had only been on two teams—praising the Kings would naturally sound like a jab at the Blazers.

CJ smiled. “Of course. Whether it’s the fans, the coaches, or my teammates, they’ve all given me tremendous trust and support. If the team needs me, I’d be happy to spend my career in Sacramento.”

Nearby, Chen Yilun almost jumped for joy. If he didn’t have to keep up the cool image of a GM, he might have. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Big contract coming your way, public narrative on our side—you’re not leaving.

Satisfied, he stepped in to cut off the interview and quietly opened the system menu.

In the system’s inventory lay two badges and a card. He selected the “Dual-Threat Guard 101” badge and applied it to CJ McCollum.

The cold, mechanical voice rang in his head: “Once selected, this cannot be changed. Confirm?”

Confirm! Without hesitation, Chen Yilun equipped the badge. You’re my first true disciple now. Leaning toward CJ, he whispered, “Don’t worry about a thing today—just light them up.”

CJ nodded firmly, gratitude written all over his face.

From the opening tip, CJ came out attacking. He targeted Lillard from beyond the arc, and even he was surprised—every shot felt like it was going in.

After drilling another three over Lillard, the arena DJ hyped the crowd: “Let’s hear it for Sacramento’s new favorite, CJ… McCollum!”

The place erupted.

“And let’s give a big round of applause to the Trail Blazers for their generosity—thanks to them, we have this outstanding player!”

The crowd roared with laughter, clapping mockingly toward the Blazers’ bench. Lillard’s face flushed red.

Seeing the energy at its peak, Chen Yilun played the “Team Three-Point Boost” card. Combined with the +10 three-point bonus from the 101 badge, CJ’s shooting rating had just jumped by 20 points.

At the top of the arc, Cousins spotted CJ cutting behind him and immediately passed the ball. Using the small window created by Cousins’ massive frame, CJ launched a fading three over Batum’s closeout.

Swish!

CJ spread his arms, flashing a “3” gesture toward the crowd. The Blazers’ coach called timeout immediately, his expression dark. Before CJ could head to the bench, Cousins ran over and lifted him in a bear hug.

At heart, Cousins was still a big kid—stats didn’t matter to him today. All he cared about was seeing the new guy he liked stick it to his old team.

The timeout didn’t slow CJ down. If anything, he got hotter. By the start of the fourth quarter, the Kings were up by nearly 20. Portland tried to rally, but Sacramento shut them down quickly.

Lillard finished with a strong stat line—30 points, 12 assists, and 6 rebounds—superstar numbers on paper. But CJ? A monster triple-double: 42 points, 15 assists, and 10 rebounds.

It wasn’t that CJ had suddenly surpassed Lillard in skill. The Kings, under Chen Yilun and Malone’s orders, spent the game feeding him the ball. Cousins even boxed out under the rim and let the ball bounce past his face so CJ could grab the rebound.

On the Blazers’ side, there wasn’t much ill will toward CJ—only Lillard seemed irritated by the media’s comparisons. The rest of the team lacked the fight to truly challenge the Kings, forcing Lillard to share the ball more than usual.

In a true shootout, Chen Yilun knew that even a buffed-up CJ might not outgun Lillard. But none of that mattered—fans and media only cared about the box score and the win.

The Blazers were humiliated again, and this time, no one tried to defend them. The loss was obvious, and the front office stayed silent.

If CJ had just looked “pretty good” after the Warriors game, this night made him the Kings’ undisputed darling. Sacramento hadn’t celebrated a win this satisfying in years.

Before long, newspapers everywhere were running headlines about the Kings’ new “Big Three” of Cousins, Gay, and CJ.

…

On the streets of San Antonio, Popovich strolled in a floral shirt, reading Sports Illustrated with interest.

“The kid’s been making waves lately,” he remarked.

Across from him, Buford sipped his coffee carefully. “Told you Yilun could handle himself. Looks like he’s developing even faster than we thought.”

Popovich closed the magazine and glared. “And you’ve got the nerve to say that? We agreed to beef up the roster this offseason, and all we got was a rookie.”

Buford shrugged. “I wanted to, but without money, what could I do?”

At the mention of money, Popovich rubbed his temples. Even the best coach can’t beat the salary cap. “The Kings are on the rise, the Warriors are sharper than last year with Curry and Klay Thompson, and the Clippers, Thunder, and Rockets are all in the hunt. The West is a mess—it’s going to be a tough year.”

He counted on his fingers. For all his five championship rings, there was one thing Popovich had never achieved—back-to-back titles. This transitional year for the Spurs might be his last real shot. But looking at the competition, the odds were slim.

Buford read his expression and felt the same weight. Both men had seen enough eras of the league to know: no matter how much you want something, some things are simply out of your hands. Against the march of time, even legends are small.

Chapter Text

“All right, guys—tomorrow we take that damn road game, and we’ll have delivered on the promise we made at the start of the season.”
On the flight to Los Angeles, Mike Malone addressed the team.

At the start of the season, Chen Yilun and Malone had set a goal: win at least five games in a row. At first, Malone thought it was almost impossible—three of the first five games were against last year’s playoff teams, and two were on back-to-back nights.

But after the team defeated the Warriors and the Trail Blazers back-to-back, Malone began to think maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched.

Now, all they needed was a win over the Los Angeles Clippers, followed by two back-to-back games against the Nuggets. Malone still believed they could pull it off.

“We need to watch out for the Clippers. With Griffin and Jordan, our advantage in the paint isn’t as clear anymore,” Malone said, glancing at Cousins, who was sitting to the side, looking distracted.

“And Chris Paul,” Chen Yilun added from his seat. “Paul is one of the most dangerous guards in the league. With him, the Clippers are a level tougher. Facing a veteran like that will be a big learning experience for you young guys.”

Chen spoke with the tone of a seasoned veteran, completely ignoring the fact that most of the players weren’t much younger than him—some were even older.

“I believe this battle in L.A. will be the toughest test on our road to five straight wins.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up. “Coach Malone and I have worked hard to accommodate your practice schedules, rest days, and even your tactical preferences. Now it’s your turn to help us. We’ve made a pledge to the boss—if we lose, we’ll take the heat, and you’ll feel it too!”

It was the first time Chen had spoken so bluntly since taking charge of the team. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely confident. The first two wins had been a bit lucky—the Warriors had taken them lightly in the opener, and the Blazers had been distracted by off-court issues. But the Clippers were different.

Lob City played a style similar to the current Kings, but on paper they were clearly stronger. Griffin and DeAndre Jordan in the paint were already a nightmare duo, and Paul alone was enough to give the Kings’ young backcourt a serious headache.

The players seemed to realize Chen wasn’t joking this time, their expressions turning serious. “Don’t worry, Chen—we’ll bring you back a win,” said Rudy Gay, the team’s veteran leader.

Cousins might have been the Kings’ biggest star, but everyone knew he wasn’t a natural leader. In most situations, Gay was the one the locker room looked to.

The Staples Center in Los Angeles, one of the league’s premier arenas, had seen countless classic games—but most of them belonged to the Lakers, not the Clippers.

It was one of those ironies of reality: the Clippers had easily outperformed the Lakers over the last two seasons, but Los Angeles fans still didn’t care for them. In their hearts, only the purple-and-gold jersey represented the true kings of L.A.

So tonight, the Staples Center wasn’t even full. People’s money doesn’t grow on trees—they’d rather save it for a Lakers game.

At tip-off, DeAndre Jordan won the jump. Paul brought it up slowly. CJ, tasked with guarding him, stared wide-eyed. If he wanted to become a top guard, Paul was a mountain he’d have to climb—and this was a rare chance to learn.

Paul studied the rookie who had been making headlines recently. Without calling for a screen, he simply changed direction, shaking CJ. No flashy moves, no elaborate plays—just a basic fake. But CJ felt his balance shift for a split second.

That was all Paul needed. He slipped past CJ, saw the help defense coming, and floated a lob toward the rim. A blur rose above the basket—DeAndre Jordan caught it midair and slammed it down hard.

“Roar!” Jordan pounded his chest and bellowed.

Malone’s expression soured on the sideline. CJ had the talent, but he was still years behind Paul in game sense.

Next possession, Cousins posted up against Jordan. But the Clippers’ big man stood like an unshakable tower, unfazed by contact, and easily disrupted the shot. The ball clanged off the rim.

Frustrated, Cousins clapped his hands and sprinted back to defense—but Paul suddenly burst forward, catching the Kings off guard. Ben, retreating near the three-point line, barely had time to react before Paul spun past him and scored an easy layup.

In the next few minutes, the Kings were completely outplayed. Midway through the first quarter, they trailed 12–5, forcing Malone to call a timeout.

Meanwhile, online chatter was already doubting them:

“Told you, the Kings are just a flash in the pan. No team improves this much in one season without changing its core.”
“I was high on CJ before, but now? Looks like he’s nothing special. Paul’s making him look lost out there.”

Malone had no time to care about that. The Clippers were scoring from everywhere—if the Kings didn’t adjust fast, they’d be stuck in their rhythm before the first quarter ended, and a comeback would be tough.

“Make a substitution,” Chen suddenly said beside him.

Malone looked at him, then shook his head with a bitter smile. “Who? We don’t have the bench depth to match their offense.”

“The Clippers’ biggest weapon is those two high-flying bigs. We just have to keep them grounded,” Chen said, eyes sharp.

“You mean…” Malone quickly caught on. “Cousins, ease up on offense and focus outside. Casspi, take a seat. Mozgov, you’re in. I want the paint packed so tight that nothing gets through!”

“Got it,” Mozgov replied in his thick Russian accent, pulling off his warm-up shirt.

“Oh? The Kings make the first move,” said Barkley in the TNT studio, joined by O’Neal and Kenny Smith. Watching Mozgov step onto the court, Barkley narrowed his eyes. “Looks like they’re finally going to that twin-towers lineup we predicted before the season.”

Swish!

CJ came off Mozgov’s screen and drilled a three from the top of the arc. Ever since the Blazers game, he’d felt like he had endless energy—and his shooting touch had mysteriously improved.

As he ran back, he glanced at his hands, wondering if he really was the so-called chosen one.

Paul crossed half court, ready to feed Griffin or Jordan for an alley-oop—but noticed both were standing still outside. He looked toward the paint and froze.

Cousins and Mozgov, both massive bodies, stood like twin gatekeepers under the rim. The once-open lane was now packed tight.

Trying to shut us out inside, huh? Paul’s eyes narrowed. He called for a pick, pulled up from the free-throw line, but missed. Cousins and Mozgov boxed out Griffin and Jordan like two immovable walls.

When the ball bounced off, Mozgov didn’t even jump—he simply reached out, snagged it, and fired it to Gay.

Gay hesitated, then spotted two purple jerseys sprinting ahead—Ben and CJ. “These young guys have some engine,” he thought, before launching the ball forward.

Ben caught it, glanced back at Matt Barnes closing in, then gritted his teeth and went up strong, dunking over him.

“Nice! Ben went right at him!” O’Neal praised from the broadcast.

After landing, Ben exhaled and shot CJ a slightly cocky look. The two had always had a quiet rivalry—they were both second-year players, drafted in the same class, with Ben taken higher. When CJ broke out, Ben was happy for him, but deep down, he couldn’t help feeling a sting.

CJ had made his mark, while he was still a rotation guy. For a young man in his early 20s, that wasn’t easy to swallow.

“Keep it up, man,” CJ said, patting him on the backside as they got back on defense. Since the Blazers game, CJ had fully embraced being a King, and seeing Ben make a big play brought genuine praise from him.

“Don’t worry—this is just the first one.” Ben smirked as the Clippers closed in. “They call this Lob City? We know how to dunk too.”

Realizing his paint game was shut down, Paul switched it up, using screens to free up Barnes and Redick for outside shots. The Kings countered with Gay, who repeatedly went at Barnes on the perimeter, using his size and wingspan to score.

The first quarter ended with the Kings on a mini-run, trailing just two points, 21–23.

Chapter Text

The second quarter began, and with no clear winner in the first, both teams were still holding their breath. The coaches on both sides made the same call—keep the starters on the floor.

Cousins took the pass and immediately backed down Griffin, who clenched his jaw and tried to absorb the contact. But Cousins, one of the league’s top big men with his rock-solid frame, muscled out a sliver of space despite the tight defense. He spun into a hook shot, but DeAndre Jordan rotated over in a flash. The sudden help threw Cousins’ form off just enough.

The ball bounced twice on the rim before rolling away. As the three big men fought for position, a pair of big hands snatched it out of the air. Mozgov, left wide open when Jordan rotated, leapt and hammered it back in.

“Oh my god! That’s a brutal fight in the paint!” Barkley said, staring at the crowded lane. “You don’t see much of this anymore. For a second, I thought I was back in the era of the four great centers.”

With today’s game favoring less physicality and more perimeter shooting, you rarely see so many giants packed inside, banging away at each other.

“I think I see what the Kings’ coach is up to,” Kenny said, rubbing his imaginary beard. “Malone wants to drag this game into a low-post slugfest. That way, Paul’s impact is minimized, and with Cousins as the focal point, the Kings can eat up the Clippers’ interior.”

Right now, Cousins and Mozgov were locked in battle down low, while the guards and forwards stayed parked behind the arc. If a shot didn’t go in, they’d sprint back on defense, giving Paul no chance to run.

In this grind-it-out pace, the Kings quickly erased the deficit and even took a 33–32 lead. Sensing trouble, Clippers coach Rivers called timeout.

“Paul, what’s the move?”

Sitting on the bench sipping water, Paul shot Rivers a glare. Back when Rivers led the Celtics to a championship, his go-to line was supposedly, “Rondo, what should we do now?” Paul had always thought it was just locker room folklore—until Rivers became his coach. Now he wasn’t so sure.

This guy really had no shame in asking. If Paul already knew all the answers, what was the coach for?

“It’s fine. Let them keep going,” Paul said, still annoyed but speaking his mind. “Cousins can’t keep this pace all game. He’ll run out of gas soon. They won’t pull away, and I can rest and save my legs.”

Sure enough, near the end of the half, Cousins was completely spent, gasping for air. The style was thrilling—but exhausting. Seeing him slow to a crawl, Malone subbed out Cousins and Mozgov. The Kings went into halftime up 55–50.

In the locker room, Malone glanced at Cousins, practically collapsed on the floor, and at Mozgov, in slightly better shape but too winded to speak. He shook his head—Rivers must have seen this coming.

Over in the TNT studio, the three analysts debated.

“Cousins has been incredible—carrying the offense almost single-handedly. Eighteen points and twelve boards in just one half. If he keeps this up, the Clippers are in serious trouble,” Kenny said.

“I doubt it,” Barkley replied. “That first half took everything out of him. He won’t have enough left for the second.”

When play resumed, Malone kept Cousins on the bench—ten minutes wasn’t enough to get him back in shape.

The Clippers also split up the Griffin–Jordan pairing, leaving Griffin in while Jordan rested. In basketball, no tactic is perfect—they’d worn down Cousins, but Griffin and Jordan had burned plenty of energy too.

Crawford brought the ball up at an easy pace, skipped the screen, and unleashed a flurry of flashy dribbles that left LaVine reeling.

One of the NBA’s all-time great sixth men, Crawford’s streetball roots made him a top-tier scorer, and his elusive handles struck fear into rookies everywhere.

Before LaVine could react, Crawford spun past him, drove to the free-throw line, and rose for a jumper.

Swish! Nothing but net.

Watching the ball drop, LaVine’s face was pure frustration. Three games into his rookie season, and he’d already been thrown against Curry, Lillard, and Paul—three of the league’s toughest guards.

Still, it was a blessing in disguise. At Chen Yilun’s suggestion, Malone had been deliberately testing LaVine’s perimeter defense. In just three games, he’d already sharpened up noticeably against elite opponents.

The Kings took the ball the other way.

LaVine crossed half court, eyes locked on Crawford. He remembered Malone’s words before the game: “Crawford’s offense is elite, but defense is his weakness. Use your size and go at him.”

Determined, LaVine pounded the ball, lowered his stance, and drove. Crawford read it and closed in, but one collision sent his thin frame sliding out of the way.

With the lane open, LaVine exploded toward the rim. Griffin was two steps away. LaVine gritted his teeth, launched high, and—before Griffin could close—threw it down hard.

Bang!

“Poster! Poster! Zach LaVine just put Griffin on a poster! This kid!” Barkley jumped to his feet. “A gorgeous slam—right on Griffin’s head. That’s a lock for today’s Top 5.”

Griffin, scowling, glanced at Crawford, who was rubbing his chest. They traded wry smiles. This kid had no chill—who comes at you that hard right out of the gate?

In a Sacramento bar, fans crowded around the big screen erupted. Beer splashed everywhere as they raised their glasses.

“Man, it’s been years since I’ve seen the Kings play like this,” said an old man in a baseball cap and gray beard, face flushed.

“Yeah. Ever since the new GM took over, every move’s been a win.”

“That’s right—here’s to our new hero from the East.”

“To our hero from the East!”

Back on the court, Griffin was still fuming. LaVine’s dunk had lit a fire under the Kings. The fatigue Paul had predicted never showed, and Jokić was lurking in the paint, ready for more post-up battles.

When the moment felt right, Chen Yilun activated the Three-Point Boost Card. He nodded at Malone, who instantly called timeout.

“Jokić, keep acting like you’re posting up. Guards, stay ready outside—take the pass when he kicks it out.”

Then he turned to Gay. “If the play breaks down, take your man one-on-one.”

It was Malone’s A/B plan. The Clippers’ forwards weren’t strong enough, giving Gay a good shot at isolation. Gay nodded and stepped onto the court—then scratched his head.

When had he stopped being the team’s offensive focal point? Malone now seemed more focused on CJ’s ball movement and developing the two rookies.

But Gay quickly shrugged it off. He’d never been the “lead guy” type anyway. Besides, he was the highest-paid player on the team—$19.32 million this season, nearly $6 million more than Cousins. Big contract, lighter responsibility—nothing to complain about.

And even with fewer shots, the system had boosted his efficiency, so his numbers hadn’t dipped much.

In good spirits, Gay practically hummed as he took the floor, leaving Barnes, his defender, puzzled.

What’s this guy so happy about? Barnes wondered. Are they setting him up for an isolation?

Competitive fire kicking in, Barnes glued himself to Gay.

Gay was equally baffled. I’m just here to coast—do you really need to guard me this tight?

Chapter Text

Halfway through the third quarter, the score was still tight. The Kings trailed the Clippers 66–69. Crawford’s nearly unstoppable isolation plays had worn LaVine out. Everyone could see the young guard was giving it everything on defense, but the experience gap was simply too big, and the Clippers took advantage to pull ahead.

Facing LaVine’s dribble, Crawford—rarely—locked in on defense. That earlier dunk had bruised the veteran’s pride, and he was determined to get it back on this possession.

But things didn’t go his way. LaVine gave a small fake, saw no opening, and kicked the ball out. To a streetball veteran like Crawford, that was the same as waving a white flag—pointless in his book.

Inside, Jokić caught the ball, shuffled his feet along the edge of the paint, and studied Griffin with a slow shake of the head. Griffin, looking at this oddly built big man, felt a twinge of unease. They were both 6’10”, but his muscular frame somehow looked smaller next to Jokić’s bulky build.

Jokić gave a subtle jab step, acting as if to back down. The moment Griffin leaned in, Jokić spun to face the basket for a shot. Surprised by how quick and fluid the big man was for his size, Griffin jumped to block—but in midair realized the ball wasn’t there.

Jokić had slipped by him, spun again, and with the rim wide open, floated up an easy layup. The ball dropped cleanly through.

Griffin’s face flushed. First LaVine’s dunk over him, now Jokić’s footwork making him look foolish. Normally even-tempered, the slam dunk champ felt his temper boil.

On the next possession, still fired up, Griffin demanded the ball inside. But Jokić, using his size and weight, held his ground and shut down the attempt. When the Kings pushed the ball back up and Jokić posted again, Chris Paul finally couldn’t sit still on the bench.

“Are the Kings crazy? Still pounding it inside? Don’t they want to save anything for the fourth?” Paul muttered. What shocked him more was that this rookie “fat kid” had such soft, precise footwork. With time to develop, he could become a matchup nightmare.

That’s the difference in development paths. In the U.S., big men—blessed with elite athletic tools and shaped by a culture of individual heroism—often hold position, wait for the guards to feed them, then muscle their way to the basket. They’re strong, relentless, but their finesse game isn’t always on display.

In Europe, team basketball runs deep. Bigs are expected to do it all—score, defend, rebound, even run offense from the high post. They develop as all-around players.

So why don’t European bigs dominate? Why is the U.S. still the world’s top basketball power? The answer is straightforward: elite athleticism and depth of talent. Hard work can close some of the gap, but physical advantages—speed, strength, explosiveness—often tip the scales. And while American bigs may seem “less refined,” that’s often because they don’t need to use every skill in their bag—when power alone wins the matchup, why break out the footwork?

That’s where European bigs run into trouble against their American counterparts: the physical demands of the NBA can limit how much of their skill set they can actually show. It’s a challenge faced by many international programs—not from a lack of talent or effort, but because even small natural advantages can separate the very good from the truly elite.

Back to the game… Griffin tried to take Jokić again, but quickly realized this European wasn’t like the others—his physical tools were right there with his own. Griffin swung the ball back to Crawford on the perimeter. Crawford took it, slipped past Casspi with a flashy behind-the-back, and drove into the paint before lobbing it high.

A shadow loomed over Jokić’s head. Griffin came flying in—Bang!—and hammered home the alley-oop, answering the earlier embarrassment.

But before Griffin could enjoy it, Jokić was already posting up again. Again? Griffin’s eyes widened—did he think he was an easy mark? As the Clippers collapsed inside, Jokić flicked his wrist, sending the ball on a looping pass to the perimeter.

Gay caught it, dribbled once, and launched over Barnes’ fingertips. Splash—three points.

That fat guy can pass too? Griffin was steaming. How do you guard someone like that? With Jokić in the paint, the offense kept shifting shapes—you never knew what was coming next.

Gay’s triple tied it at 71–71. Sensing the shift, Rivers called timeout and sent in all his starters.

Malone matched the move, keeping Jokić in alongside Cousins to form a new twin-tower lineup.

“Slow it down! No transition chances! CJ, Ben—whenever we shoot, get back immediately!” Malone barked while sketching on the clipboard.

“Got it, coach. We’ll get you and Chen that win streak so you can go ask the boss for a bonus,” Cousins rumbled.

“You punk,” Malone laughed, giving Cousins a light punch on the arm. “Just don’t cause trouble. Now get out there and close it.”

Back on the floor, the Kings still hadn’t been shooting many threes. Chen Yilun couldn’t exactly run out there and say, “I’ve got a buff—start launching.” He could only sit on the bench, anxious, thinking these kids were wasting a perfect chance.

Then his frown eased. The Kings lined up in an outside set—not the usual one-in, four-out, but something odd. DeAndre Jordan stood near the free-throw line, glancing at Jokić out beyond the arc. What the hell? I’m a center—you want me chasing him out here?

CJ saw the opening and fed Jokić. The big man caught it, stepped back, and fired. Perfect arc—nothing but net.

Paul’s face tightened. He went to Griffin and murmured, “You take Jokić. You’re quicker. Lock him up.”

“Got it,” Griffin replied.

But within minutes, his confidence was gone.

If he pressed up, Jokić would draw the double and dish. If he backed off, Jokić would score himself. Griffin felt something he hadn’t in years—being outsmarted.

The fourth quarter turned into the Jokić Show—drives, jumpers, passes, one after another. Even Paul, with all his experience, was out of answers.

The crowd was wide-eyed, reminded of Dallas’s Nowitzki at his peak—utterly unguardable.

Of course, Jokić still had a long way to go before reaching Nowitzki’s level. Even his prized footwork wasn’t quite there. But this was his rookie season—and only his third NBA game. The potential was obvious.

Far away, someone was grinding his teeth.

Nuggets GM Connelly smacked his forehead watching Jokić tear it up. Both LaVine and Jokić had shown elite talent and instant impact tonight—and both could have been his.

The Kings had acquired the picks for LaVine (11th overall) and Jokić (33rd) from him. Looking back, Chen Yilun had turned a single first-round pick, Soton, and a soon-to-retire Evans into two first-rounders, a second-rounder, and Mozgov.

Highway robbery.

To make it worse, Connelly’s own pick, Vonleh, was underwhelming—worse than Randle, worse than Nurkic. He looked like the biggest sucker in the league.

Back in the arena, the Clippers were breaking under the Kings’ relentless system. Lob City without its rhythm, stuck on defense, was doomed.

With two minutes left, the Kings led 102–91. Statistically the Clippers still had a chance, but the pace was all Sacramento’s. A brief push, then the white flag.

Paul stood with hands on hips, watching the Kings’ energetic young core. A wave of helplessness hit him. Am I really getting old? These kids just keep coming.

The Kings closed it out 113–108. Cousins posted a monster 30-point, 22-rebound double-double, while Jokić came off the bench with 22 points, 9 rebounds, and 13 assists—nearly a triple-double.

The league was stunned. A team that had been lifeless last season had just taken down three playoff teams in a row. And no one had realized they’d already rebuilt. Keeping the Cousins–Gay duo while getting explosive production from three rookies shocked everyone.

Was this still the “rookie graveyard” we thought we knew?

Chapter Text

After taking their first road win, the Kings headed straight to Denver to face their next opponent, the Nuggets.

Compared to their last three matchups, the Nuggets didn’t seem all that threatening. Their biggest name was still Kenneth Faried, the “Manimal,” while their future franchise cornerstone, Nikola Jokić, had already been snatched away by Chen Yilun. Unless something unexpected happened, the Nuggets’ slide was bound to continue.

Coach Malone didn’t take this game too seriously either, treating it more like a scrimmage. Once Cousins and Gay had taken turns pounding the paint to build a comfortable lead, he didn’t hesitate to send in the rookies.

Soon, a lineup of CJ, LaVine, Ben, and Jokić—all first- or second-year players—was on the floor. Seeing the baby-faced Kings squad, the Nuggets were fuming but had nowhere to vent.

Everyone could tell the Kings were looking down on them, but what could they do? They just weren’t that good. Rookie Noah Vonleh tried desperately to prove he was worth his draft slot, but unsurprisingly, Jokić completely dominated him.

Physically, the muscles Vonleh had worked so hard to build were no advantage against Jokić’s bulk, and in every other aspect, the Serbian simply outclassed him. By the end, Vonleh was starting to wonder which of them was really the second-round pick.

This time, Chen Yilun didn’t use his boost card—mainly because he’d been too engrossed in chatting with female fans. By the time he snapped out of it, garbage time was already approaching.

Feeling a little embarrassed, he rubbed his nose and sidled up to Coach Malone.

“Mike, what do you think of our current roster?”

Caught off guard by the question, Malone froze for a moment.
“It’s great. Look—we’re about to win this one. Next game we’re back home against the Nuggets, so a five-game win streak is basically in the bag.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Chen Yilun waved his hand. “It’s a long season. I have to think ahead. Do you think we need to make another trade?”

“Another trade?” Malone’s eyes lit up instantly. “I’m in! Who are we fleecing this time?”

Chen Yilun could only stare at him. Had he really turned Malone into this? How had such a refined coach become so eager to “rob” people?

“No jokes—if we make a move, where should it be?”

Seeing the serious look on Chen Yilun’s face, Malone straightened up as well. “If that’s the case—the forwards. Ideally, we’d move some pieces and improve the overall quality of our wing rotation.”

The Kings’ guards and big men were stacked with talent—they just needed time to develop. But the forward rotation? Not so great.

Ever since moving Gay to power forward, the Kings had been overloaded at the four. Landry, Jason Thompson, and Derrick Williams all played that position. Meanwhile, starting small forward Omri Casspi—honestly, even Kings fans sometimes barely noticed him on the court.

“The forwards, huh?” Chen Yilun rubbed his chin. “Alright, I’ll take a look.” He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling the headache coming on.

Malone had just handed him a tricky problem. Not because there weren’t good forwards—on the contrary, this was the era of elite wings.

LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Paul George, and NBA Finals MVP Kawhi Leonard were all top-tier small forwards. But after racking his brain, Chen Yilun realized there weren’t any obvious bargains to grab. Andrew Wiggins was still the golden boy in Minnesota, and the Celtics’ future star Jayson Tatum was still in high school.

Forcing a trade risked disrupting the team’s chemistry. Adding another player to share the ball might drag the surging Kings back into mediocrity. And a routine, minor swap? Hardly worth the trouble.

With his head starting to ache, Chen Yilun decided to stop thinking about it and just watch the game. The season was young—there was plenty of time to work things out.

On the court, the game was winding down. LaVine caught an alley-oop from Jokić, soared over Faried, and hammered it home.

“Great pass!” LaVine slapped hands with Jokić as they ran back on defense. Playing with a big man like Jokić, who could shoot and pass, was a dream for a guard like him. Jokić’s range pulled opposing bigs out of the paint, leaving the lane wide open for attacks like that.

The Nuggets’ arena was dead silent. Fans sat in disbelief, struggling to process what they were seeing.

Last season, the Kings were bottom-feeders just like them—maybe even worse. How had they suddenly become this good? Since when was rebuilding this easy? Wasn’t the Sixers’ GM still preaching “Trust the Process”?

But disbelief didn’t change the score. The Kings closed it out 108–96, winning by 12. Malone’s decision to hand the game to the rookies had paid off—every young player went off.

Ben McLemore scored 18 points, Jokić had 16 points, 9 rebounds, and 7 assists, CJ had 20 points and 5 assists, and LaVine stole the show with 26 points, 6 assists, and 4 rebounds.

With a 4–0 record, the Kings now sat atop the Western Conference, grabbing the league’s full attention.

“The Kings’ success this season is obvious to anyone,” Reggie Miller said on Barkley’s talk show, openly expressing his admiration.

“They’re like a war machine, constantly bombarding the league. With that kind of execution, every Western Conference coach needs to seriously think about how to handle them.”

Miller’s old Pacers were once the prototype of that kind of relentless unit, even pushing Michael Jordan to a Game 7 during their glory days. Seeing system-based basketball thriving again in the league, he had no hesitation in cheering for the Kings.

“I agree, Reggie,” Barkley said, adjusting his microphone. “Cousins and Gay have made sacrifices, giving up some of their touches. The Kings’ young players have stepped up under the pressure.

“You can’t deny that Zach LaVine and Nikola Jokić have shown incredible competitiveness. If they keep this up, the Kings could land two spots on the All-Rookie First Team this year.

“But—” Barkley leaned forward, changing the tone—“the Kings don’t have a true alpha. Cousins has elite talent, but he hasn’t consistently shown that ‘put-them-on-my-back’ gear. Gay is a perfect number two. And the young guys still need time.

“What I’m saying is—if they run into the league’s best scorers, like LeBron, Durant, or Harden—can they keep this magic going?”

“Who knows?” Miller spread his hands. Team basketball might be the most efficient style, but against top-tier talent, it often falls short. His Pacers once ruled the East, but when they faced Jordan at full throttle, they could only fall and become a stepping stone in his rise.

The Kings, though, weren’t paying attention to that debate. After dismantling the Nuggets, they returned to Sacramento to rest and prepare for the rematch.

CJ spun past Ty Lawson, then double-clutched in midair and flipped it in over Faried’s defense. A glance at the scoreboard and the lopsided score brought a wide grin to his face.

Game 5: Kings vs. Nuggets, this time at home.

Still reeling from the last game, the Nuggets played without much spirit. Malone pounced on the opportunity and went for the kill.

By halftime, the Kings were already up by 20. Cousins feasted on every Nuggets big man one by one, while their shooters kept raining in threes, chipping away at Denver’s confidence.

By the final buzzer, the Kings had cruised to another easy win. The home crowd erupted, roaring with joy.

How long had it been since they’d celebrated like this? Far too long.

With the team’s resurgence, revenue soared. Fans were snapping up season tickets to support the team.

When Chen Yilun brought the fresh financial report to owner Vivek Ranadive, the owner was already beaming.

“I knew I wasn’t wrong about you,” Ranadive said with a smile, pouring him a glass of water and motioning for him to sit.

What owner wouldn’t love an employee who makes money without causing trouble? And with the Kings’ hot start, Ranadive was now being praised as a man with “a keen eye for talent” and “the wisdom to use people well.”

“Just doing my job,” Chen Yilun replied with a faint smile.

“This isn’t just doing your job—it’s a big surprise,” Ranadive said, flipping through the report and lingering on the long number in the net profit column.

Seeing the good mood, Chen Yilun decided to get to the real reason he’d come.

“Vivek, I’m here to ask for something.”

“Oh? What is it?” A flicker of suspicion crossed Ranadive’s eyes, but he quickly hid it. “You’re one of our biggest contributors right now. Say what you need.”

“Here’s the thing.” Chen Yilun had noticed that flicker.

“I’d like you to increase your investment in the team. Our record looks good, but there are still plenty of areas that need work. I want your backing to keep making trades.”

Chapter Text

“You need financial backing? How much?” Ranadive’s smile slowly faded as he lifted his teacup and took a small sip.

“About eight million in cap space,” Chen Yilun said after a brief pause.

Eight million today isn’t what it will be a few years from now, when $20+ million contracts are commonplace. Back in 2015, the league’s luxury tax threshold was only $76.829 million. At the time, the Kings’ biggest salaries belonged to Gay at $19.32 million and Cousins at $13.7 million.

Since this was Gay’s final contract year—and he’d exercised his player option before the season began—the Kings were stuck with nearly $20 million on their books. For comparison, Kevin Love over in Cleveland was making just $15.72 million that season.

“Fallout from the team’s earlier bad decisions?” Ranadive asked, giving him a sharp look.

The Gay trade had gone down before Chen Yilun arrived, so it made sense he was now asking for help with the contract weighing him down.

“Can’t we just trade him?” Ranadive asked.

“I wish,” Chen Yilun said with a wry smile. “The problem is—who’s going to take that deal?”

Twenty million could buy a lot of things—why would another GM spend it on Gay? Nobody in this league is that naïve. And if Chen Yilun tried, those shrewd, cutthroat executives around the league would make sure to bleed the Kings dry.

Ranadive thought for a moment. “Alright, but you have to guarantee we’ll still be making money next season like we are now. If the team keeps this momentum, eight million is worth it.”

“Go ahead. I wouldn’t mind another surprise from you,” Ranadive added with a sly grin.

Seeing that he’d gotten what he wanted, Chen Yilun didn’t waste a second. “Trust me, boss. Follow the plan, and in under two years, I’ll hand you a team that can truly compete for a championship.”

…

Just as he stepped out of Ranadive’s house, the cold, mechanical voice of the system rang in his head:

“Host has completed the task: Opening the season with five straight wins. Issuing reward. Would you like to draw now?”

“Draw.”

A beginner’s boost gift pack appeared in the void before him. Without hesitation, he made his choice.

A flash of white light.

“Ding! Congratulations, host—you have obtained the ‘Restore Health Card.’”

The card read: Restore one player to full health. Once bound, it cannot be changed.

Restore a player’s health? His mind raced. If the card worked the way he hoped, it could be game-breaking. Too many prodigies had seen their careers derailed by injuries—this could give one of them a second chance.

Before he could get carried away, the system spoke again:

Normal Task: Make an in-season trade graded at least A+.
Reward: Random Silver Badge

Challenge Task: Get at least two players into this year’s All-Star Game.
Reward: Intermediate Boost Gift Pack

Challenge Task: Lead the Kings to the playoffs.
Reward: Top Boost Gift Pack + Random Badge

Challenge Task: Win the 2014–2015 NBA Executive of the Year Award.
Reward: Ace Manager Badge

The first two challenge tasks were unchanged, but now there was one extra normal task and another challenge. The normal task fit perfectly into his plans.

Chen Yilun immediately called Raptors GM Masai Ujiri.

The second the call connected, Ujiri’s voice shot through:

“Not for sale! Doesn’t matter the price—nothing’s for sale!”

“Hold on, I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“Doesn’t matter—you’re not getting it!” Ujiri said, idly spinning a ballpoint pen at his desk. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after. You’re trying to get us to buy Gay back, aren’t you? Forget it. He’s not even worth a draft pick right now.”

Busted—damn it.

Chen Yilun cursed inwardly. Ujiri was notorious for being a hard-nosed GM—he was the one who had sent Gay to Sacramento last year for a pile of solid assets. Chen Yilun was just testing the waters, but Ujiri wasn’t biting.

“So… no deal?”

“Unless you’re offering Cousins or CJ, don’t even bother. I’m not interested in anyone else on your roster.”

Right now, Cousins and CJ were the Kings’ top scorers. Gay had dropped to the third option—his midrange isolation game and drives to the rim just weren’t efficient in the Kings’ current system. For the sake of winning, Coach Malone hadn’t hesitated to cut his role.

“What about Mozgov?”

When one plan failed, Chen Yilun immediately tried another.

“Mozgov?” Ujiri’s pen stopped spinning. “Go on.”

It wasn’t surprising that Ujiri was intrigued. Last season, after moving Gay, the Raptors had fully committed to the Lowry–DeRozan core and successfully retooled.

But to get further in the playoffs, they still had a mountain to climb in the East: the Cavaliers.

Against Cleveland’s Big Three, Toronto’s roster still looked thin. Under Malone’s guidance, Mozgov was averaging 8.5 points and 11.5 rebounds as a defensive anchor. Sure, it was early and the numbers might be a bit inflated, but he was showing the potential to become a top-tier blue-collar center.

“What do you want for him?” Ujiri asked cautiously.

“With a big man like that holding down the paint, the Cavs would think twice before attacking inside.”

“Not much—just give me Valanciunas, and throw in a little extra,” Chen Yilun said casually.

“Valanciunas? And extra?” Ujiri’s head practically buzzed.

Valanciunas had seized the starting center spot last season and become a key piece of the Raptors’ core.

“You think I’d give you him for Mozgov? No way!” Ujiri snapped.

“Then at least give me Ben—or at the very least, Ray. Otherwise, no deal.”

“You still want Ben? Absolutely not!” Chen Yilun shot back, heat rising in his face.

The call ended badly—no surprise when both sides were out to take advantage.

Of course, Chen Yilun hadn’t really expected to make a trade. If he could somehow upgrade Mozgov into Valanciunas, he’d take it in a heartbeat, but Ujiri wasn’t stupid—the odds were zero.

His real goal was simple: let the league know the Kings were open for business—and anyone interested should come knocking.

Otherwise, he’d have to make every call himself, and that would be exhausting.

In a league like this, keeping secrets was a luxury. Soon, rumors spread—no names confirmed, but Mozgov, Casspi, and several bench players were all mentioned as possible trade chips.

…

By then, Chen Yilun was already on a flight to New York.

He had two things on his agenda. First, meet with the Nets and Knicks—two struggling franchises stuck in their own mess, perfect for bargain hunting.

Second, and most important—meet someone in person.

It was already winter in New York by November. Wrapped tightly in his coat, Chen Yilun navigated the streets quickly, turning left and right until he reached his destination: a player rehabilitation center.

After explaining his purpose, the front desk clerk looked slightly puzzled. “Yes, Mr. Chen. He’s upstairs doing rehab. You can go right up.”

Thanking her, Chen Yilun headed to the second floor.

The “rehabilitation center” looked more like a fully equipped gym. Near the window, a massive figure was working out on a machine.

“Hello, I’m Chen Yilun, General Manager of the Kings. I believe you know who I am.”

The machine powered down with a beep. Even seated, the tall black man was nearly eye level with Chen Yilun. He gave him a curious look. “Of course I know you. The league’s full of stories about you. What brings you here?”

“I want to give you another chance… Greg Oden.”

And there it was—the spark returning to the eyes of the man once hailed as a prodigy, the 2007 No. 1 overall pick who had been chosen ahead of Durant and Horford.

Chapter Text

“You mean… I can go back to the NBA?!” Oden shot to his feet in excitement. He’d seemed calm sitting down, but when he stood, Chen Yilun had to crane his neck to meet his eyes.

“Uh… let’s sit down and talk.”

The two walked into the lounge of the rehab center and took their seats.

“How did you suddenly find me? I thought no one would come anymore.” Oden gave a self-deprecating smile as he looked at Chen Yilun.

From 2008 to now—seven full seasons—Oden had played only 82 games. His short comeback with the Miami Heat last season was a statistical disaster, convincing almost everyone that he would never appear on an NBA roster again.

If nothing unexpected happened, Oden would soon sign with a CBA team, joining Jiangsu alongside MarShon Brooks, only to end his career in disappointment.

“Of course—if you’re up for it, I’m willing to give you a chance,” Chen Yilun said slowly, pouring himself a glass of water.

“But I have a few questions for you.” He looked Oden straight in the eye.

“I watched your workout for a bit. How’s the recovery going?”

Hearing this, a wave of bitterness welled up in Oden. “The recovery’s been steady… but you know how it is. I’ve got too many injuries. It’s hard to get back to what I was.”

Chen Yilun frowned slightly. With the Restore Health Card, he could heal all of Oden’s injuries—big and small—in an instant. But what worried him most was that years of injuries and ridicule had worn down Oden’s confidence.

“Injuries are serious, but for me, that’s not the most important thing. What I want to know is…” Chen Yilun paused deliberately, then enunciated each word: “Do you still want to return to the NBA? And what are you willing to give to get there?”

The words hit Oden hard. “I’m willing to give everything! I’ll be a practice body, a ball boy, a benchwarmer—whatever it takes. Just give me a shot to come back!”

His fists clenched, his eyes burning as he spoke.

Hearing this, Chen Yilun made up his mind. “Alright. I hope you mean what you say, and I hope my decision today is the right one. I’ll be in New York for another two days. Then you’ll come back with me, and I’ll give you a contract.”

“Thank you! Thank you! I won’t waste this chance.” Oden sprang to his feet in excitement.

“Don’t get too worked up. We’ll see each other plenty. Once we’re back in Sacramento, I’ll set up a rehab program for you. Hopefully, I can see you on the court by December.”

Chen Yilun stood as well, shook Oden’s hand, and they exchanged contact information.

...

Soon after they parted, Chen Yilun’s phone rang.

“Young man, want to grab dinner?” The voice on the other end was older, but strong. “This is Phil.”

Buzz!

Chen Yilun’s mind went blank.

The “Zen Master” Phil Jackson—once the league’s most successful head coach, a godfather of basketball with eleven championship rings, and now president of the New York Knicks!

“Of course! Phil, it’d be an honor to have dinner with you.”

Pleased with the answer, Phil chuckled. “Seven o’clock tonight. Sky Garden, New York.”

After hanging up, Chen Yilun quickly ran through all the Knicks’ information in his mind.

Last season, they finished ninth in the East, missing the playoffs. Their salary cap was locked up by massive contracts for Carmelo Anthony and Amar’e Stoudemire, and to make matters worse, they’d swallowed Andrea Bargnani’s $20 million deal in a trade with the Raptors. The team was a mess.

The only real bright spots were J.R. Smith, fresh off winning Sixth Man of the Year, and Tim Hardaway Jr., drafted two years earlier. But neither was within reach at the moment.

Not knowing exactly why the legendary coach wanted to see him, Chen Yilun waited through the evening with some nervous anticipation.

...

The Sky Garden was one of New York’s most famous restaurants, perched atop a skyscraper with huge floor-to-ceiling windows and lush greenery, making it look like a floating garden in the sky.

At a prime table sat Phil Jackson in a custom tailcoat, his gray beard covering much of his face, giving him the distinguished look of an old gentleman. Across from him, Chen Yilun sat a bit stiffly—he wasn’t used to dining in places like this, in either his past or present life.

“You’ve given us some real surprises this season,” Phil began once the appetizers arrived. “But maybe they’re more shocks than surprises. Your presence has made a lot of GMs more alert.”

Chen Yilun, fork poised over his salad, froze for a second before setting it down awkwardly. “Maybe I’ve just been lucky.”

“Lucky?” Unlike Gregg Popovich, the Zen Master always seemed to wear a smile. Both were legendary coaches, but their styles couldn’t be more different.

“I don’t believe that picking perfectly in the draft and never missing in trades is all luck. So why are you in New York? Is this about Brooklyn?”

“I don’t have a set target,” Chen Yilun replied carefully. “Of course, if Anthony’s available, we’d be happy to talk.”

Phil laughed heartily at the joke. “I always thought Easterners were too serious and lacked a sense of humor. Seems that’s just a myth.”

“But seriously,” Phil said, setting aside his smile and sipping his vegetable soup, “are you interested in making a trade with me?”

Here it comes. Chen Yilun kept a calm face. “Oh? Which of our players are you interested in? Everything’s negotiable.”

“I’ve heard you’re looking to clear out some forwards, and that several rotation players are on the trading block?”

“There’s some truth to that,” Chen Yilun admitted, “but I’m not planning major changes. The team’s in a good place right now—making drastic moves could backfire.”

Phil nodded, then leaned forward. “I’ve got Bargnani. I think he’d be a great fit for your team.”

Yeah, right. You want me to take on Bargnani’s garbage contract? Keep dreaming.

Once the No. 1 pick in 2006 and hailed as the next Dirk Nowitzki, Bargnani was never cut out to be a star. Now, with $20 million left on his contract, taking him would be a huge waste.

Seeing Chen Yilun’s face tighten, Phil quickly added, “Of course, I wouldn’t let you lose out. You’d send Jason Thompson and a first-round pick.”

Thompson was little more than a benchwarmer for the Kings with no real role. This was clearly Phil trying to dump Bargnani’s salary and grab a pick on top.

Chen Yilun smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, Bargnani’s not part of our plans. He’s a talented player, but unfortunately, there’s no place for him in our system.”

“But… I do have a trade idea you might like.”

“Oh?” Phil’s disappointment gave way to curiosity.

“Not a player,” Chen Yilun said, shaking his finger. “A draft pick.”

Phil’s brow furrowed. “This year’s pick isn’t for sale. The most I can offer is a protected first-rounder in 2017.”

“2017?”

Chen Yilun thought for a moment. “If it’s protected, top-three at most. Top-five is my limit.”

If history stayed on course, the Knicks would still be bad in 2017, making it a high pick. “I can offer you Derrick Williams. That’s my show of good faith.”

Williams was an average rotation player, putting up 7.1 points per game in his third year, with room to improve. Trading him for a future first-rounder was reasonable.

“But I’m not that interested in a 2017 first-rounder,” Chen Yilun said, spearing a cherry tomato and chewing slowly. “What we need now is short-term assets. Here’s my suggestion—swap this year’s first-round picks, throw in your 2018 first, and I’ll give you Williams. You just add a small throw-in to balance the roster.”

A pick swap? That got Phil’s mind turning. It was doable. Sure, the Kings were first in the West now, but the season had just begun. He already saw the cracks—Cousins and Gay couldn’t carry the team, and the rookies were inconsistent. In the second half, their performance would likely drop, and even with the swap, his pick wouldn’t fall much. That meant getting Williams almost for free.

As for the 2018 first-rounder—three years away—trading a distant asset for immediate help was an easy call.

A sly smile crept onto Phil’s face as the two leaned in, whispering over the details.

Chapter Text

Not long after, news broke again—this time the Kings had agreed to swap this year’s draft picks with the Knicks. Derrick Williams was heading to New York, Quincy Acy to Sacramento, with the Knicks also sending over a 2018 first-round pick. Then came another trade: Jason Thompson to the Nets in exchange for Bojan Bogdanovic, who had yet to play an NBA game, plus a 2017 second-rounder.

These two moves barely registered with the public—most of the players involved were hardly household names—but what the Kings did next set the league buzzing.

Right after finalizing the Knicks deal, Chen Yilun bought out Quincy Acy’s contract and used the open roster spot to sign Greg Oden, the former No. 1 pick long written off by the league, to a non-guaranteed deal.

“The Kings still aren’t ready to give up on the Big Man—they actually want to try again,” ESPN analysts scoffed. To them, Oden’s downfall was already set in stone. The Kings’ move was like picking up a lottery ticket that had already been scratched clean with “Better luck next time” showing, yet insisting on scratching it again.

In the past few days, the Kings had first gone to Phoenix and dismantled the Suns, then fallen to the Thunder on the road, ending their six-game winning streak...and now they were flying to Dallas to face the Mavericks.

“Stick with the usual rotation today. Oden, your rehab isn’t done yet, so you’re sitting this one out. Bojan, you’ll come off the bench in Williams’ spot.”

In the visitors’ locker room, Malone stood with arms crossed, laying out the plan. “The Mavericks are strong—especially with Parsons joining this year. Nowitzki and Ellis have more space to operate. We can’t let ourselves get sucked into their rhythm.”

At the Mavericks’ home arena, the Kings were greeted by a wall of boos. Chen Yilun glanced over at Oden, sitting expressionless at the end of the bench, and slid into the seat next to him.

“How’s it feel being back on the court?”

Oden hesitated before answering. “It’s been a long time. Even without playing, just sitting here… it gets my heart pumping.”

Chen chuckled. “Relax. I keep my promises. I didn’t drag you all the way from New York to keep you on the bench.” He leaned in closer. “If you can help the team, that three-year deal is already set—just waiting for your signature.”

It was only a veteran minimum contract, but for Oden, desperate to return, it was more than enough.

“You have my word, Chen. I won’t let you down.” Oden clenched his fists.

On the floor, Malone sent out the twin towers—Cousins and Mozgov—to deal with the aging Dirk Nowitzki. Even in the twilight of his career, Nowitzki remained a dangerous threat thanks to his masterful one-legged fadeaway and the unwavering support of team owner Mark Cuban.

In the paint, Nowitzki sealed his man, and Ellis wasted no time feeding him the ball. Posting up Cousins, Dirk gave two hard bumps, saw he wasn’t moving him, then spun into his signature one-legged fade.

Cousins had anticipated it, but even with arms fully extended, he could only watch the ball sail over his fingertips, kiss the rim twice, and drop in.

The crowd roared as their franchise icon delivered again. Fired up, Cousins called for the ball to go at Dirk one-on-one—but the veteran’s savvy defense threw him off, and the shot clanged out.

Watching Cousins get carried away, Malone shook his head. His system thrived on fluid ball movement, where every player had to keep the machine humming. Under Chen Yilun’s roster building and Malone’s coaching, the Kings had started to show that style—except their most important piece, Cousins, often followed his own impulses.

The Mavericks, for their part, weren’t all that different from the Kings—Nowitzki and veteran Tyson Chandler inside, Ellis and newcomer Parsons outside. The matchups mirrored each other.

In transition, Dirk got it again down low, used textbook footwork to leave Cousins behind, and scored easily. Cousins muscled in a bucket of his own on the next trip, but the Kings’ rhythm was already off.

With four minutes left in the first quarter, Malone used a dead-ball situation to pull Cousins.

Jokić, coming off the bench, looked across at Nowitzki and instinctively hunched his shoulders. Dirk was one of the greatest European players of the modern era, his legend well known across the continent.

Nowitzki studied the young Serb in return. Different countries, same European bloodline—and that earned Jokić a bit of goodwill.

“Watch closely, kid.”

Receiving the ball just outside the paint, Dirk turned to face Jokić. “I’m only showing you this once.”

Before Jokić could react, Dirk lowered his shoulder, selling the pull-up, then spun into a soft floater.

The ball traced a perfect arc into the net. Jokić, hanging helpless in midair, caught a glimpse of Dirk’s fully extended form, golden hair flowing—picture perfect.

Damn… that was beautiful.

Jokić stood frozen, replaying it in his mind. No wonder Nowitzki was hailed as the greatest European power forward since the Golden Generation—how could anyone not admire that?

“Don’t just stand there, let’s go!” CJ yelled after taking the inbound and seeing Jokić still in the backcourt.

“Huh? Oh—coming!” Snapping out of it, Jokić hurried forward.

“Hahaha! That kid Jokić just got schooled by Nowitzki,” Barkley roared in the broadcast booth. “That’s Dirk’s charm—nobody gets tired of watching him. Beautiful to watch, lethal to play against.”

“And he’s in great form today,” Miller added, twirling his marker. “First he took Cousins one-on-one, now he’s scoring easily over Jokić. Who’d believe he’s almost 40?”

On the sideline, Malone wasn’t nearly as amused. Dirk’s hot hand was bad enough—what made it worse was having no one to stop him.

“Mozgov, you’re on Nowitzki! Run play one—we can’t keep letting them score so easily!”

With time left in the first, the Mavericks led 18–11 and the Kings’ offense was sputtering.

CJ slowed the pace, called Jokić for a screen, then used his go-to move—the drive and kick. Cutting hard into the lane, he drew the defense and whipped the ball out to an open Casspi.

Casspi caught it, saw nothing but space ahead, took a breath, and let it fly.

Clang! Wide-open, but no good. Chandler, already in position, snagged the rebound and fired it to Ellis on the break.

Even in his 30s, Ellis was lightning once he got going—Ben chased hard but couldn’t close the gap. A quick crossover left the defender behind, and Ellis laid it in untouched.

The home crowd erupted—Ellis had just burned a player more than ten years his junior.

“Timeout! Timeout!” Malone barked. “The plays aren’t running, you can’t hit shots, and a guy pushing 40 is tearing us apart inside. What are you doing?”

The players hung their heads as Malone lit into them. “Stick to the plan. I don’t care if the shot falls to Casspi or Ben—take it without hesitation! Don’t be afraid to miss!”

As they headed back onto the court, Malone shook his head. CJ was both the steadiest ball handler and one of the best three-point shooters on the team—when he had the ball, they lost open looks; without the ball, the offense stalled.

The only fix was to develop another playmaker. As that thought crossed his mind, Malone’s eyes drifted to the bench… where LaVine sat draped in a towel, watching intently.

Chapter Text

At the end of the first half, the Mavericks held a commanding 58–44 lead, up by 14 points. Nowitzki was in surprisingly sharp form, repeatedly calling out the Kings’ big men for one-on-one post plays.

The veteran still had plenty of fuel in the tank, almost single-handedly holding off the Kings’ interior. But when the third quarter began, Nowitzki—resting on the bench—noticed the Kings’ new lineup, froze for a moment, then exchanged a glance with Coach Carlisle.

To start the third quarter, the Kings sent in almost their entire bench—not the usual Jokić and Mozgov twin-tower combo, but a one-big, four-small lineup of Jokić, LaVine, Bojan, Ray, and Ben.

“What are they trying to run here?” Carlisle’s brow furrowed.

He found out soon enough. The Kings had essentially abandoned the paint. Four shooters swirled around the arc, constantly relocating off Jokić’s pick-and-rolls until someone popped free. LaVine spotted an opening and zipped a pass to Ben on the outside. Ben caught it in stride, didn’t even pause, and launched a three.

Swish!

The ball dropped cleanly through. The moment Ben released it, the other four players had already turned and sprinted back on defense, completely unconcerned about whether it went in.

On the next play, Parsons tried to take Bojan one-on-one, but Jokić’s help defense forced a miss. As soon as Jokić grabbed the rebound, four teammates exploded up the floor, with only LaVine waiting near half court for the outlet.

Jokić read it instantly, fired to LaVine, who in turn hit the streaking Ray. Felton, the Mavericks’ backup guard, had already retreated to the basket and was locked on Ray, but in a flash the ball whipped to Bojan in the corner.

Bojan rose and fired. Felton, still in the paint, could only watch it drop.

Less than a minute into the third quarter, the Kings’ bench had rattled off a quick 6–0 run.

“This is… the Moreyball tactic?” Carlisle’s eyes widened.

Of course, he knew it well. Since Don Nelson pioneered run-and-gun, Mike D’Antoni had taken it to the extreme with his Moreyball philosophy—minimizing post play and maximizing perimeter looks through relentless ball movement and off-ball relocation.

It was exactly what Chen Yilun had quietly mentioned to Malone at halftime. Technically, team managers weren’t supposed to interfere with a coach’s in-game decisions, but with his close relationship to Malone, Yilun had casually planted the idea—and Malone had subconsciously bought in.

If the Kings ran Moreyball, Yilun’s Three-Point Boost Card could reach its full potential. The key was keeping the shooters hot, and the Boost Card was the perfect piece of the puzzle.

Outside, November in Dallas was bitterly cold, but inside the arena the air felt heavy, almost humid, as the Kings unleashed a torrent of threes to start the half.

After draining another shot, CJ raised three fingers in celebration—it was already his third triple of the quarter. In just a few minutes, the Mavericks had been forced to bring back their starters, while the Kings had only added CJ.

Even so, Dallas was struggling to contain the barrage. If one player is hot, you can double-team and shade help to slow him down. But when everyone’s hitting, your defense turns into a net full of holes.

And there was a bigger problem—the Mavericks’ aging roster was running out of gas against the Kings’ pace.

Ellis was bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air. Across from him, CJ looked like a tireless machine, sprinting end to end, while Ellis dragged heavy legs to keep up.

Clang! LaVine finally missed a three. Shaking his head in frustration, he jogged back. Carlisle, still tense, allowed himself a flicker of relief. Finally, a miss. If they’d kept that up, I’d have to call the cops.

Even with the Boost Card, fatigue and form shift over the course of a game. The Kings’ surge slowed, and by the end of the third quarter, the Mavericks had clawed back into the lead—86–82 heading into the final period.

No one had expected a 14-point gap to shrink so quickly in just one quarter.

In the broadcast booth, Barkley rubbed his bald head in disbelief. “This is insane. The Kings are firing away like crazy. Nobody can withstand this kind of onslaught.”

Miller, one of the greatest shooters in league history, gave a wry smile. “This season, the Kings have given us surprise after surprise. And what’s even crazier—they’ve got scoring everywhere and barely a weak spot. Inside you’ve got Cousins, Mozgov, even rookie Jokić. Outside, shooters like CJ, Ben, and LaVine. Coach Malone can run any system he wants.

“Whether it’s pounding the Clippers with the twin towers or letting his perimeter snipers go to work like tonight, Malone’s like a magician—always pulling a new trick from his hat.

“This Kings team is scary.”

“And they’re still carrying Gay’s toxic contract. Before the season, nobody would have believed this was possible.”

...

On the Mavericks bench, Carlisle gritted his teeth. “We can’t let them keep this up. Dirk, you and Chandler get in there and cut the gap. Ellis, take a breather.”

Ellis, still catching his breath, nodded. He needed the rest to handle the closing minutes.

“Oh? Nowitzki’s finally checking back in.”

After sitting the entire third quarter, Dirk stretched his shoulders and walked slowly onto the court. Malone instantly went on high alert. No one underestimated Nowitzki—not even at nearly 40, he was still one of the league’s deadliest power forwards.

On his first touch, Dirk tried to post up Cousins, but was smothered. His shot came out awkward and clanged off the rim. Cousins grabbed the board and fed CJ to bring it up deliberately, slowing the tempo.

With Cousins and Mozgov on the floor, the Kings couldn’t keep running Moreyball. Malone wanted to protect the lead; Carlisle wanted to give Dirk a lower-intensity environment.

The Kings worked the ball inside to Cousins against Tyson Chandler. A shoulder fake created just enough space for a hook—two points, clean.

But before Cousins could jog back, a pair of eyes was locked on him.

Dirk’s face was calm, but his gaze burned with renewed fight. The aging star, stirred by Cousins’ success, found his fire again.

The counterattack began. Dirk backed Cousins down, rose into his signature one-legged fade—money. Next trip, a smooth footwork move in the paint—score again. Just like that, the gap was down to four.

Malone’s frown deepened. If Dirk kept this up, the Kings were in trouble.

“Cousins, take a seat. Jokić, in. Mozgov, you take Dirk, Jokić, be ready to help from the weak side.”

It was a bold move—benching his top scorer for more defensive coverage. Dirk, seeing Cousins leave, narrowed his eyes. His plan to lure Cousins into a one-on-one battle and disrupt the Kings’ offense had been sniffed out, and Malone’s counter left him feeling like he’d just punched air.

Jokić and Mozgov teamed up to clamp him down, while on the perimeter, Ellis was shadowed tightly by LaVine. Ever since being torched by elite wings, LaVine seemed to have unlocked something—charging down the path toward becoming a true 3-and-D player.

On the bench, Chen Yilun watched with a headache brewing. A future All-Star, and he’d turned him into a 3-and-D guy? That had to be fixed later.

But even with Jokić and Mozgov, they couldn’t fully cool Dirk’s rhythm. By the end of the quarter, he had already piled up 23 points in just three periods. Barring surprises, 30-plus looked inevitable.

Chapter Text

The American Airlines Center was roaring. Even though the Mavericks had just been rattled by the Kings’ Moreyball tactic, the fans’ support for their team never wavered.

Nowitzki stood on the court, hands on hips, glancing at the cheering crowd. In that moment, he made up his mind.

“Monta, get me the ball a few more times,” he said lightly to Ellis beside him.

Ellis instantly understood—the big man’s competitive fire had been lit.

Nowitzki might have been one of the league’s nicest guys, but his will to win was second to none. Without it, there would have been no 2011 miracle run where he carried the Mavericks past three straight heavyweights.

“Got it. We’ll work through you,” Ellis replied, casting a deep look at the Kings’ defense.

The Mavericks went on offense.

After directing the team into position, Ellis saw Nowitzki seal his man inside. Without hesitation, he fed him the ball—an action that immediately caught Coach Malone’s attention on the Kings’ bench.

Since switching to a two-big lineup in the second half, Mozgov had been assigned to guard Nowitzki. The big white bear might have been vulnerable to quicker bigs, but against this veteran who no longer had much foot speed, Mozgov held his own.

Because of that, Dirk had spent much of the night passing out to shooters instead of looking for his own shot.

But now he was calling for the ball. Was he changing his approach?

While Malone hesitated, Dirk banged into Mozgov, carved out just enough space, and smoothly turned into his trademark fadeaway.

Swish! The ball dropped cleanly through.

Mozgov stared in disbelief as it sailed over him and through the net. That easy?

Right then, Chen Yilun’s Three-Point Boost Card expired.

Tweet!

CJ came off a pick for a three but bricked it, watching in frustration as the ball bounced off the rim. He clapped his hands and jogged back, unsettled—his touch had gone cold.

Pros like him often knew the instant they released a shot whether it was going in. That sense—built over years—told CJ this one was short, and sure enough, it clipped the front rim.

The game wouldn’t wait for him to figure out why. Sensing his brief lapse, Ellis crossed him up and drove hard into the paint.

Mozgov stepped up to help, but Ellis’s eyes were locked on the far side of the lane. His slender frame slammed into Mozgov’s massive body, twisting his motion, yet he still flipped the ball high into the air.

Mozgov watched it sail over him—straight toward the rim? No.

“No! Alley-oop!”

By the time Mozgov shouted, it was too late. A pair of hands snatched the spinning ball midair and crushed it through the hoop.

Dirk hung on the rim a moment before dropping down.

“Oh-ho-ho! You don’t see that every day—Dirk’s really turned it on tonight,” Barkley chuckled from the broadcast booth. “A rare sight. In recent years, Dirk’s barely shown this level of aggression. Looks like the Kings’ young guns woke up his competitive streak.”

The Kings on the court weren’t nearly as amused. Malone called timeout—not just to let Dirk catch his breath, but to reset his own side.

“Rudy, what do we do now?” CJ asked Gay, standing nearby.

With Cousins lacking leadership chops and the rest of the roster being so young, Gay was the de facto elder statesman.

Wiping his face with a towel, Gay sighed. “What can you do? When Dirk decides to carry a team, all you can do is pray he misses.”

If even Miami’s Big Three couldn’t shut him down back then, how could they?

The minute-long break ended quickly. Malone, with no choice, sent Cousins back in. The Kings now had their strongest lineup: Cousins, Mozgov, Gay, LaVine, and CJ.

It was early in the fourth—starters would normally rest a bit longer—but letting Dallas get rolling was not an option. Lose control now, lose the game.

Carlisle saw it coming and countered with his own full-strength lineup. The decisive stretch came early.

On the Kings’ possession, CJ drew a double off a screen and zipped the ball to LaVine beyond the arc. LaVine adjusted and rose for the jumper—clank, off the back rim.

The paint instantly turned into a wrestling match: Cousins leaning on Dirk, Mozgov and Chandler locked up. Four giants clogging the lane.

The ball bounced free, and Cousins muscled Dirk aside to grab it—

Tweet!

“Kings, number 15. Pushing, under the basket!”

The slight shove Cousins used to clear space had been spotted by the baseline ref.

“Damn it!” Cousins slammed the ball to the floor, muttering angrily.

Seeing trouble brewing, Gay darted over and pulled him back. “What’s wrong with you? Complain to the ref, not in front of him!”

Dirk called for the ball again, singling out Cousins. Maybe Gay’s lecture had sunk in, because Cousins stayed disciplined—holding position instead of swiping at the ball.

Dirk probed twice, found no angle, and kicked it out to Ellis. A series of crossovers shook CJ, and Ellis slashed to the free-throw line.

Cousins felt the pressure vanish—Dirk had cut to the elbow, took a quick handoff from Ellis, and drilled the jumper.

“Seriously?” Cousins’ eyes widened. He’d watched Dirk in his prime, but never felt this level of control up close. Tonight was a masterclass.

“Snap out of it! Get on offense!” Gay barked, exasperated. Cousins was talented in so many ways—why was focus always the problem?

In the closing minutes, the Kings fought to cut the lead back under ten, but the Mavericks’ trump card was unstoppable. Dirk kept Dallas firmly in control.

Tweet!

The final buzzer sounded. The Mavericks had defended home court, 116–103. Dirk was the undisputed MVP: 38 points and 12 rebounds.

As the Mavericks celebrated around him, the Kings trudged off, heads down, completely deflated.

Malone, unusually quiet after the loss, gave Carlisle a polite handshake and walked away.

In the studio, the analysts were already debating the game’s display of pure individual brilliance.

“I said it before—yes, the Kings have surprised us this year, but they still lack a true backbone. In a duel like this, without a real leader to carry the load, it’s too hard to go deep in the playoffs,” Barkley declared after a sip of water. “Cousins as your number two? Great. Cousins as your number one? Disaster.”

“But let’s not forget how young this team is,” Reggie Miller cut in before Barkley’s rant could build further. “Most of their perimeter guys—CJ, LaVine, Ben—are first- or second-year players. They’ve got the touches and the role to grow. I think the second half of the season will bring a big leap.”

“One season? How much can a bunch of rookies really improve?” Barkley scoffed.

“Oh? Sounds like we’ve got some disagreement here,” the host in the middle said smoothly, defusing the tension. “Care to make a bet on the Kings’ future, Mr. Barkley? You’re something of an authority on the subject.”

The studio erupted in laughter—everyone knew it was a jab at Barkley’s infamous failed Yao Ming prediction that ended with him kissing a donkey on air.

“Sounds good to me,” Miller grinned. “If Kenny Smith can beat you, so can I.”

Barkley wasn’t biting. “No bets. I quit gambling after that. Not happening.”

Chapter Text

After losing to the Mavericks, the Kings’ morale took a heavy hit. In the next game, they fell again—this time to the Grit-and-Grind Grizzlies led by Zach Randolph and Marc Gasol—swallowing the bitter taste of a two-game skid. The team that had been hyped to the heavens at the start of the season had been brought crashing back to earth.

With such a young roster, their ability to handle pressure was poor. Collapse felt dangerously close.

Chen Yilun sat in his office, rubbing his temples. He’d seen the team’s slump with his own eyes these past two days, but there was little he could do. Integrating the roster was the head coach’s job. And while he had a good relationship with Coach Malone, he couldn’t overstep into coaching—it would only risk making things worse.

What’s more, in just two days, they would host the defending champion Spurs. It would be Chen Yilun’s first time facing his old team since leaving San Antonio, and both emotionally and professionally, he wanted to deliver a strong performance.

It felt like being a kid again, wanting to ace a test just to make your elders proud. But with the Kings’ current state, there wasn’t much to show.

As Chen Yilun drifted in thought, LaVine quietly slipped into his office.
“Chen, we’re about to have an intrasquad scrimmage. The coach asked if you wanted to watch.”

“Why should I watch your scrimmage?” Chen Yilun blinked at the odd invitation. He was in charge of operations—watching scrimmages wasn’t part of his job.

“The team doctor just gave the results—Oden can handle games at a certain intensity. The coach wants him in the scrimmage. Didn’t you bring him back? The coach told me to see if you wanted to check him out.”

The moment he heard this, Chen Yilun shot up from his chair.
“He can play? Then I’ve got to see this.”

He hadn’t gone through all the trouble of bringing Oden back from New York for nothing—it was to help “Big O” reclaim his glory.

They walked side-by-side to the court, where the players were already warming up. Oden stood near the free throw line, meticulously drilling his mid-range shot.

Say what you will—Oden’s professionalism was intact. He had the smarts not to charge ahead blindly like some big men. His talent was still among the best in the league. It was just a shame that injuries had derailed the career of such a gifted player.

When he saw Chen Yilun, Oden immediately set the ball aside and walked over.
“Chen, I want to thank you again. Thank you for giving me this chance. I won’t let you down.”

Looking into Oden’s sincere eyes, Chen Yilun felt a pang. For him, it had just been a small favor, but for Oden, it was his last shot.

“Play well. Like I said before—if you don’t let me down, I won’t let you down either.”

Chen Yilun started to pat Oden on the shoulder, but after sizing up the height difference, decided it would look awkward. Instead, he patted Oden’s lowered forearm. In that brief contact, he quietly slipped the “Restore Health Card” onto him.

Using the ‘Restore Health Card’ on Greg Oden will be final. Confirm?
Confirm!

A flash of white light—visible only to Chen Yilun—shot from his body into Oden’s.

“Alright, enough talk. Let’s start.”

Oden stepped onto the court, frowning slightly as he shifted his weight, testing his legs. CJ noticed and asked, “What’s wrong? Still feeling off?”

“No, just… a little strange.”

He could feel it—his legs were the same length.

Oden’s biggest problem had been the Trail Blazers’ infamous medical mismanagement that left him with uneven legs, a key factor in his downfall. Yet now, the discrepancy was gone.

He kept it to himself and signaled for the game to continue.

The scrimmage had two purposes: lift the team’s sagging morale and get Oden reacquainted with game flow. Seeing the towering figure on the floor, Chen Yilun found a seat by the bench near the door and settled in.

If you can sit, never stand. If you can lie down, never sit. Life was already tough—what’s wrong with a little laziness?

CJ brought the ball past half court. Seeing Oden already sealed deep inside, he lobbed it in. Oden caught it, squared up, and began backing down Mozgov.

Since it was just practice, Mozgov’s teammates wanted to see what Oden still had in the tank, so they left him one-on-one.

Thud! The deep sound of bodies colliding echoed as Oden’s raw power shoved Mozgov back a big step. With the resistance gone, Oden spun toward the wide-open hoop.

“Help! Help!” Mozgov shouted, and Casspi came racing from the weak side. But facing Big O in full force, Casspi felt like a tiny boat in a raging sea—easily pushed aside.

Bang!

Oden soared with Casspi still clinging on and slammed the ball down with brutal force. The rim groaned under the impact.

Mozgov, still reeling, suddenly saw a shadow flash by—Casspi now lay beside him on the floor.

After landing, Oden noticed the strange silence. Nobody inbounded, nobody defended. Everyone just stared at him like he was some kind of monster.

“Ah! Hot! Hot! Hot!”

The sudden scream shattered the moment. Chen Yilun, sitting on the sidelines with a cigarette, had been ready to enjoy Oden’s performance—but that dunk had left him stunned.

Healthy Oden… was this strong? The Restore Health Card was supposed to just heal injuries—how could it be this extreme?

In his daze, he’d forgotten about the cigarette in his fingers. At some point, it had slipped and landed on his pants. The scream was from the burn.

He jumped up, brushed off the butt, and stomped it out.

Seeing the hole burned into his pants, he shot Oden a glare.
“What are you standing around for? Keep playing!”

The players snapped out of it, though their glances at Oden now carried a different weight.

“Greg, I’ll get you a few more looks. Show what you’ve got,” CJ whispered as he passed. As Chen Yilun’s top wingman, he wasn’t about to ignore a hand-picked player.

That first dunk had clearly rekindled Oden’s confidence. He went to work inside—hooks, bank shots, fadeaways—using whatever worked. By halftime, he had completely broken Mozgov.

“Alright, that’s enough for today. We’ll end it here.”

Mike Malone called it early. He’d planned on two halves, but Oden’s dominance was so overwhelming that he feared Mozgov might truly lose all confidence if it went on.

Oden’s calm expression was now lit with excitement. Even if it was just a scrimmage, he felt like he was back in his NCAA glory days—touch, rhythm, and confidence all restored.

No wonder there was talk around the league that the Kings had magic—whoever joined them played better.

Just as he was about to find Chen Yilun, he spotted him hurrying upstairs.
“Chen! Where are you going?”

“Changing my pants!” Chen Yilun shouted back. “And grabbing this guy’s contract!”

...That night, the news exploded across the league:

Right after Oden’s ten-day deal expired, the Kings signed him to a three-year, $12 million deal using the mid-level exception.

The league was stunned. If the earlier non-guaranteed signing was like Chen Yilun scratching a lottery ticket, then this was a ticket that had been scratched by countless others—and finally paid out.

That precious mid-level exception, acquired by trading Thornton, had been spent on Oden.

Chen Yilun had actually hit on it.

Rumors swirled everywhere, but one thing was certain—the spotlight was back on Sacramento.

...In his office, Chen Yilun let out a big yawn, having just sent away a team doctor who looked like he’d seen a ghost. He never imagined the Restore Health Card would be this strong—not only healing every old injury, but even fixing Oden’s leg length discrepancy, something thought impossible.

If he hadn’t stepped in, he suspected the doctor might have dragged Oden off for dissection.

Looking at the date circled in red on the calendar, Chen Yilun finally smiled.
“Pop, I’ve got your welcome gift ready.”

Chapter Text

The Arco Arena in Sacramento was packed, the roar of the crowd echoing as countless fans brought their families to witness a matchup destined to become legendary.

The Kings, who had burst onto the scene this season, had taken six wins from their first nine games, breaking through the chaos of the Western Conference. Their challengers tonight were none other than the defending champions—the San Antonio Spurs.

Adding even more intrigue was the fact that the man who had revived the Kings, their miracle-working general manager Chen Yilun, was once an assistant coach for the Spurs—a student of Gregg Popovich himself. The Western Conference’s rising stars were about to face the defending champions in a master-versus-apprentice showdown. All eyes were on this game.

The broadcasters, never ones to pass up drama, had pushed for the matchup to be aired live nationwide.

“Listen up. This year’s Kings aren’t to be underestimated. Be especially careful with their inside game. Tim, your main job tonight is to contain Cousins and limit his shots in the paint. Leonard, I need you to tear apart their forward line from the outside. Can you do it?”

In the locker room, Popovich’s tone was uncharacteristically serious. Tim Duncan and Kawhi Leonard exchanged a glance, then gave expressionless nods.

The Spurs were in the midst of a critical transition from old to new. Tim Duncan, the long-time core, was gradually stepping back to make way for their future centerpiece, Leonard—just as “The Admiral” David Robinson had once done for him.

“Listen, this is the first time we’ve faced Chen since he left. That little brat’s been doing well for himself lately. Let me be clear—if anyone embarrasses me out there and makes me lose face in front of my apprentice, you’ll regret it.”

Once the tactics were laid out, Popovich finally revealed his true edge.

Hearing that familiar sarcastic bite in their coach’s voice, every player felt a chill. When it came to psychological warfare, Pop was in a league of his own. No one wanted to get on his bad side.

“Don’t worry, Pop, we’ll win this one for you.”

Captain Tony Parker was the first to stand, raising his fist. “Victory!”

The rest followed, fists raised. “Victory!”

On the sideline, in the home team’s front office seats, Chen Yilun sat unusually straight in a sharp suit instead of blending into the crowd. The team trainer next to him kept sneaking glances at the GM, whose palms were slick with sweat.

“Relax, Chen. With your track record right now, you can go toe-to-toe with any GM in the league. No need to be so tense.”

Chen Yilun forced a smile that looked closer to a grimace. “You’ve never worked with that old man. If we play badly today, no matter what happens in the future, he’ll make my life miserable.”

Out on the court, the players had no idea about the conversation.

“Tonight’s game is huge. We’re up against last season’s champs, and the veteran Spurs won’t give us many openings. We’ve got to stick to our jobs and cut down on mistakes,” said Rudy Gay, unusually serious as he huddled the team together.

“But it’s not like we don’t have a shot. This year’s Spurs are older than last year, and they have no clue about our secret weapons. We’ve still got a chance to take this one.”

Still, once the game started and rookies like CJ McCollum saw the stone-faced Spurs in their black jerseys, their legs felt just a bit shaky.

Tim Duncan stood silent in the paint. That infamous technical foul years ago had shaped his stoic game-face. Gray showing at his temples, and his imposing frame in the lane made him seem carved from stone—calm and unreadable.

Standing next to him, Cousins swallowed hard. Was this guy even human? There wasn’t a flicker of emotion on his face.

Snap! Cousins won the jump ball over Tiago Splitter, passing to CJ to bring it up slowly.

At the top of the arc, CJ signaled for a set, but Ben McLemore and Omri Casspi, moving off the ball on the perimeter, failed to shake free for an open shot.

The Spurs’ perimeter defense was anchored by Leonard and Danny Green. Leonard needed no introduction—even without a DPOY yet, everyone knew it was only a matter of time. And the 2014 version of Danny Green was one of the league’s most coveted 3-and-D specialists—elite as a shooter and a defender.

With the play breaking down and the clock running out, CJ was forced to dump the ball inside to Cousins.

But Cousins was just as uncomfortable there. Splitter held his ground perfectly, leaving no room for an attack.

With the shot clock nearly gone, Cousins was forced into a tough shot. It clanged off the rim. On the weak side, Duncan had already sealed Gay and easily pulled in the rebound.

“This won’t work…” Chen Yilun muttered, gripping his sleeve. Just one possession was enough to see the Spurs’ plan—they were dragging the Kings into a half-court defensive grind.

The Spurs were airtight, giving them no chance to attack. And the Kings? They thrived on offense—their defense wasn’t nearly enough.

Sure enough, on the next play, Duncan caught the ball on the weak side, pulling all of Gay’s attention. Even if Duncan went iso without any plays, Gay couldn’t be sure he’d stop him.

But the Spurs weren’t about to waste possessions on something so simple.

After drawing the defense, Duncan spun toward the basket. Gay felt like he’d been hit by a truck, forced half a step back. That was all Duncan needed to have a clear path.

Casspi, near the baseline, saw Gay losing ground and darted over to help.

But in that split second, the ball whipped to Parker in the corner, as if it had grown wings.

A textbook inside-out play.

The Spurs had used it countless times over the past two years to free up their shooters—the most famous example being in the 2013 Finals when Danny Green and Gary Neal rained threes on Miami.

But as Popovich’s former pupil, Chen Yilun knew this play inside and out.

Casspi delayed just a hair before lunging at Parker.

Parker pumped like he was going to shoot, then blew past Casspi into the paint.

“No…” Chen Yilun suddenly stood, eyes locked on the court.

“This isn’t inside-out—it’s a variation!”

Sure enough, instead of kicking the ball back out, Parker flashed a sly grin and bounced it straight into the lane.

A black jersey flashed into the lane—Leonard. He slipped in on the cut, caught the bounce pass, and exploded to the rim.

Duncan had already sealed the paint, shoving Gay half over the sideline.

Boom! Leonard hammered down a vicious tomahawk dunk, the rim groaning under the force.

“What… is this?”

Chen Yilun wracked his brain.

“This is… motion offense?”

Motion offense relied on interior positioning, quick ball movement from strong to weak side, and constant passing to create open looks—demanding top-tier vision from the big men and quick reads from every player.

But Chen clearly remembered—the Spurs had only been experimenting with it since 2011. It wasn’t until Aldridge arrived and they moved on from the “GDP” era—the Duncan-Parker-Ginobili core—to the Duncan–Aldridge frontcourt that it truly became their system.

Why was it appearing now? Had his arrival caused a butterfly effect?

His earlier confidence evaporated. This was the Spurs at the peak of team basketball—even in his own timeline, this was a ceiling-level system.

As he feared, the Kings began to unravel under the Spurs’ seamless offense. The ball zipped from player to player, finding open looks again and again. The Spurs didn’t rush—they chipped away at the Kings’ stamina and composure.

Swish! Danny Green drilled another three. The scoreboard read 20–8.

It was a complete beatdown.

“This won’t do. We can’t wait until the rotation,” Chen Yilun hissed, slipping down to the bench and pulling Mike Malone aside.

“If we hit the rotation like this, we’re finished!”

He knew why: beyond their near-perfect starters, the Spurs still had Boris Diaw and Manu Ginobili—two of the league’s best second-unit playmakers—waiting on the bench.

If those two checked in, the game would be over.

Chapter Text

Mike Malone stood with his arms crossed, deep lines etched across his brow.

He had expected a tough battle going in, but the way the Spurs were dismantling them had gone far beyond anything he’d anticipated.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malone spotted movement on the Spurs’ bench—a balding guard stood up without a hint of emotion, peeled off his warm-up pants, and stepped to the scorer’s table to check in.

So soon?

Malone drew in a sharp breath.

It was still the first quarter, and Popovich was already sending in Ginobili. Was he planning to put the game away this early?

Exchanging a quick glance with Chen Yilun, Malone turned toward his own bench.
“Zach LaVine, Nikola Jokić—get ready, you’re going in!”

If the current lineup couldn’t handle the Spurs’ offense, then they might as well fire back with everything they had.

A dead ball came quickly. Ginobili replaced Parker, while LaVine and Jokić came in for Ben McLemore and DeMarcus Cousins.

Cousins trudged to the bench, head down, draping a towel over himself—but his eyes stayed locked on the court.

“I should’ve been stronger,” he muttered so quietly no one else could hear. Since the start of the season, the team had been reducing his touches, shifting more shots to the perimeter shooters. For someone as straightforward as Cousins, it stung.

If he were stronger, the team wouldn’t be so passive. He wouldn’t have been pulled so early.

LaVine stretched as he stepped in, flashing a subtle hand signal to CJ McCollum.

CJ caught it instantly. A few exchanged glances between teammates, and the Kings began humming like a well-oiled machine.

“Oh? Changing the look?” Popovich murmured from the sideline, watching the Kings’ shifting movement patterns.

He took a sip from the thermos at his side. “Finally, a little fun. If they let me win this easily, that’d be embarrassing.”

Malone’s adjustment was clear—push the pace, keep the ball moving, and create space with constant off-ball movement.

The plan targeted the aging Spurs core, hoping to sap their stamina. Leonard might have been taking on more responsibility, but he was still playing under the shadow of the Big Three.

But it was a double-edged sword—constant running would burn out his own starters just as fast.

So he’s going to trade pieces with me? Popovich read Malone’s intent immediately.
If so, he wants to decide this with the bench.

Sure enough, just as Pop anticipated—Ginobili fed Leonard for a strong finish inside, and LaVine answered by blowing past Ginobili for a thunderous dunk.

From there, they traded scores.

Even with Ginobili and Duncan orchestrating from the paint, the Kings’ CJ and Jokić—both sharp passers—kept answering.

By the end of the first quarter, it was 35–23.

The Spurs held a 12-point lead. In the broadcast booth, the commentators shifted tone, now praising San Antonio.

“I said it—sure, the Kings are the hot new team, but against the savvy Spurs there’s still a big gap. Not just in talent, but in system, execution, and experience,” one said.

“But Coach Malone’s substitutions late in the first have me puzzled,” Kenny Smith said from the booth. “Looks like he’s trying to match Popovich in a battle of depth. But isn’t that playing right into San Antonio’s hands? Everyone knows they have the deepest roster in the league.”

“Could the Kings still have a hidden card on the bench?”

With years of league experience, Smith quickly pieced it together. “If so, this could get interesting.”

Over the past few weeks, the Kings had shocked fans again and again. Chen Yilun and Mike Malone were like tireless magicians, always pulling out new tricks. But it was already November—Christmas was just over a month away. At this stage, could they really still be holding something back?

As Smith pondered, the camera cut to the Kings’ bench. At the very end sat a towering figure, quietly watching every play unfold.

...

After the short break, the second quarter began. Popovich kept his lineup intact—Big Three plus Leonard—clearly aiming to put the game away with his strongest unit.

But Malone stayed calm, showing no sign of bringing Cousins back in.

“This kid’s got guts,” Popovich chuckled coldly. “He’s trying to cut Cousins’ influence.”

With all of the opponent’s stars on the floor, benching his own franchise player was clearly a ploy by Malone and Chen Yilun to quietly lower Cousins’ role.

The Kings kept rolling with their three-man core of Jokić, CJ, and LaVine. With Jokić and CJ’s sharp passing and LaVine’s spacing beyond the arc, the Spurs couldn’t find an immediate answer.

“Then double him. What, are you all going to need extra practice because a bunch of rookies have you stumped?” Pop barked.

The Silver and Black machine roared back to life. Jokić caught the ball near the free-throw line—and immediately Splitter and Duncan closed in from both sides like twin mountains.

Still a rookie, Jokić was too green for that kind of pressure. Panic set in instantly.

Smack!

Duncan cleanly stripped the ball away. Leonard, already tracking the play from the three-point line, saw it loose, abandoned his man, and snatched it into his chest.

Parker and Ginobili were already sprinting upcourt.

Even with Casspi and LaVine hustling to recover, it was a three-on-two.

Parker caught the ball and didn’t dribble—he swung it to Ginobili, who immediately sent it back to Parker, who then hit the trailing Leonard. Leonard took three long strides and finished with an easy layup.

It took under five seconds from the steal to the bucket. More astonishing—the ball changed hands three times, and not a single dribble was used.

“That’s straight out of the textbook,” Malone muttered, rubbing his bald head.

No coach could dislike that—scoring on a fast break in the most efficient way possible.

Everyone knows passing beats dribbling for speed, but in real games, most breaks are led by one guy dribbling with the rest trailing.

Game situations are full of unpredictable variables that cloud decision-making—but the Spurs, built on system and discipline, were the exception.

Under Popovich’s strict structure, any player could be molded into the perfect teammate—maybe not a wild Sakuragi-type from the ’90s.

That one sequence seemed to light the Spurs’ offensive fuse. Smooth ball movement, perfectly timed rotations, and suffocating help defense left the young Kings scrambling.

By halftime, San Antonio led 66–42—a commanding 24-point gap.

...

“So this is the pressure of a defending champion?” Malone stroked the stubble on his chin, glancing at his weary players in the locker room.

“We’ll have to change it up in the second half, or we won’t have a chance.”

At some point, Chen Yilun had appeared at his side, arms folded, brow furrowed tight.

Malone blinked—he’d worked with Chen for months, and this was the first time he’d seen him deadly serious. Normally the guy carried himself like a laid-back playboy.

“How do you want to change it?” Malone asked cautiously. Coming from the Spurs system, Chen knew exactly how they operated.

“In the second half, they’ll put Diaw in to run half-court sets and control the tempo while giving the starters rest. That’s our one opening. If we disrupt their rhythm, we can claw back.”

Chen turned, locking eyes with Malone.

“Put Oden in.”

Chapter Text

After halftime, both sides silently switched to their substitute lineups. Under Chen Yilun’s special attention, LaVine was moved up to the point guard spot.

This kid had been acting strangely lately—no dribbling practice, no passing drills—just charging headlong down the path of becoming a 3-and-D player.

For a late-lottery rookie, willingly playing a supporting role would normally be a good sign. But Chen Yilun had a sharp eye—letting LaVine settle into a 3-and-D role would be like using a cannon to kill a mosquito. No way. That had to be corrected.

Besides, on the Kings right now, CJ was the only true ball handler. The original secondary playmaker, Thornton, had already been traded to the Cavaliers. Looking across the roster, the only other player who could even try the secondary point guard role was LaVine.

LaVine slowly brought the ball to the top of the key. His fellow rookie, Jokić, stepped up to set a screen, completely sealing off Mills, his defender. Seeing this, LaVine took a dribble forward, then noticed Splitter—Jokić’s defender—still planted in the paint with no intention of stepping out.

What, he’s not even taking me seriously?

With an open shooting lane in front of him, a thought flashed through LaVine’s mind.

Alright then—I won’t hold back.

He bent his arms, rose up straight, and let fly a clean, two-motion jumper. The ball traced a perfect arc toward the rim.

“That was way too easy for the Kings,” Kenny Smith frowned from the booth. “If a bottom-feeder made a defensive mistake like that, it’d be understandable. But the Spurs—last season’s champions and the league’s best defense—making that kind of error? That’s hard to justify.”

Before Kenny’s words had even faded, the sideline referee signaled a Spurs timeout.

“Huh?”

A glance at the clock made even the veteran Kenny Smith chuckle. “A timeout just twelve seconds into the second half? That’s Pop for you—stubborn as ever.”

But over on the Kings’ bench, Mike Malone and Chen Yilun weren’t smiling. Popovich’s early timeout might have looked random at first glance, but it sent a dangerous message.

Even with a 22-point lead, even on the very first possession of the half, the old man still demanded perfection—every defensive rotation sharp, every pass crisp and purposeful.

Facing an opponent like that was terrifying.

“Oden, get ready,” Malone murmured as he walked over.

The towering Oden shivered slightly, then answered calmly, “Okay, Coach.”

Casspi, sitting beside him, glanced over curiously.

A hidden fire burned in Oden’s eyes as he locked onto every movement on the court—like a predator finally let loose. The long-awaited return of his health had his body, suppressed for years, itching to explode.

“I won’t screw this up,” Oden whispered to himself.

Sure enough, a few possessions later, Malone subbed out Jokić for Oden. At that moment, the Spurs’ bench, led by the “French Magician” Boris Diaw, was humming. The Kings’ rookie duo of Jokić and LaVine had kept fighting to keep the score within reach, but they were still down 76–58, trailing by 18.

“The Kings swapped out Jokić for Oden. Why?” Charles Barkley rubbed his smooth head in confusion from the booth.

The Kings had just trimmed the deficit a bit, and taking out Jokić—their best distributor in the paint—looked like a big blow to their ball movement.

But Barkley soon fell silent.

LaVine crossed half court, spotted Oden firmly posted near the paint, and fed him the ball. Oden took a deep breath and began to back Diaw down.

It felt to the Frenchman like he’d been hit by a bulldozer. His feet gave way, and he took a step back. Seeing the space open, Oden took a big stride, spun to face the basket, and lofted a soft hook—nothing but net.

Next possession, the Spurs missed, and backup center Aron “Bangers” Baynes set up for the offensive rebound. But just as the ball was dropping, a huge black hand appeared above his head—Oden, boxed out moments earlier, had simply jumped over him to grab the defensive board.

Baynes was still wondering how the hell he grabbed that when the Kings came down the court again. This time, LaVine lobbed it high, and Oden muscled past Baynes and Diaw, rose up, caught the alley-oop, and slammed it down with both hands.

“Wow! Did I just see that?”

Barkley shot up from his chair, clutching his head. “Has anyone ever seen this? A prodigy everyone had written off, suddenly back in the spotlight today!”

Oden didn’t hear him. With two quick scores under his belt, “Big O’s” confidence surged. Against the softer-playing Diaw, everything lined up perfectly.

The rest of the third quarter turned into Oden’s personal highlight reel. He owned the paint, scoring at will. Diaw’s passes grew sloppy, his “magic wand” seemingly gone.

Malone seized the chance, running the offense through Oden again and again, hammering the Spurs’ defense.

“Pop, should I…?” Tim Duncan, watching the game unravel from the bench, leaned over.

“No. Not yet.” Popovich crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the court.

“If you go in now, you’ll walk right into that kid’s trap. He wants you to steady the ship and burn your energy early, so he can send in his starters to close it out.”

Popovich’s gaze locked on Oden. “This kid’s got something. He even managed to bring Oden back from the brink.”

It was no wonder Pop was surprised. As the original “Emperor,” Oden had once gone ahead of Durant as the number one pick in his draft class. When he fell, plenty of teams tried to revive him—but every trainer came to the same verdict: too many injuries, an irreparable leg imbalance. His fall was inevitable.

“You need your energy for Cousins. Don’t waste it now.”

“So what do we do?” Duncan asked, wide-eyed.

“We wait,” Popovich said firmly. “Pray Bangers Baynes and the others can hold.”

But prayer wasn’t enough. Bangers Baynes couldn’t withstand the fury of an Oden who’d been caged for almost a year.

Oden pounded the paint like an unstoppable beast, each collision jolting Baynes to his core. No matter how hard he fought, Baynes couldn’t slow Oden’s march to the rim.

Thud!

The rim groaned under Oden’s dunk.

At some point, the once-roaring Arco Arena fell silent. Kings fans stared, wide-eyed, at the court, barely believing what they were seeing.

The supposed “bench warmer” was dismantling the Spurs’ proud second unit. Many season-ticket holders—fans who’d followed the team for decades—couldn’t recall anything like it. Even in the long history of the league, this was surreal.

“Is this really… our team?” an elderly fan with graying temples muttered, eyes locked on Oden.

“This makes no sense! Last season in Miami, Oden was a disaster. How could he turn into the complete opposite in just one year?” Barkley scratched at his nonexistent hair.

He wasn’t the only one baffled. Other commentators were equally at a loss.

“Could Sacramento really be magic? Could something this unbelievable actually happen?”

Those questions would have to wait. Right now, Oden was in full stride, pounding the Spurs’ frontcourt over and over.

In just half a quarter, the Kings erased what had been a 22-point deficit. When the buzzer sounded, the gap had shrunk to 85–80—Spurs by just five heading into the final quarter.

Chapter Text

The Spurs’ bench looked like a row of frost-bitten eggplants—slumped, listless, heads down, not one daring to meet Popovich’s eyes.

“So they caught up—big deal. It’s not like we just lost the Finals. What are you all afraid of?”
Unusually for him, Popovich didn’t tear into his players. Instead, he worked to lift their spirits.

Even a battle-hardened veteran like him had been caught off guard in the third quarter. But the crafty old coach knew this wasn’t the moment for criticism. His players—especially the big men—had just taken a serious hit to their confidence. Right now, the priority was to reignite their fighting spirit.

“When the fourth quarter starts, Diaw, Tim, you’re going in. Oden’s not going to last out there. Your main job is to keep Cousins in check.

“Kawhi, you and Green need to slow down the Kings’ ball swings from strong side to weak side. I’m not asking for steals—just make every pass a struggle. Make them think twice before moving the ball. Got it?”

One clear instruction after another, and the silver-and-black machine that had sputtered in the third quarter began humming again.

...

Mike Malone exhaled slowly as he watched his players take the floor.

Even Oden’s godlike run in the third had only given the Kings the faintest lifeline. Now it was down to a pure clash of each team’s core strength.

Barely a minute into the fourth, both coaches—without a word—sent out their full-strength lineups.
Spurs: Parker, Green, Leonard, Diaw, Duncan.
Kings: CJ, Ben, Casspi, Gay, Cousins.

The two rookies, LaVine and Jokić, sat obediently on the bench.

Malone stole a discreet glance at the lineups and shook his head. The Kings might look energized, but they lacked the deep foundation of the Spurs. As a ball handler, CJ—now in just his second year—had been great this season, but across from him was Tony Parker: 2005 Finals MVP, “The French Flash.” Outside of youth and fresher legs, CJ had no edge.

Everywhere else, the Kings were being outmatched—except for Cousins, who still had a fighting chance. But against a monster like Tim Duncan, even that slim advantage was hardly worth mentioning.

Truth be told, for a deadlocked situation, this was about as good as it could get.

“Do what we can, and leave the rest to fate,” Malone muttered, casting a glance at Popovich on the opposite sideline.

Everyone knew Chen Yilun was Popovich’s protégé. What most didn’t know was that Malone himself had a history with the Spurs coach. Back in 2005, when Malone was on the verge of being jobless, Popovich had recommended him for an assistant coach spot with the Cavaliers—then led by another Popovich disciple, Mike Brown.

It was that break that allowed Malone to secure his place in the league.

“This game isn’t just Yilun’s graduation project,” Malone thought. “It’s my answer to Popovich.”

...

The Kings came out swinging to start the fourth. CJ handled the ball up top, scanning for options, when he saw Cousins battling Duncan for position inside.

Without hesitation, CJ fed him the ball. In this situation, there was only one answer—get it to the team’s go-to guy and let him go to work.

Cousins caught it and went straight into a backdown. From the weak side, Diaw glanced at Gay lounging in the corner, then instantly rotated to help Duncan.

As the saying goes, youth fears no one. Even as the greatest power forward in history, Duncan’s declining body struggled against Cousins in his prime.

Just as Duncan and Diaw closed in, Cousins whipped out a sudden spin—like a dragon whipping its tail—squaring up as if to attack the basket. Both defenders bit instantly.

“He’s pulling up—trap him!” Duncan barked.

Diaw moved in sync, boxing Cousins in from both sides.

But instead of forcing the shot, Cousins made a sharp pivot and zipped the ball to the weak-side corner—left wide open for months.

Gay caught it, gave the rim a lazy glance, then rose and fired.

Swish.

Straight through. Gay barely looked back before jogging upcourt at a snail’s pace, still wearing the look of someone who’d just rolled out of bed.

Watching the stark contrast between Cousins’ fire and Gay’s nonchalance, Chen Yilun thought they looked like a mismatched cartoon duo.

“Down to two! The Kings have clawed their way back into it!” Sir Charles Barkley’s voice cracked in the broadcast booth. “This is unbelievable—no, beyond that! How many more shocks are they going to give us tonight?”

On the bench, Chen Yilun’s eyes sharpened. Team Three-Point Boost—activate!

The buff he’d been saving all night was finally in play.

He’d held back earlier because the Kings had been trailing too much; a boost then would’ve been wasted. But now, with just one possession between them, it was the perfect moment to bring the bayonet to the throat.

Chen took a cup from a staffer, about to sip—then noticed his palms were slick with sweat.

And it wasn’t just the Kings feeling the nerves. Popovich sat stone-faced, but the constant bounce of his leg gave him away.

Their eyes met—Popovich and Buford. The two shared a complicated smile, equal parts pride and regret.

“If we’d known it would turn out like this,” Buford murmured, scratching his head, “we wouldn’t have sent that kid to Sacramento. We’ve created a real headache for ourselves.”

But the game left no time for old friends to reminisce.

The Spurs ran a crisp set that freed Duncan under the basket for an easy layup.

Then, in an instant, CJ took a Cousins screen, stepped up, and drilled a three.

“One point game!” The home DJ was so hyped he nearly leapt onto the booth, voice rasping as he whipped the fans into a frenzy.

The loyal Sacramento crowd roared back with such force it felt like the roof might blow off.

The clock ticked down. Everyone knew—this was it. The final showdown had begun.

Chapter Text

As expected, the final minutes of the fourth quarter turned into a brutal meat grinder. 2014 was hailed as the dawn of the small-ball era, yet the dominance of the inside game still held strong. Both the Kings and the Spurs were battling fiercely, and for the first time, Chen Yilun’s boost card failed.

On the perimeter, CJ, Ben, and Casspi were smothered by the defensive tandem of Kawhi and Green, who took turns guarding them, while Parker hounded them relentlessly with guerrilla-style pressure. For an already inconsistent group of shooters, it made scoring nearly impossible.

Everything was heading toward an old-school finish—slugging it out in the paint, grinding on defense, and letting the star player decide the game.

“We can’t keep playing like this!” Chen Yilun sat on the bench as if on pins and needles, his legs shaking nonstop in frustration. “Cousins against Tim Duncan? No chance of winning!”

While Chen Yilun searched for answers, the clock kept ticking. As expected, the Spurs thrived with their crisp pass-and-cut offense built around Duncan, and the hard-earned Kings comeback was undone in moments.

Sensing danger, Mike Malone immediately called his second-to-last timeout, hoping to break the Spurs’ rhythm. But deep down, he knew—without a real answer, defeat was inevitable.

Just then, Chen Yilun pushed his way through the huddle and grabbed Malone’s hand. “Mike, how about we try that? The play we practiced last week.”

His voice was loud enough for everyone—coaches and players alike—to hear, and each reacted with their own expression.

Malone’s brow furrowed, while Cousins, still catching his breath on the bench, widened his eyes in disbelief, staring at both men.

“Coach, I can—” Cousins began, but Malone cut him off.

“If that play fails, you know exactly what kind of heat we’ll be under,” Malone said, locking eyes with Chen Yilun.

Chen Yilun met his gaze without hesitation. “Of course I know. But isn’t that our job? For the win!”

Malone paused for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Alright, listen up, guys—run Play Four! DeMarcus, I know you want to win this on your own, but right now, we’re a team. We’ll try it for two possessions. If it doesn’t work, we go back to our old set.”

The timeout ended quickly.

Back on the court, the Kings shifted gears. Their shooters began cutting hard and running off the ball again.

“They’re changing tactics!”

Popovich spotted it instantly.

“What are they trying? Another card to play?” he wondered. Aside from Oden, everything had gone according to plan. Could Malone really be hiding something else?

Suddenly, the formation shifted. CJ, who had been on the weak side, burst toward the top of the arc. Outside the paint, Cousins handed him the ball in a smooth dribble handoff.

Parker sprinted to chase him down, but two bodies suddenly blocked his path—Cousins and Gay—standing shoulder to shoulder like a wall.

CJ reached the arc, eyes locked on the rim, with Diaw still two steps too far to contest.

Swish! The ball dropped clean through.

“Good kid!”

Popovich jumped from the bench. That was the elevator doors play—the very one the Warriors had used on opening night! And they’d adapted it this quickly?

They were using CJ as a Curry stand-in.

But what truly grabbed Popovich’s attention wasn’t the tactic itself—it was the message behind it.

The Kings had always been Cousins’ team, with him dominating the ball. Yet here, in a crucial moment, he was setting screens to free up someone else’s shot. Before now, that had been unthinkable.

In the league’s eyes, the Kings’ hierarchy was clear—Cousins the undisputed leader, Gay the second option, and CJ, who’d only begun to shine this season, barely the third.

And now the team’s top two stars were running a play for their third option? That completely upended the usual hierarchy.

Popovich folded his arms on the sideline, glancing at the Kings’ bench with a mix of surprise and respect. Malone and Chen Yilun were gutsier than he’d thought.

But that was as far as it went.

With just a glance, Popovich signaled to Parker. After more than a decade together, they hardly needed words—complicated tactical shifts could be communicated with a single look.

The Spurs adjusted again. Duncan was no longer the finisher but the pick-and-roll threat.

And when Duncan wasn’t carrying the full load—that’s when the Spurs were at their most dangerous.

Sharp ball movement turned them into a flawless unit. The inexperienced Kings floundered on defense, CJ and Ben getting toyed with like helpless pups.

Worse still, after hitting two straight threes, CJ’s shooting form began to unravel under fatigue and the suffocating Spurs defense, buff or not.

Clang! The shot hit the front rim and bounced away.

Duncan, already positioned, stretched his long arm and hauled in the rebound.

Was there really no way out? Malone searched desperately for a solution, but when the Spurs played like this, even last season’s star-studded Heat couldn’t beat them.

The final minutes fizzled out. After battling all night, the Kings collapsed just short of the finish line. The Spurs never gave them another opening.

Final score: 135–122.

The Spurs won the high-scoring duel.

CJ stood frozen on the court, eyes locked on the clock as it hit zero, the red digits cutting deep.

Since the start of the season, it had felt like a dream—going from an unknown to the team’s point guard and brain. He had embraced the opportunity, repaying the trust with one strong performance after another.

But tonight, he had lost—on the biggest stage so far.

He had let the coach and GM down. Shame and regret swelled inside him until his vision blurred.

Then, a hand landed on his shoulder.

Chen Yilun, still wearing his trademark cocky grin, spoke in a light, almost teasing tone. “What’s wrong? Relax, kid.”

“This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even the playoffs. Just another regular season game.”

“But Chen—”

Chen Yilun waved him off. “Don’t let Coach Malone’s words get to you. How long have we been building this team? Just pushing the defending champs this far is reason enough to pop champagne. Remember—don’t get hung up on one loss. We’re young. Keep that hunger, keep competing. Every year brings a new season.”

---
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Chapter Text

Although the Kings lost on their home court, Sacramento’s loyal fans didn’t abandon them. Even after the final buzzer, the arena was still packed. Flags waved in the air as countless fans roared their support for the home team.

This rollercoaster of a game kept everyone on edge. Sure, they lost—but it was to the defending champions, and only by a slim margin.
Last year, this team sat at the bottom of the league. Now they’re playing like this? What more could you ask for? Just keep cheering them on.

In the studio, Sir Charles Barkley and Reggie Miller both exhaled in relief.
“This is the most exciting game I’ve seen all season,” Barkley said, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead that wasn’t there.
“Absolutely. The Kings have been full of surprises this year. I think analysts—especially those covering the West—will start paying close attention,” Miller replied. “With Cousins and Gay anchoring the team, and CJ leading a pack of hungry young guards…”
“That’s scary.”
“I can’t even imagine how good they’ll be by summer.”

While the studio buzzed, Chen Yilun wasn’t nearly as relaxed. He’d hoped to use his “cheat code” to impress Popovich, but the veteran coach’s experience still won out.
He’d done plenty of talking before the game, and now the old fox had him right where he wanted.

As Yilun looked for a chance to slip away, he turned and spotted a silver-haired old man at the edge of the court, wearing a sly grin.

Clink!
Crystal glasses met with a crisp chime. “You’ve got a knack for picking the right spots, kid.” Popovich took a sip of deep amber wine, closing his eyes to savor it before speaking again.
“You really don’t respect your elders. You even kept your whole team in Sacramento an extra day just to get at me,” Yilun replied, taking a sip himself and shaking his head.
“Oh, come on now,” Popovich said with a harmless glare. “Still, your progress has gone beyond what I expected. We figured it would take you at least two years to get this team on track. Now it seems letting you go might have been another mistake on my part.”

If Yilun had stayed, those two brilliant offseason trades might have been the Spurs’ instead. With LaVine’s elite 3-and-D potential and explosive athleticism, they never would have had a chance to get him.
And if they’d landed Jokic—the endlessly inventive big man—and given him two years with Duncan and Diaw, he might have been their frontcourt solution for the next decade.

“Well, nothing we can do now. You were the ones who pushed me to come here,” Yilun said, fully aware of the old fox’s thoughts.

Popovich caught the hint of smugness in Yilun’s expression and suddenly had an idea. His grin widened with a touch of scheming mischief.
“Any chance your young guys are available for a trade?”
Yilun shook his head without hesitation. “Other than Kawhi, there’s no one on the Spurs I’m interested in. If you’re willing to move Kawhi, name your price—I won’t argue.”

The dinner ended with the master and apprentice exchanging jabs and strategy, but no deal. That’s the way business works in the league—testing, probing, and pulling back until the deals finally happen.

...
After the Spurs game, the Kings had three days off before hosting the Pelicans.
With nothing much happening and no GMs ready to make moves before the trade deadline, Yilun decided to take a short break. He booked a flight straight to Los Angeles.

At Staples Center, dressed casually in sunglasses, he kept a low profile in the stands as he watched the Lakers face the Nuggets. He wasn’t scouting anyone—just living out the dream of seeing a game purely as a fan.

Under new coach Byron Scott, the Lakers were in a steep decline, gunning for the No. 1 draft pick. Kobe Bryant, fresh off a major injury, was carrying the team alone, with Nick Young as his second scoring option. Unsurprisingly, the Lakers lost to the Nuggets.

Even trying to blend in, Yilun’s unmistakable East Asian appearance quickly caught the attention of both teams and courtside reporters. After the game, two unexpected figures approached him.

Jeremy Lin, wearing the purple-and-gold No. 17 jersey and draped in a towel, came over. “Hey, Yilun, we finally meet.”
Yilun greeted him with a professional smile. “Yo, Jeremy, nice game tonight.”
In 2014, Lin hadn’t yet adopted the distinctive style he’d sport later with the Hornets, keeping a simple, short haircut.

That season, Lin was the Lakers’ third offensive option, but with Kobe and Nick Young ahead of him, touches were limited. Unless something surprising happened, he’d likely be switching teams again in the offseason. The greeting was probably just a way to connect through their shared background.

Behind Lin stood a tall, poised reporter in a fitted skirt.
“Betty just finished interviewing me, so we thought we’d come over and say hello.”

Her smile sparked Yilun’s memory. Wait—that’s Zhou Ling’an.
She was a respected NBA reporter back in China, best known for hosting the official program NBA Insider . Long before TX took over broadcast rights, she had built a reputation for sharp, insightful interviews.

“Hello, Mr. Chen. Sorry to interrupt, I’m Zhou Ling’an.” She smiled warmly and offered a handshake.

They had met before, but back when Yilun was with the Spurs, he was just a low-profile role player—nothing like the man who now called the shots for the Kings.
“Hello, hello. I used to watch your interviews all the time back in China. Great to finally meet you in person,” Yilun replied politely.

“Are you in Los Angeles for work today, Mr. Chen?” she asked smoothly.
“No, I’m on vacation—just here as a fan to soak in the Staples atmosphere,” Yilun answered, steering the topic away.

They spoke in Chinese, leaving Jeremy Lin—whose Mandarin was shaky—visibly out of the loop. After a brief pause, he nodded politely and headed back to the locker room.

“Oh, I see.” Zhou understood his intent, motioning for the cameraman to turn off the feed and setting down her microphone. “Sorry, am I disturbing your vacation?”
“It’s fine. Comes with the territory—getting ‘spotted’ is part of the job,” Yilun said casually.
“But I do have a suggestion, if you’re interested.”
“Just call me Yilun—‘Mr. Chen’ makes me sound old. What’s the suggestion?”
“Well…” Zhou brushed a strand of hair aside. “I’m currently hosting NBA Insider . I’d like to invite you as our next guest. Would you be interested?”

Chapter Text

“As a guest?” Chen Yilun rubbed the back of his head. “I’m just a manager, not a basketball star. Why would I go on a variety show?”

Zhou Ling’an smiled faintly at his puzzled look. “Sounds like you haven’t been keeping up with the news back home. You’re actually pretty popular right now.”

After she explained, Yilun finally realized he had built quite a following.

It was partly thanks to the decline of Chinese basketball. With the golden generation retiring, the fan base had splintered. Back when Yao Ming was still playing, most fans supported the Rockets. But after he left the NBA and no new Chinese players emerged, supporters began following different teams.

This season, die-hard fans were surprised to see another Chinese figure on the NBA stage. He wasn’t a player, but Chen Yilun was fully Chinese—not just of Asian descent like Jeremy Lin.

Naturally, attention shifted toward the once-overlooked Kings. And with the team starting the season red-hot, climbing into the Western Conference’s top four, Yilun had unknowingly become an idol for many fans. His rare public appearances only deepened the air of mystery around him.

“But I don’t really have anything worth interviewing about,” Yilun said, still unconvinced. In his eyes, he was just another professional in the league, far from the stars constantly under the spotlight.

“Don’t say that. Plenty of people want to interview you but haven’t had the chance. This could be a great way for people to get to know you—and it could help with your work, too.”

Seeing him hesitate, Zhou leaned in, pressing her advantage.

Just then, the long-silent System came to life.
“Ding! Host has encountered a sudden event. Issuing temporary task.”
“Challenge: Participate in a feature interview and earn an A rating. Reward: Random bronze badge.”

“Alright, I’m in!” Yilun blurted out, making Zhou jump.
“Ah—what I mean is…” He coughed, softening his tone. “If people want to know more about me, I’ve got no problem with that.”

Zhou quickly seized the opportunity. “Perfect. We’ll be in Sacramento in the next couple of days—we’ll work around your schedule.”

...
After a short vacation, Yilun returned to Sacramento. He hadn’t realized how seriously Zhou’s team was taking this first exclusive interview.

In the Kings’ next home game, they cruised past the Pelicans. Cousins and Pelicans star Anthony Davis battled hard in the paint, but the Kings’ overall play sealed the win.

After the game, Zhou called to lock in the interview time. Checking his calendar, Yilun picked the very next day—any later and he’d be tied up in a grueling four-game back-to-back road trip.

The following day, in a temporary studio, Yilun arrived in a sharp gray suit. Zhou was also dressed to impress.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to this episode of NBA Secret Agent ,” Zhou began. “Today we’re honored to have one of the league’s hottest names—also hugely popular back home—the Kings’ General Manager and Chief Operating Officer: Mr. Chen Yilun!”

Yilun gave an easy wave to the camera. “Hello, host. Hello to all the fans watching. I’m Chen Yilun.”

“Mr. Chen, you’ve been making waves this season. The Kings have been a surprise powerhouse, holding steady in the West’s top four. But many viewers might not be familiar with the details of your role. Could you explain it for us?”

“Of course,” Yilun said after a moment’s thought. “My work has two main sides—external and internal. Let’s start with the part most people are curious about.

“Externally, I deal with other teams’ managers to negotiate trades—those player, draft pick, and asset deals you see between teams. I also work with player agents to negotiate contracts, what we usually call free agency signings. For rookies, I coordinate with scouts to understand their stats and skills so we can make the most of our draft picks. Sometimes we track promising players from junior high or high school, even adjusting our season goals around them.

“Internally, I handle the team’s annual budget, revenue, and expenses—everything from ticket pricing to day-to-day arena operations. And of course, I manage our players’ contracts.”

“Sounds like a heavy workload,” Zhou noted. “So is it fair to say the coach leads the action on the court while you handle the operation behind the scenes?”

“You could put it that way.”

“Then can you share whether the Kings have any trades in the works, or any inside news from around the league? A lot of fans online see you as their main connection to the NBA.”

Yilun chuckled. “Well, I can’t leave fans empty-handed. The Kings are a young, energetic team. Under Mike Malone’s leadership, we’re on the right track. Our goal this season is simple: make the playoffs and build a winning culture. The trade deadline’s still a ways off, and we’re still building chemistry, so there’s no major trade plan right now.”

He paused, then added with a different tone, “But from what I know, the Eastern Conference has shifted a lot this year, and plenty of teams—especially contenders—are restless. The trade market could get busy. Keep your eyes on it.”

He punctuated the statement with a sly wink at the camera.

The rest of the interview was more routine. Yilun took the chance to praise his players and speak highly of Mike Malone. He had a clear motive—he remembered that in the original timeline, Malone was fired mid-season and replaced by veteran coach George Karl. If that happened here, Yilun’s good days would be numbered. So he worked to strengthen Malone’s position. To outsiders, it looked like a seamless partnership.

As the interview neared its end, Zhou asked, “Mr. Chen, many young players will be watching this. What advice would you give to those aiming for the NBA?”

This question made Yilun pause.

“When we decide whether to spend a draft pick on a player, we look at many factors—not just physical ability. Playing style, growth potential, and even personality all matter.

“I’m looking forward to the day we see new faces from back home on draft night. For those still training and waiting for their shot, my advice is to stay positive, stay competitive, but don’t train aimlessly—know your strengths and build on them. These days, both the NBA and international basketball value speed and outside shooting more than before. It’s no secret, but if you want a place in the future, start working in that direction.”

As someone who knew what was coming, Yilun understood the game’s trajectory. The five-out offense would dominate the next decade. Sharing this now, he hoped it might help the sport grow back home.

(35 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

After the interview, Chen Yilun immediately switched back into work mode. Next up were the Bulls. The Kings once again defended their home court, but in the following four away games, they only managed a 2–2 record—losing once to the red-hot Rockets and once in San Antonio, where the Spurs completed the sweep against them.

By the time they returned to Sacramento, it was already late November. Their next opponent was the Grizzlies, who had been on fire since the start of the season with a 14–2 record, sitting second in the West. The Kings were currently 11–5, holding fourth place in the West—just barely inside the top four.

But now, Chen Yilun had a new problem on his mind. One of the System’s challenge tasks required that at least two players from his team make this year’s All-Star lineup. The reward? The Intermediate Boost Gift Pack—the one he wanted most.

From the last Boost Gift Pack, he had pulled a Dual-Threat Guard 101 badge and a Team Three-Point Boost card. The 101 badge was already bound to his go-to guy CJ, while the Boost card remained his most powerful hidden ace.

If he could produce two All-Stars, he’d get another Intermediate Boost Gift Pack. That would be a massive boost to his plans.

The problem was—how was he supposed to make two All-Stars? Sure, the Kings had a solid record so far, but Sacramento was still a small market—low population, low exposure.

And to make things worse, the Western Conference was stacked. The league was in a clear “West strong, East weak” era. It wasn’t like in the East, where even a 3-and-D player like Kyle Korver could make the All-Star Game. Out West, it was a shark tank.

Right now, the only players with any real shot were Cousins and CJ. Cousins was a given. As for CJ, under Mike Malone’s guidance—and with the boost from his badge—he’d already become a top-tier guard. But in the Western guard rankings, he was barely hanging on. In front of him were Curry, Kobe, Harden, Paul, Lillard, and Thompson. Every single one of them was a mountain to climb—and that’s not even counting the guys behind him: Westbrook, Rondo, Jeremy Lin...

Wait. Jeremy Lin?

Seeing Lin’s name on the voting list, Chen Yilun froze. How was Lin even here?

If he remembered correctly, Lin’s “Linsanity” days were long past. This season, he was bouncing between being the Lakers’ second and third scoring option, averaging maybe 12 points a game. So how was he on the list?

The confusion lasted only a second before Chen Yilun slapped himself on the forehead. Of course! Lin still had a huge, loyal fan base across Asia, which gave him a big boost in the voting.

Even though the NBA had changed the voting rules after Yao Ming famously knocked Shaq off the top spot as a rookie—greatly reducing the impact of overseas voting—his international following was still massive enough to make a difference. Which meant... there was a window of opportunity.

The thought made Chen Yilun jump to his feet from his office chair.

...

In the home locker room, Mike Malone was in the middle of a tactical briefing when the door burst open and Chen Yilun stormed in, grabbing his hand.

“What’s going on, Yilun? Your face is all red,” Malone said, bewildered.

“Mike, let’s talk outside.”

Without waiting for agreement, Chen Yilun pulled Malone out of the room, leaving the rest of the players staring at each other in confusion.

“How many All-Stars do you think we can have this year?” Chen Yilun asked, eyes intense.

“All-Stars? Why the sudden question?” Malone was puzzled, but he thought it over seriously. “We didn’t have a single one last year. Cousins has a real shot this season—last year our record was too bad for him to make it. Gay isn’t even in the top ten. CJ made the list, but there are so many elite guards in the West that his chances are slim.”

“Do you think we could get both CJ and Cousins in?”

At first, Malone thought he was joking. But the serious look on Yilun’s face said otherwise.

“That’s almost impossible. Even with our improved record, our foundation is weak, and our market’s too small to get that many votes.”

“I know it’s tough, but there’s still a chance, right? My point is—while keeping the team competitive, can we boost their stats significantly over the next month?”

“That’s on them. I can give them more touches, but they still have to make the shots.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine. Just do it my way—give them the ball and let them pile up stats.” Yilun pressed the point hard. “Mike, I’ve got your back. The boss has high expectations this season. He even asked me if we should bring in a big-name coach. I’ve been vouching for you, even putting my word on the line to keep you here.”

The half-truths left Malone dazed.

“I also heard a rumor,” Yilun leaned in, “the boss might be looking at George Karl.”

Boom. It was like a nuclear bomb went off in Malone’s head. George Karl—a thousand-win coach, future Hall of Famer. If it was really him, Malone wouldn’t even compare.

“Then... what am I supposed to do?” Malone’s brain felt like it had short-circuited. One moment, he was dreaming of becoming a legendary Kings coach; the next, he was being told he might be packing his bags.

“That’s why we need results—results that will make the boss not want to fire you.” Yilun’s voice was like a devil’s whisper. “Like getting two All-Stars this year. That way, we lock in a strong record, make the boss look good, and he won’t want to let you go. What do you say?”

Seeing Malone nodding vigorously, Yilun suddenly realized—he might actually have a knack for persuasion. This great coach had just been talked into it.

...

When Malone returned to the locker room, he scrapped all the tactics he’d just set up.

“Everyone—run your spots and crash the boards! If Cousins calls for it inside, give it to him immediately and space the floor for his iso. Second unit—set solid screens and get CJ open looks! Got it?”

The players didn’t understand why the coach had suddenly thrown out the previous plan for something different. Well... not entirely different—this was a strategy usually saved for when all else had failed and the stars had to go one-on-one. It had never been used as a standard game plan.

But strange or not, no one objected. The only player who might have complained was Gay—but he was perfectly happy to have fewer touches. Less work, same paycheck. What was there to argue about?

---
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Chapter Text

“Whoosh!”

Using Casspi’s screen, CJ created just enough space to shoot. He rose up from beyond the arc and drained another three. Conley, defending him, could only watch as the ball swished through the net.

Normally, the Grizzlies would assign Tony Allen to guard CJ, their primary outside threat. But the Kings had a sneaky counter. Whenever CJ was on the floor, their shooting guard spot was occupied by LaVine, parked on the perimeter.

Sure—stick Tony Allen on CJ. The Kings would just let LaVine slice inside for uncontested cuts all night.

It wasn’t unreasonable for Sacramento to play this way. The Grizzlies, after all, were one of the toughest teams in the league. You send LaVine into the paint? Waiting for him were Randolph and Gasol.

But after a few possessions, Memphis realized something was off. This LaVine kid? He really had no fear. No matter how many big men were under the rim, once he saw an opening, he’d barrel straight in, head down.

That relentless style quickly made an impact. LaVine’s finishing percentage wasn’t high, and he got blocked often, but this was the verticality era in the NBA. His drives, combined with Mike Malone’s plan to have Cousins pound the ball inside in iso plays, sent the Grizzlies’ big men’s foul counts climbing fast.

By the start of the third quarter, Randolph already had four fouls, and Gasol had three. Even Allen, who’d been chasing LaVine earlier, was hesitant to risk a reach.

For a defense-first team like Memphis, foul trouble for key defenders was devastating. They were forced to shrink their coverage.

That was exactly what Mike Malone wanted. CJ immediately went to work, running off screens and launching threes.

The three-point barrage had the Grizzlies’ perimeter defense scrambling.

Even the toughest shield has its cracks. Chen Yilun knew exactly where Memphis was weakest. When the starters rested, the Kings sent in Mozgov and backup Landry.

If you’re going to defend hard, we’ll defend hard too. If I’m not scoring, you’re not scoring either.

Just when Memphis thought they’d finally dragged Sacramento into their grind-it-out pace, the fully rested CJ and Cousins checked back in with the starters and blew the game open.

I’m just waiting for the cooldown—what are you waiting for?

In the end, the Kings held serve at home without breaking a sweat. CJ cruised to 30+ points, while Cousins posted an easy 20+10.

The Golden 1 Center erupted in wave after wave of cheers. After years of frustration, Kings fans could finally stand tall again—and they were going to brag about it every chance they got. Win or lose, the home atmosphere was electric.

There were even whispers around the league about Sacramento’s new “Devil’s Home Court.”

...

By December, Christmas was in the air everywhere. Even Chen Yilun couldn’t help but get caught up in the holiday spirit.

The awkward part was, before the season started, the Kings had been one of the least talked-about teams in the league. So while the marquee Christmas Day games tipped off, Sacramento’s players were… watching from home.

Most of their December matchups were against weaker teams, so Malone let Cousins and CJ play with no restrictions—except in a few showdowns with Western playoff contenders like the Rockets and Thunder. The rest? Easy wins across the board.

Earlier that month, Chen Yilun’s interview aired. His polished answers and perfectly timed humor won him a fresh wave of fans.

Some even began referring to him as one of basketball’s rising personalities.

Riding that momentum, Chen opened his own Twitter account. When he wasn’t busy, he’d hop online to interact with fans.

After just over two weeks, his follower count was in the hundreds of thousands—but still far from enough for his goals. He knew perfectly well that stepping into the spotlight was all about completing the System’s mission.

Then, just as he was wondering what to do next, an unfamiliar phone call caught his attention.

“A foreign number?”

Lounging on his apartment sofa, Chen glanced at the caller ID, surprised.

His main focus was still in the U.S., and his only contacts overseas were friends and media connections.

“Hello? Is this Mr. Chen?” The voice on the other end was calm and professional.

“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”

“Sorry for the intrusion. This is Bleacher Report. We’d like to invite you to join our platform—and if possible, bring CJ along as well.”

When you’re sleepy and a pillow appears—this was exactly that moment.

Chen had been racking his brain on how to expand his influence. At the time, the two biggest global sports media platforms were Bleacher Report and ESPN, with Bleacher Report having the stronger digital presence.

“What do you mean by ‘join’?” Chen asked, feigning ignorance.

“We’d like you to sign with Bleacher Report and register a verified account. Once that’s done, we’ll send a team to Sacramento to set up a live stream for you. It’ll give your influence and commercial value a major boost.”

“Oh, that’s what you mean.” Though he was thrilled inside, Chen pretended to hesitate before replying, “I’ve got no problem with that, but I might need to check with CJ’s agent.”

Hearing the clear interest in Chen’s tone, the caller’s excitement grew. “Of course, of course. How about we exchange numbers and discuss the details from there?”

No time for “later”! Chen almost blurted out what he was thinking. Time was short—December was already halfway over, and the All-Star voting deadline was looming.

CJ’s stats had been climbing steadily, but the All-Star Game wasn’t just about numbers. Just two days earlier, the Kings had lost to the Thunder, and Oklahoma’s PR machine had gone into overdrive. Westbrook’s votes were now breathing down CJ’s neck, with a real chance of passing him.

Acting fast, Chen immediately called CJ’s agent. The moment the agent learned it cost nothing and would help expand into the global market, he agreed without hesitation.

This wasn’t like negotiating a major endorsement deal. It was just registering on an international sports platform and letting the team handle the rest—especially with the GM himself leading the process. That was far easier than the agent fumbling through it alone.

With CJ quickly on board, Chen decided to push further and roped in LaVine too. CJ brought the game, LaVine brought rookie hype and high-energy play. With this move, they’d have the fans eating out of their hands.

---
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Chapter Text

When Bleacher Report heard that Chen Yilun had agreed—and even brought CJ and LaVine along—they were so excited they practically wanted to pop champagne in the president’s office.

You couldn’t blame them. Sports platforms back then were still in their wild-west days. Mobile apps had only just started gaining traction, and most were still growing chaotically. Especially in the sports industry, fans were mostly fixated on superstars overseas, waiting for the rare moments they got to see them up close.

So if someone came up and said, “Join us, and you’ll get the chance to chat with them online,” who wouldn’t be lining up at the door?

Bleacher Report gave Chen Yilun the red-carpet treatment. After the deal was sealed, they handed him a full week of prime ad placement on their most important pages, plus wall-to-wall promotion everywhere else. With Chen Yilun’s influence, they decided to schedule the stream for Christmas night in the U.S.

Watch the NBA’s Christmas Day games in the afternoon, then tune into a live stream in the evening? That was perfect.

“Boss, what should we wear tomorrow?”

The team had already wrapped up their last game before Christmas on the 22nd, so the players were technically on break. But CJ and LaVine couldn’t sit still; the two were still grinding away in the gym.

That afternoon, just as Chen Yilun was about to leave work, they cornered him at his office door.

“Just go casual,” Chen Yilun thought for a moment. “Why don’t you both just wear your practice gear tomorrow? The stream’s in the training facility anyway. If the mood’s right, you’ll probably need to show off a few moves. No need for suits.”

Seeing how nervous they looked made Chen Yilun chuckle inside. A few years from now, both would be established names in the league. Maybe not franchise leaders, but certainly respected and in demand. Right now though, they were still far too green.

“Relax. I’ll be on camera with you, won’t I? Just follow my lead.” He gave them a reassuring look.

...

The next morning, Chen Yilun drove to the Kings’ practice facility. Bleacher Report had originally suggested streaming from Arco Arena, but Chen shut that down immediately.

Game arenas aren’t for casual use. Want to broadcast there? Pay up.

As soon as he stepped inside, he saw several chairs set up at center court. That would be the interview spot.

This time Bleacher Report had really gone all in. Unlike the earlier variety show, here they had everything—professional cameras, multiple setups, and far more staff buzzing around like ants.

Next to the cameras, a man and a woman were finalizing preparations. As soon as they saw Chen Yilun walk in, they set down their work and hurried over.

“Manager Chen, we’re today’s hosts. We’ll be running the live broadcast.”

“Oh, hello, hello. Thank you for coming all this way.” Chen Yilun shook their hands warmly. He didn’t recognize either face—probably Bleacher Report’s own up-and-coming hosts.

“No trouble at all. Honestly, I nearly broke my neck trying to land this assignment.”

The male host was already chatting freely.

“You don’t know—half the people at our office are Kings fans now. Everyone wanted a chance to be here and meet you and the players.”

“Half?” Chen Yilun raised an eyebrow. The Kings had been terrible for years, with hardly any loyal fans left. Even with this season’s promising start, they’d only played half a year of good basketball. By his estimation, they needed consistent results this season before building a real fan base next year.

The host quickly explained, “That’s exactly why people are tuning in. Fans know the Kings finally have new leadership, and it’s brought real energy back to the franchise. For a lot of people, this is the first time in years the Kings feel worth rooting for again.

Take me, for example. Watching the Kings now feels completely different from the past—it’s like seeing a team grow up right in front of your eyes.”

That fresh perspective made Chen Yilun laugh. “I see. Then I’d better stay in touch with the fans more often. The more people we bring together, the stronger the fire burns.”

...

While they were talking, CJ and LaVine arrived at the practice court. After introductions with the hosts and interpreter, the Christmas special stream officially kicked off.

By then it was early evening on the East Coast, the perfect prime-time slot for Bleacher Report’s Christmas broadcast. Viewers at home were already settled in and pulling up the stream.

The instant it went live, people flooded the room from every direction. The chat lit up with messages.

“My god, that’s GM Chen! He’s the Kings’ connection to the future!”
“CJ! Big fan—you’ve been on fire lately!”
“LaVine’s looking sharp tonight!”
“Okay, enough LaVine stans, give someone else a chance!”

The stream’s audience shot past half a million in moments and kept climbing.

The male host steadied himself and smiled into the camera. “Good evening, Bleacher Report fans. Welcome to our Christmas special live broadcast! Tonight we’re joined by three special guests: Kings GM Chen Yilun, CJ McCollum, and Zach LaVine.”

A round of applause rippled through the gym.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Chen Yilun.” He smiled and waved at the camera.

CJ and LaVine followed with greetings. Their delivery was a little clumsy, but the effort drew plenty of laughs and cheers.

After the introductions, the hosts steered the conversation forward. “The Kings are arguably the league’s hottest dark horse this season. Since Manager Chen is here today, could you share with us the story of the Kings’ rise?”

Chen Yilun paused briefly before answering. “I think the most important thing is that we’re a young team. Our new owner, Mr. Vivek, has given the front office tremendous freedom, which has allowed us to fully use our talents.

After all, as I said earlier, many of our key players are rookies or sophomores. We have nothing to lose. So why not just go all in?”

---
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Chapter Text

The host chatted casually with Chen Yilun for a while before turning the focus to CJ and LaVine. After all, while Chen Yilun might be the man in charge, no one had the patience to hear about a working man’s daily routine. The two rising stars of the league clearly had more buzz.

“CJ, how would you evaluate your performance this season?” the female host asked.

CJ took a moment to think before answering. “I think the progress I’ve made this season is entirely thanks to Chen and the coach.” He glanced gratefully at Chen Yilun. “They’ve both been great mentors in my life, giving me their full trust.

I also want to thank my teammates. Since offseason training began, they’ve been encouraging me non-stop—telling me to take my shots with confidence. A big part of my progress comes from the opportunities they’ve created for me.”

As he finished, Chen Yilun nodded repeatedly. That’s right—this is how you show loyalty.

By now, the male host had shifted his attention to LaVine.

“Manager Chen, I heard that picking LaVine was your first decision made against the consensus. From what we can see now, he’s doing great on the team and has been holding his spot in the rookie rankings for a long time. Could you share your thought process when you chose LaVine?”

The moment the question was asked, not only the two hosts but even LaVine looked at Chen Yilun with curiosity.

Wait a second, this question wasn’t in the script. Chen’s mind raced, but when he looked up, he saw the male host grinning at him. This kid definitely threw that one in on the spot!

Of course, he couldn’t exactly say, Well, I have a crystal ball and I knew he’d have huge potential.

“Ahem.” He gave a tactical cough. “Well, we’ve actually been following LaVine for quite a while. His playing style and his overall demeanor both fit perfectly with our team-building philosophy.”

“And what is the Kings’ team-building philosophy?” The male host immediately latched onto the key point.

Chen Yilun smiled. “It’s actually quite simple. My mentor, Popovich, taught me that a mature team must have its own identity. The Spurs, for example, are all about team basketball—always looking for that ‘one more pass.’ Of course, the Kings still have a long way to go. Right now, what we need most is to build a winning culture.

Only with a winning culture will the team have the drive to improve, instead of just going through the motions and treating basketball like a nine-to-five job. You have to have a hunger for glory.” As he spoke, Chen glanced at his two protégés.

“CJ, I want you to take home this year’s Most Improved Player award. I believe in you. LaVine, you’re still a rookie, so it’s not quite the time for major accolades yet—but you will be playing in both the All-Star Rookie Game and the Slam Dunk Contest this year. Those are rare opportunities to showcase your talent—don’t waste them.”

Before anyone could respond, Chen suddenly switched gears. “Speaking of the All-Star Game, voting has already started. CJ and Cousins both have a shot at making the roster.”

As he spoke, he somehow pulled out two posters—one of Cousins, one of CJ—and grinned at the camera. “Fans, do me a favor and vote for my two guys, okay? Much appreciated!”

The sudden promo stunned not only the on-site staff but also the livestream viewers.

By this point, the livestream had already drawn over a million viewers and the number was still climbing. For a moment, the chat blew up with “??????”

“Wow, Chen is really dedicated—still campaigning for his players at a time like this.”
“Looks like an ad to me. I have proof!”
“What do you call dedication? Chen is so wholesome—I’m crying over here.”

Seeing the atmosphere heating up, the deputy general manager of Bleacher Report, who was monitoring backstage, quickly signaled the host through her earpiece to play along.

The female host picked it up immediately. “Manager Chen really is devoted to his players. Everyone watching, you can go vote for the two of them now and support our own.”

The male host chimed in, “We just got word—since we want to support Manager Chen’s work and give our fans a treat—Manager Chen, how about we make a little trade?”

Chen raised an eyebrow. “What kind of trade?”

“Well, we’ve been chatting for quite a while now. Maybe the fans want to see the two players show off a bit. Here’s the deal—starting tomorrow, we’ll pin the All-Star voting channel to the top of Bleacher Report’s homepage and send traffic toward Cousins and CJ. But in return… I just heard LaVine is entering the Slam Dunk Contest. How about giving our livestream fans a little preview?”

Before LaVine could even respond, Chen Yilun sprang to his feet. “Of course! Deal! You guys are in for a treat tonight!” Without a thought for LaVine’s opinion, he grabbed him and started hauling him toward the court.

“Hey! No! Boss, I haven’t even warmed up yet!” LaVine, taller by half a head and far more built than Chen, was still dragged along like an eagle carrying off a chick.

“Warmed up? Come on, it’s not like you’re playing a full game—just do a couple of stretches. Now go give them a dunk!” If people didn’t know he was the GM, no one would believe a GM could pull something like this. He was only a breath away from saying, “If you’ve got money, support with money—if not, show up in person!”

In the information age, what grabs the most attention? Pulling stunts.
And what’s even better? Official stunts.

The viewer count shot up again. By the time LaVine finished warming up, it had passed 1.5 million.

“Don’t miss this! You’re getting an All-Star Slam Dunk Contest preview tonight!” Chen leaned into the camera like an overexcited baboon. “And after you watch, go vote for my guys—I’m watching you!”

Nearby, CJ lowered his head, looking like he’d just remembered something unpleasant, refusing to face the camera. Across the court, LaVine turned his back as he stretched, unwilling to accept reality.

“All right, all right, enough stalling—let’s go!” Chen shouted toward LaVine. The livestream camera moved to the side of the court.

LaVine took a deep breath, clearing his mind. Cradling the ball, he suddenly accelerated from beyond the three-point line.

Just as his foot landed inside the free-throw line, he took off—exploding upward like a cannonball, gliding gracefully toward the hoop. Time seemed to slow as he swung his arms wide, soaring toward the rim.

“Bang!” The ball slammed through the net.

A one-step windmill dunk from inside the free-throw line!

The chat went dead silent. Seconds later, it exploded again with “??????”

“Is that even humanly possible?”
“Mom, I just saw someone fly!”
“We’re watching this for free?!”

Even the usually talkative male host was stunned into silence, needing a moment before reacting.

“My God, that’s insane! He’s going straight for the championship!”

“That’s right!” At some point, Chen Yilun had walked up beside him. “Why else would we be entering if not to win?”

He flashed a peace sign at the camera. “Everyone, remember to vote for CJ and Cousins from my team. And keep an eye on LaVine during the All-Star—because we’re going for the title!”

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

“#￥%&*（%？#” Mike Malone mumbled in what he clearly thought was flawless Chinese as he strolled into Chen Yilun’s office.

Chen, who had been reviewing documents, immediately pulled a pained expression and lifted the papers to hide his face.

“How come you’re here to laugh at me too?” Chen raised his hands in surrender.

The usually stern Mike Malone couldn’t hide his grin. “Don’t blame me. A chance like this doesn’t come around even once in a lifetime—you can’t expect me to miss out!” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Seriously though, what were you thinking? You made yourself look like a home shopping channel host in front of all those people.”

The truth was, what Chen had done on that live broadcast was just part of his job. A general manager’s responsibility is, after all, to boost the value of the team. But most GMs see themselves as elite strategists, staying tucked away in their offices, pulling strings from behind the scenes. Ninety-nine percent wouldn’t be caught dead waving their arms and making a spectacle on camera.

Some even claimed Chen’s antics made the job look like a joke.

But while some frowned, others celebrated. Overnight, Cousins and CJ saw a huge bump in All-Star votes. Even Rudy Gay—who had been coasting—got a lift, though he was too far behind for it to matter much.

When owner Ranadive heard about it, he called Chen, barely holding back his laughter, and gave him a verbal commendation—calling it a major personal sacrifice for the sake of the team’s growth.

Back in his home country, the incident also made waves, drawing a flood of playful mockery online.

“Chen’s working too hard—someone hand me a tissue!”
“This feels like when my boss does the Harlem Shake to motivate us at work.”
“If Chen doesn’t win Best GM this year, I’ll be shocked.”

Scrolling through the comments, Chen wished he could crawl through the internet and shut every single one of them up.

“But all jokes aside…” While Chen was still grumbling internally, Mike Malone spoke again, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m more and more convinced…”

His smile faded, and he looked Chen dead in the eye. “This team is becoming more and more dependent on you.”

...

After Christmas, Arco Arena—quiet for several days—was once again packed to the rafters.

Once the home DJ finished announcing both starting lineups, a spotlight suddenly hit Chen, sitting in the far corner of the bench area.

“And our beloved General Manager… Chen! Yilun!”

The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer of the night—louder even than when Cousins had been introduced.

“Has everyone voted today?” the DJ shouted to hype up the crowd.

“Yes!” came an even louder roar, the arena buzzing with energy.

Chen forced himself to stand and wave, then sat back down with a stiff face, motioning for his assistant GM. “Find a chance to fire that DJ.”

The game itself wasn’t particularly critical—the opponent was the Suns, currently hanging onto the last playoff spot.

This season, Phoenix had gone all-in on offense, building a “three-headed” backcourt of Bledsoe, Dragic, and Isaiah Thomas in the offseason. Thomas had been poached straight from the Kings.

Offensively, the trio was electric. Defensively… well, let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

Normally, if your backcourt defense is shaky, you’d shore it up with a strong defensive forward. But Phoenix’s starting frontcourt was Markieff Morris and Alex Len.

Markieff was still in his prime and solid on both ends, but Len was barely even a blue-collar big—he didn’t bring much to the table at all.

The game tipped off, and Cousins easily won the jump. He fed CJ, who calmly brought the ball up.

Over on the Suns’ bench, a small guard with a baby face watched the familiar court with a complicated expression.

Isaiah Thomas. This was his first game back at the Kings’ home court since leaving.

Back then, he’d taken advantage of the Kings’ chaotic guard rotation to secure a steady role—becoming one of their most reliable perimeter scorers. But when his rookie deal expired, the Kings hadn’t hesitated for a second before letting him walk.

Because he was only 5’9” and had been the 60th pick in the second round—the very last player chosen.

That offseason, walking away from Sacramento, he’d fantasized about the day the Kings would regret not keeping him.

Instead, the team had exploded like they’d strapped on rocket boosters.

And now, returning “home,” he felt more like a clown than a conquering hero.

Swish!

Lost in thought, Thomas snapped back just in time to see CJ drive into the paint, pulling three Suns defenders with him before kicking it out to Gay in the corner.

Gay caught it, had time to square up and adjust his form, then rose and drained the jumper.

“Nice pass, CJ!” Gay called as he jogged back, exchanging a high-five with him.

Everything was running smoothly.

Phoenix’s leaky perimeter defense soon cost them dearly. CJ and LaVine were slicing through the lane with ease. The Kings’ offense was firing on all cylinders—hitting from outside when they had the touch, dumping it inside to Cousins to punish Len when they didn’t.

Sacramento ended the first quarter up by 12. Things got worse for Phoenix in the second, when Thomas led the second unit straight into the twin towers of Mozgov and Oden.

Ever since Oden’s breakout game against the Spurs, Malone had made him a permanent part of the rotation.

That left the Kings with a crowded frontcourt of Cousins, Mozgov, and Oden—definitely a good problem to have.

For the bench, Malone had borrowed from the Grizzlies’ playbook, running a slow, grinding twin-tower set: LaVine and Ray McCallum in the backcourt, Landry at forward, flanked by Mozgov and Oden.

The approach was simple—our offense might not be great, but theirs will be worse.

It made for some funny moments: Thomas using his quickness to slip into the paint, only to find two massive bodies—one dark, one light—waiting under the rim.

Mozgov and Oden, both towering big men, covered so much ground that Thomas had nowhere to go.

Couldn’t score. Couldn’t defend.

When it was over, the Suns left Sacramento with a 102–115 loss.

====

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

In a high-end restaurant in Boston, Chen Yilun and Danny Ainge sat face to face. As the man most likely to cause trouble for Cleveland in the East, Chen Yilun wasn’t opposed to lending Ainge a hand. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

“Tsk.” Ainge sipped a fine sherry and said, “Yilun, I’ve been wanting to sit down for dinner with you for a long time, but time’s always been too tight. Finally caught you today, so we’ve got to enjoy a proper drink.”

Chen Yilun raised his glass in return and took a sip.

It wasn’t surprising that Ainge didn’t know much about him. In fact, the entire circle of general managers knew very little about Chen Yilun. He had risen too quickly. Aside from a few connections within the Spurs system, most people in the league had barely noticed his existence.

“I’ve admired your work for a long time,” Chen said, “but unfortunately, we never had the chance to meet before.”

“Your Kings are running the West right now—you’ve even pushed your own teacher down the ladder,” Ainge said slyly, narrowing his eyes with a grin.

Chen laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Better not let Pop hear that, or I’ll be in trouble.” Casually adjusting the food on his plate, he continued, “Danny, you didn’t come to dinner today just to chat, did you?”

“I just enjoy working with young guys like you.” Ainge paused and gave him a thumbs-up. “Same as Stevens—always full of fire. So I’ll get straight to the point. We’re planning to make a move before the trade deadline. Thought I’d ask if you might want in.”

Chen set down his fork. “Oh? You’re planning something?”

Ainge glanced around, leaned forward slightly, and lowered his voice. “Phoenix.”

Sure enough. Chen instantly understood. History was repeating itself—the old fox was circling the Suns once again.

“You’re after one of those three, aren’t you?”

“Nothing finalized yet. Either Dragic or Thomas.”

“And you’re coming to me because…?”

Ainge spread his hands helplessly. “The price hasn’t been settled. I figured I’d see if you’d be interested in joining a three-way.”

It all clicked into place. According to the original timeline, the Celtics ended up sending Marcus Thornton plus a protected first-round pick to the Suns for Isaiah Thomas. But Thornton had already been traded to the Cavaliers in Chen’s timeline—that single variable was enough to stall negotiations.

“This…” Chen rubbed his hands, looking embarrassed. “I can’t give you an answer right now. Let me head back to Sacramento, sort through some things, and get back to you.”

“Of course, of course.” Ainge clinked glasses with him. He hadn’t expected to seal the deal that night anyway.

The league’s way of doing business had long borrowed from European soccer traditions—deals often took shape over food and drinks, sealed with a few toasts across the table.

Satisfied with Chen’s response, Ainge was in high spirits. The two of them drank until the restaurant closed before finally parting ways.

As they stepped out, Chen, feigning drunkenness, leaned in and whispered, “If you really go through with a trade… between Dragic and Thomas, I’d go with Thomas. I know him well—he’s the best fit for your team right now.”

...

Dragging his weary body back to the hotel, Chen collapsed onto the bed—only to hear the familiar, emotionless voice of the System.

“Beep! Host has completed the task. Beginning settlement.”

“Calculation complete. Host participated in a special interview. Rating: A+. Now distributing rewards.”

The familiar turntable appeared before his eyes and began to spin.

“Congratulations, Host, you’ve obtained the ‘Catch-and-Shoot’ bronze badge. When bound to a player, that player’s catch-and-shoot ability increases by +5.”

What a prize! The sight of the badge sobered Chen up instantly. As someone who played NBA 2K, he knew exactly how valuable it was.

Even as a bronze badge, it wasn’t some worthless throwaway. This was a must-have for any 3-and-D player. Staring at it, Chen suddenly remembered something. In a flash, he leapt out of bed.

He grabbed his laptop, pulled it open, and started searching. When he found the answer he wanted, a sly grin spread across his face.

At first, he had only been curious to see if he could help the Celtics and maybe scoop up a bargain along the way. But given the circumstances, it was clear—this was a mess he couldn’t afford to stay out of.

...

The next day, Chen flew with the team straight to Minnesota. But the moment he stepped off the plane, his players surrounded him.

“Boss, today’s New Year’s Day. Tradition says you’ve got to pick up the check for a team dinner tonight.” Cousins and Oden blocked the doorway with their towering frames.

Seeing the grins on their faces, Chen knew instantly he’d been cornered.

“Come on. Since when is that a tradition? Most of you guys are my age—or older. Rudy, at your age you’ve got the nerve to stick me with the bill?” Chen spotted Rudy Gay hiding in the crowd, half amused and half annoyed.

Rudy Gay, the oldest on the roster, was already pushing 30.

“Hehehe.” Gay stepped forward sheepishly. “Boss, don’t blame us. We figured the team dinner tab should come from management. We tried Coach first, but he ducked it and told us to ask you instead.”

As soon as he finished, a stocky, balding middle-aged man at the door slipped away in a hurry.

“Mike!” Chen’s furious roar echoed through the hotel.

In the end, he couldn’t win against the team’s pressure and reluctantly agreed to cover a modest team dinner. Of course, no one dared push too far. As professionals, most of them earned more than he did—they just wanted to share a little good-natured fun.

Back at the hotel, Chen went straight to his room, opened his laptop, and got to work.

“If this is really how it’s going to play out, then I’m going to be busy for a while,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the calendar.

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

The game was over, and Chen Yilun stood up from the coach’s seat without much enthusiasm, ready to leave with the team. Nothing about this game had caught his interest.

But just as he was packing up his things, he noticed a small figure.

Isaiah Thomas hadn’t left the court right away. Instead, he stood quietly to the side, eyes locked on the faded banner hanging high above the Arco Arena.

It was a relic of the distant past, a legacy from the dark ages. Back then, the Kings were still called the Rochester Royals, and in 1951, they captured the only championship in franchise history.

During his time with the Kings, Isaiah often looked up at that flag. Deep down, he was a sensitive man with a fierce sense of pride. The doubts and criticism from the outside world weighed heavily on him, but he always managed to turn that pressure into fuel—a step on the ladder driving him forward.

“Isaiah!”

Chen Yilun walked over and called out. Thomas turned and looked at him, confusion flickering in his eyes.

He and Chen had never crossed paths. When he left, Chen hadn’t even taken the stage yet. Why was this guy talking to him now?

“Not being able to work with you—that’s one of my regrets.”

After a few pleasantries, Chen continued, “You know, I’ve seen a lot of players, and some of them have qualities that really stand out. Something unique in their demeanor. I see that same quality in you.” He locked eyes with Isaiah. “You were made for the big stage. Remember my words—your moment will come.”

For a moment, Isaiah seriously wondered if the man in front of him was really a professional manager or just a suit-wearing fortune-teller.

It wasn’t that Chen had any intention of bringing him back. Isaiah’s style of play and his size set his ceiling—he could never be the cornerstone of a championship team, nor even the perfect second option.

But as a time traveler, Chen couldn’t help but encourage him a little. After all, Isaiah’s future carried more than a touch of tragedy.

Right now, though, it was clear Isaiah didn’t take his words to heart. Seeing the look of disbelief on his face, Chen could only shake his head. Without revealing the future, he had already done all he could.

Whether Isaiah would one day join the Celtics and become the beloved “King of the Fourth” was beyond Chen’s control. He could only hope Isaiah wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes—sacrificing his health in the playoffs, only to drift from team to team.

...

The chat with Isaiah was just a small detour. The regular season schedule was always divided by the All-Star break. In simple terms, it was like a midterm exam for every team. Their performance before the All-Star Game determined roster moves and team strategy for the second half of the season.

And the Kings had only one goal: Run to the Top! Run to the Top! Run to the damn Top!

Holding the line in the upper half of the Western Conference, the Kings needed win after win to keep the hungry pack of contenders at bay.

Fortunately, the last few games of 2014 weren’t too tough. On December 27, they beat the Knicks 135–127. Two days later, they brushed aside the Nets 109–98, trampling both New York teams underfoot.

Finally, on December 31, the Kings secured their place in the upper half of the standings with a 20–10 record.

The last game was against the Boston Celtics.

The TD Garden carried an old-world air compared to other arenas. The worn-out seats and patched wooden court all spoke of its deep history.

Sitting in the staff section, Chen Yilun scrolled through text messages on his phone, bored out of his mind.

He wasn’t the least bit interested in this matchup. The Celtics were nothing more than a toothless tiger. Sure, they had guys like Evan Turner, Avery Bradley, Jae Crowder, and Marcus Smart, but they were either role players or still rookies. Against the ferocious Kings, they just weren’t enough.

The one person worth noting, though, was Coach Stevens, sitting on the bench with a calm, refined look. It was only his second season, yet the “boy wonder” label was already attached to him. All he needed was that final spark before stepping fully into the spotlight as the leader of the Celtics.

“Should I step in and derail Boston’s progress a bit?” Chen muttered, rubbing his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard.

The Celtics’ rise was inevitable. Before the trade deadline, Danny Ainge would pull off a robbery of a deal, snatching Isaiah from the Suns and installing the vital engine this team needed.

From then on, this disciplined Celtics squad would become the biggest disruptor in the East. Even LeBron James, as dominant as he was, would have his share of trouble against them.

LeBron?

Suddenly it clicked, and Chen smacked his forehead.

What the hell am I doing worrying about an Eastern team? If they wear down LeBron, that only helps me. Why get in their way?

While Chen was lost in thought, the game wound to a close. As Cousins powered to the rim yet again, Stevens shook his head, subbing in his bench to wave the white flag.

Mike Malone understood and swapped in his own end-of-bench guys, sealing the victory.

Chen was in good spirits, ready to head home and celebrate New Year’s. But then, a stocky man in a suit, smiling broadly, strolled over.

“Yilun, if you’re not in a rush, how about dinner tonight?”

In that instant, Chen’s guard shot to its highest level. The seemingly harmless old man in front of him was none other than Danny Ainge—the head of the Celtics, and one of the league’s most notorious cold-blooded killers!

...
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Chapter Text

The first game of 2015 had the Kings visiting the Timberwolves. For Minnesota, it marked another year of decline. After trading away their star, Kevin Love, the team’s new centerpiece, Andrew Wiggins, showed the talent expected of a number one pick. But with little help around him, the Timberwolves once again found themselves competing for the draft lottery.

The Kings took an easy win on the road, but their momentum soon slipped.

They handled the Pistons and Thunder both home and away, but then faltered against the Nuggets, Cavaliers, and Mavericks, dropping three straight in Sacramento. Their record fell to 25–13. The impact was immediate — the cushion they had worked so hard to build early in the season was gone. The fifth-seeded Clippers surged past them in the standings.

Fortunately, the battle-tested Grizzlies also went on a skid, saving the Kings from tumbling into the bottom half of the bracket.

Still, that losing streak at home dealt a heavy blow to the team’s confidence. Veteran coach Mike Malone could see it clearly — his young squad had hit the rookie wall.

Most of the main rotation, like LaVine and Jokić, were pure rookies. Even their second option, CJ, was only in his sophomore year. Players like LeBron James — who could dominate from their very first game and never slow down — were rare exceptions.

For most young players, the rookie wall was unavoidable, a hurdle every prospect had to climb. Plenty of gifted talents had seen their careers stall right there.

Knowing how critical this was, Malone worked hard to steady his rookies’ morale.

Even so, part of the blame for the losing streak fell on Chen Yilun himself. While the youngsters battled on the court, Chen Yilun wasn’t even in Sacramento. Without their “cheat code,” the Kings dropping a few games wasn’t exactly surprising.

At the University of Kentucky gym, Chen Yilun sat bundled in a heavy coat and sunglasses, watching the Wildcats’ practice with sharp focus. Beside him, an analyst introduced the NCAA’s top prospects one by one.

“If nothing unexpected happens, Karl-Anthony Towns will be the strongest contender for the number one pick this year,” the analyst said, pointing at Towns warming up on the floor.

Chen Yilun rolled his eyes behind the shades. “Of course I know him. But the real question is — what does he have to do with us right now?”

This year, the Kings only held their own first-round pick plus a swap option with the Knicks. In the original timeline, New York was supposed to bottom out and land the fourth pick. But maybe because the swap rights were in Sacramento’s hands, the Knicks hadn’t collapsed as expected. Instead, they were clinging to the playoff race.

As things stood, the Kings would be lucky to land a lottery pick.

Trying to ease the tension, the analyst quickly added, “There are also two other key players. Trey Lyles, Towns’ frontcourt partner at power forward, and Devin Booker, their main scoring threat in the backcourt. Both could end up in the lottery.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Boss, aren’t we a little early with this? Don’t we usually start serious scouting during March Madness?”

March Madness — the NCAA’s March tournament — was so massive and popular that even the NBA Finals schedule deferred to it.

“You’re missing the point.” Chen Yilun didn’t take his eyes off the court. “Getting ahead of the curve is always better than scrambling late.”

The analyst chuckled. “Fair enough. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if we end up watching a lot of meaningless games.”

“You never quit, do you!”

After some banter, Kentucky began an intra-squad scrimmage. Chen Yilun’s eyes narrowed on a slightly slender figure gliding across the court.

“Talk to the coach later. Pay special attention to that Devin Booker.”

The analyst hurriedly made a note. “Boss, are you thinking of finding CJ a secondary ball handler?”

“Hard to say who’ll be backing up who,” Chen Yilun thought silently.

Maybe because they knew Chen Yilun was in attendance, the Wildcats played with extra energy, treating the scrimmage like a real game. Afterward, he went down to chat briefly with the coach.

“Hey, that’s Chen Yilun,” Booker whispered to Towns from the bench as they watched him.

“Yeah, he looks taller than on TV. Who do you think he’s here for?” Towns asked, speaking through his towel.

“Who else? Definitely you,” a junior chimed in. “But honestly, if you got drafted by the Kings, that wouldn’t be bad at all.”

“Since Chen Yilun took over, he’s been giving rookies real chances. Have you seen their games? He’s playing the kids.”

That was exactly the signal Chen Yilun wanted to send: the Kings were committed to developing young talent, no longer a graveyard for rookies.

If he wanted smooth operations in the future, he had to keep pushing that narrative. After all, choosing players wasn’t one-sided. For the top prospects, it was always a two-way decision.

After finishing his talk with the coach, Chen Yilun prepared to leave. It was still early, and the main goal of this trip was showing his face at college gyms and building goodwill.

“Boss, this was the last stop. Where do we go tomorrow?” The analyst followed with a large briefcase. Over the past two days, they had covered nearly every NCAA powerhouse.

“The last stop?” Chen Yilun paused, thought for a moment, then said, “We’re not heading back yet. Let’s go to Tennessee.”

“Tennessee?” The analyst frowned, checking his tablet. “Sure, they’re a seeded team, but most of their core guys are upperclassmen. Not much upside. Why bother?”

Chen Yilun wagged a finger. “We’re going to see if we can find a hidden gem.”

This Tennessee trip wasn’t a whim. In his memory from his previous life, there was indeed a valuable prospect hidden there.

In the NBA, nothing stayed secret. Every move by every decision-maker was watched by reporters. From the very beginning, the old foxes already knew about Chen Yilun’s travels.

“Look at Yilun — always grinding. Unlike you, hiding in the office all day,” Popovich sneered at Buford inside San Antonio’s front office.

Buford tossed his pen down. “Ungrateful as always. How am I slacking? Let the young guys do the running. Stop throwing your apprentice in my face.”

“What are you talking about? Isn’t he your apprentice too?”

“Of course I recognize him. I’m just trying to figure him out.” Buford handed Popovich a sheet of paper. “These are the players he’s been scouting lately. I’ve studied this half the day and still can’t figure out what that kid is up to.”

Popovich looked it over carefully. “What the hell is this? It’s all over the place.”

No wonder the two veterans couldn’t make sense of it. On this trip, Chen Yilun had cast a wide net — checking every type of player, every position, asking about everyone.

“No, I need to get out there myself in the next few days. I want to see what that kid is really planning.” Buford lit a cigar and muttered to himself.

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

“After winning the championship, many people lose their drive.”

With that one line, Buford revealed the hidden truth behind why dynasties are so hard to sustain: the NBA is, at its core, a business league. Players are here to make money. Once they’ve won a title, motivation starts to waver—after all, very few play purely for honor.

On top of that, broadcast revenues keep climbing, and salaries are rising with them. That only makes things tougher for small-market teams.

No one understood the Spurs’ predicament better than Buford, yet no one felt more powerless. Knowing what the problem is is one thing, knowing how to fix it is another, and actually turning a solution into reality is something else entirely.

Right now, Buford was stuck at that last stage. You can’t make something out of nothing.

“My personal suggestion?” Chen Yilun finally spoke up when he saw Buford’s troubled face. “If there’s a chance, trade Belinelli now. Cash in while he still has good value.”

Belinelli was someone Buford himself had brought in, and he had worked hard for the past two years without complaint.

“Belinelli? Why? He’s playing pretty well,” Buford asked, puzzled.

“Because his ceiling is already set. We won the championship last year, and at the end of the day, he’s still European—he could always return home if things soured here,” Chen Yilun said flatly.

He didn’t spell everything out, but someone as shrewd as Buford would understand.

Belinelli was a textbook NBA role player—a swingman with size, some defense, low usage, and reliable shooting that could plug into any rotation.

That kind of player always finds a spot in the league—every team wants one. But there’s one big problem: the shelf life is short.

Once his defense slips or his shot declines, his value collapses instantly.

If you’re American, that’s manageable—you can still bounce around the league as a journeyman. But Belinelli isn’t. He’s a proud Italian national team star. Don’t be fooled by his current role; back in Italy, he’d be the absolute centerpiece. And with different tax rates in Europe, if he ever felt dissatisfied in the NBA, he could turn his back and head home for more money, less stress, and closer to family. And if that happens, there’s nothing the team can do.

The best example? One of the future Blood Brothers, Mirotic—who walked away from his prime years in the NBA to return to Spain!

Same paycheck, but now he’s the team leader, enjoys all the perks, and plays right at home. Who would rather stay here grinding as a blue-collar role player?

“Oh, and don’t forget Splitter!” Chen Yilun cut in before Buford could think further. “He’s still got good value right now too. Might as well move him.”

Brazil’s Splitter had a similar issue. Though he was still the Spurs’ starting center, his effectiveness relied heavily on Duncan’s continued dominance. As Duncan aged, Splitter’s flaws would be exposed more and more. By then, he’d be worth far less.

Chen Yilun dared to bring this up because he had foresight. To Buford, though, it sounded like madness.

Belinelli was one thing—he came off the bench. But Splitter was a starter! If he traded him now, who would play center? Make old man Duncan carry that burden?

Seeing Buford’s displeasure, Chen Yilun raised his hands helplessly. “I’m telling you this sincerely, because I see you as one of my own. It’s fine if you don’t believe me.”

Buford quickly put on his trademark sly smile again. “Of course. No matter what, you’ll always be one of us. Now, drink!”

...

Time flew, and soon it was the end of January.

Over the past month, the Kings stumbled their way to a 30–16 record. Unsurprisingly, they slipped out of the top four in the West and were now fifth. Behind them, the Mavericks and Trail Blazers were lurking.

But there was good news too. Thanks to Sacramento’s relentless promotion and Chen Yilun’s shameless vote-mobilizing back home, Cousins secured his spot in the All-Star Game as expected. CJ, meanwhile, barely edged out Westbrook to grab seventh place among Western Conference guards.

Normally, only the top six make it. But with Kobe sidelined by injury, CJ managed to sneak in as the final selection.

“Finally, mission accomplished!”

As everything settled, Chen Yilun let out a long sigh of relief.

To complete this challenge, he had practically thrown his pride away. If he’d failed, he would’ve cried himself to death.

“Beep! Mission completed: at least two players from your team have entered this year’s All-Star roster. Reward distribution beginning now!”

The long-silent System’s electronic voice rang out again, and Chen Yilun’s eyes instantly welled up. It hadn’t been easy. This damn System gave out so few tasks and often acted dead. It wasn’t like other people’s Systems that popped up every episode. If it weren’t for the occasional rewards, he might’ve forgotten he even had one.

The Intermediate Boost Pack he’d been dreaming about!

He hurriedly opened it. A dazzling golden light flashed.

“Beep! Congratulations, host has obtained the ‘Dribbling Veteran’ Silver Badge and a Team Stamina Boost Card.”

The Dribbling Veteran Silver Badge: a universal badge. Once bound to a player, it permanently adds 15 points to that player’s dribbling attribute. Cannot be unbound.

The Team Stamina Boost Card: usable during a game to restore 20% stamina to five designated players. Reusable.

Now this was the good stuff—genuine quality.

Seeing his rewards, Chen Yilun was so excited he nearly jumped off his bed. The Dribbling Veteran badge was one of the core badges for perimeter players, while the stamina card gave him another trump card to swing games.

“Perfect, perfect.”

At this point, he had three badges stored: the All-Around Bronze Badge, the Catch-and-Shoot Bronze Badge, and now the Dribbling Veteran Silver Badge. Plus two boost cards: Three-Point Boost and Stamina Recovery.

For now, Chen Yilun decided to hold onto the badges for the future. Aside from Jokić, there wasn’t a single player he truly considered untouchable.

Not even CJ, whom he had heavily invested in. As a time traveler, Chen Yilun knew CJ’s ceiling too well. To truly maximize him would require an enormous cost.

A team’s rise never happens overnight. Those rebirth novels, where a team makes one blockbuster trade in the offseason and then storms to a championship—that just doesn’t happen in reality.

“Alright, time to prepare. The final move begins now.”

Chen Yilun stared at the dense spreadsheets on his laptop, his gaze turning firm.

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

After spending two days in Kentucky, Chen Yilun and his analyst boarded a plane to Tennessee. Once they landed, they rested briefly before heading to the University of Tennessee.

But inside the university gym, Chen Yilun came across someone he hadn’t expected.

“No way, you’re here too?” Chen Yilun gave a bitter smile as he sat down beside him.

The old fox Buford chuckled, grabbed the sandwich he had just bought, and took a huge bite. Mouth full, he muttered, “We’re both GMs. If you can be here, why can’t I?”

Watching him eat so happily, Chen Yilun didn’t bother with politeness. He turned and rummaged through the takeout bag at Buford’s feet. Sure enough, there were more sandwiches inside.

Chen Yilun tore one open and bit into it. Just as he was enjoying it, he noticed Buford staring at him. “What?”

“That’s mine. I didn’t buy it for you.”

“Come on, don’t be so stingy!” Chen Yilun waved him off. “It’s just half a sandwich. Save some room—once we’re done here, I’ll treat you to a real meal.”

Buford laughed at that. “Our big-shot GM Chen really is making money now. You can even treat me to dinner.”

Seeing their bosses chatting happily, the analysts on both sides wisely stepped back to give them some privacy.

Buford watched the college players training on the court for a long time before finally speaking. “Down there… is there anyone you think is worth making this trip for?”

He hadn’t come unprepared. On the flight, he’d studied Tennessee’s roster in detail, but nothing stood out.

Chen Yilun gestured with his chin. “That one, Josh Richardson.”

“Knew it.” Buford leaned back against his seat. “I figured Richardson was the only one with something to talk about—but not much.”

“He’s projected as a late first-rounder. If he flops in March Madness, he’ll probably slide into the second round. You really want a player like that?”

That made Chen Yilun laugh. “RC, it’s only been a few months since we last met and you’re already talking big. Who was it that didn’t even want second-rounders and made me run off to Europe to scout?”

“Alright, alright, stop!” Buford quickly raised his hands, surrendering before his old mistakes could be dragged out further.

To be fair, Buford’s eye for talent was sharp. Richardson was indeed taken in the second round by the Heat that year. Even at his peak, he never reached All-Star level—but he was exactly the kind of solid role player every contender wanted.

Chen Yilun wasn’t the kind of GM who blindly stacked stars. To him, someone like Richardson was affordable, and with two years of proper development, could become a valuable team asset.

What he didn’t expect was for Buford to bite as well.

If the Spurs were getting involved too, Richardson’s value would have to be reevaluated.

While the two foxes—one seasoned, one still green—were busy scheming, the scrimmage on the court wrapped up.

“What’s going on today? Why are the Spurs’ and Kings’ GMs both here?” A player, towel in hand, wiped off his sweat and asked his coach casually.

Naturally, they were curious. For any college player, making it to the NBA was the ultimate dream. And today, two powerful decision-makers had shown up at once. It was impossible not to wonder.

The coach glanced at him and said, “How would I know? They just told me they were visiting. Didn’t say anything else. Don’t ask me.”

Truthfully, the coach couldn’t figure it out either. January was usually a quiet month for GMs. He knew exactly what level his players were at—none of them were the kind of prodigy worth flying across the country for.

Ignoring the curious players below, Chen Yilun straightened his jacket and stood. “Alright, show’s over. Where are we eating tonight?”

...

“You really are making money now, huh!” Buford looked around at the upscale restaurant and sighed. “Guess I’ll have to bleed you dry tonight.”

“This is nothing!” Chen Yilun deliberately put on the airs of a nouveau riche, casually unfolding his napkin. “You know my boss. The team’s been doing well, so money isn’t tight. Honestly, it wasn’t until I started working here that I realized how miserable we had it before.”

The Spurs’ frugality was infamous around the league, and as a former Spur, Chen Yilun had suffered plenty from it.

“It’s easy to go from frugal to extravagant, but hard to go the other way. Don’t get used to spending big, or you’ll regret it later,” Buford said gruffly. Then he lowered his voice. “Forget that—word is you’ve been cozying up with Boston lately.”

Chen Yilun froze with his glass in hand. As expected, the old man hadn’t come all this way just to watch rookies. He was here to sniff out moves ahead of the deadline.

Historically, the Spurs had done nothing in this window, stubbornly trusting their championship roster. In the end, arrogance had cost them with a first-round playoff exit.

Glancing around and seeing no no-smoking signs, Chen Yilun unceremoniously took Buford’s cigar and lit one. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it, but it’s still early.”

Buford winced as Chen casually puffed on his cigar. “That’s a fine Havana. Treat it with some respect!”

“Danny Ainge isn’t exactly easy to deal with. Be careful, or he’ll fleece you,” Buford warned.

“I don’t have what he wants. At most, I’ll play as a third party in the trade.” Chen Yilun exhaled a smoke ring and went on, “My thinking is simple. The East is weak right now. Cleveland’s too dominant. If a few other teams get stronger, they can at least help wear James down.”

His words were bold—the Kings, from this perspective, were aiming for the championship.

“Don’t overreach, or you’ll get yourself hurt,” Buford said seriously.

He really did treat Chen Yilun like his junior, worried that ambition would make him fall hard one day.

“Relax, I know what I’m doing. The real question is you guys.” Chen Yilun shifted the topic. “Don’t you want to defend your title this year?”

“Of course I do,” Buford gave a bitter smile. “But it’s tough. No good trades in the offseason, Tim and the others another year older… And the biggest thing—after winning, a lot of people just lost their fire.”

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Madison Square Garden glowed under the bright lights, the legendary temple of basketball once again drawing the eyes of the world. The 2015 All-Star Weekend had arrived!

With the Kings’ rise this season—and to cater to the Chinese market—the team had an unusually strong presence in the festivities. Cousins and CJ were both selected as reserves for the All-Star Game, while LaVine and Jokić earned spots in the Rookie Game thanks to their impressive performances.

For Jokić, a second-round pick, making the Rookie Game was already a huge honor. An unexpected bonus came when Bojan, normally just a fringe rotation player, was added to the roster because the international squad didn’t have enough players. That gave the Kings three representatives in the Rookie Game.

CJ also entered the Skills Challenge, and LaVine joined the Slam Dunk Contest.

Chen Yilun didn’t care much about the other events—he was only looking forward to the dunk contest. Many people mix up the timeline and think this year featured the iconic LaVine vs. Gordon duel. But that wouldn’t happen until the following year. This year’s lineup included Giannis Antetokounmpo—the Greek Freak—Oladipo, LaVine, and others. The real peak was still a year away.

Still, whether interested or not, All-Star Weekend was one of the rare occasions where all 30 teams—from executives to players—gathered under one roof. For fans and players, it was a rare midseason break. But for managers like Chen Yilun, it was nothing but overtime.

The trade deadline was just two days after the All-Star Game. Every deal had to be finalized within that narrow window, and the All-Star break provided general managers with the perfect chance to maneuver.

Nearly every GM came to New York. Unlike before, when everyone was scattered across the country and relying on phone calls, now they were all in one place, making negotiations much easier. Even the laziest GM would push through sleepless nights chasing trades.

Chen Yilun climbed up to the highest seats and looked down at the court, sighing.
“Madison really is the mecca of basketball. Even these awful seats sell out.”

These were the cheapest tickets in the arena, and you got exactly what you paid for. From up here, the players looked like ants. Without the massive screen hanging above the court, you couldn’t tell who was who. It was like paying for a front-row seat to watch TV.

It wasn’t that Chen Yilun was strapped for cash. As the Kings’ GM, he could get prime tickets whenever he wanted. But up here, he could stay out of sight. With the spotlight fixed on the floor, nobody noticed what was happening in the nosebleeds.

“You made it?” In a quiet corner, Danny Ainge sat in a plain old shirt, not a hint of Celtics green on him, sipping from a beer he’d bought at the arena.

“Yeah, you got here pretty early.” Chen Yilun, wearing sunglasses and casual clothes, sat down beside him.

On his other side, a man with glasses nodded in greeting.

It was Ryan McDonough, the Suns’ GM.

This was Chen Yilun’s first time meeting him. Both were from the West, and with old disputes lingering between their predecessors, the two sides rarely crossed paths.

“So, where do we start?” Chen Yilun pulled a local New York newspaper from his briefcase, unfolded it across his lap, and asked casually.

“From our last discussion, the most I’m willing to add is a protected first-rounder,” Ainge said, taking a sip of beer before turning to McDonough. “Ryan, you’ve got to understand—we’re helping you here. That three-point-guard experiment is a dead end. If you don’t cut your losses now, no one’s going to save you.”

McDonough grimaced. Last season, the Suns had thrived with their two-guard backcourt and fast-paced offense. Riding that success, they doubled down in the offseason, signing Isaiah Thomas to form a three-guard Suns lineup.

But the move backfired. Their record collapsed, and core player Dragic lost faith, demanding a trade.

Sensing his hesitation, Chen Yilun cut in. “We’re willing to make concessions too, but the most we’ll add is another second-rounder.”

“If I don’t take your Mozgov, with that crowded frontcourt of yours, you’ll be stuck with him,” McDonough pressed, thinking he’d found leverage.

But Chen Yilun didn’t bite. Flipping through the newspaper nonchalantly, he said, “Sure, it’s tricky—but my situation isn’t the same as yours. Mozgov’s a solid blue-collar player. If I put him on the market, plenty of teams will want him. But your Isaiah Thomas? That’s a different story. His flaws are obvious.”

Then he suddenly turned to Ainge. “By the way, I’ve been reconsidering your Crowder. He’s only had a few good games since joining you. Paying that much for him feels like I’d be taking a loss.”

The core of the three-team trade was the Kings’ Mozgov, the Suns’ Isaiah Thomas, and the Celtics’ Crowder. On paper, it was a win for everyone.

The Kings already had Cousins, Oden, and Jokić in the frontcourt. Mozgov, useful early in the season, had become expendable—better to flip him for assets elsewhere.

The Celtics had acquired Crowder from the Mavericks midseason. He’d shown flashes of being a quality 3-and-D player, but it was still early, and his long-term ceiling was uncertain.

As for the Suns, Isaiah Thomas simply didn’t fit. With their season already lost, moving him while he still had value was their best option.

The sticking point, as always, was the extras.

The Celtics wanted Thomas at the lowest cost possible. The Suns wanted some future assets back. The Kings? They were just stirring the pot, looking to squeeze out whatever they could.

The three of them kept their voices low, bargaining back and forth.

Around them, working-class New Yorkers craned their necks to watch the action on the court. None of them could have imagined that right in their midst, three NBA general managers were locked in heated trade talks.

By the time the dull Celebrity Game wound down, the three had finally reached a basic agreement. One by one, they left their seats.

Chen Yilun was the last to leave. Watching Ainge and McDonough exit, he chuckled, folded the newspaper, slipped it into his briefcase, and headed down.

“Sir, excuse me—ticket, please.” At the edge of the section, a security guard stopped him.

“Oh, sure.” Chen Yilun casually pulled out a ticket and handed it over. The guard examined it and frowned. “Sorry, sir. This is for the upper level. You can’t go down.”

“Huh?” Chen Yilun pulled off his sunglasses and glanced at the ticket in the guard’s hand. “Ah, wrong one—my mistake.” He rummaged through his pocket again, pulled out another ticket, and handed it over.

“A courtside ticket?” The guard’s eyes went wide. These premium seats were reserved for VIPs and celebrities. Looking up and finally recognizing Chen Yilun without the sunglasses, he froze. “Mr. Chen! My apologies—I didn’t recognize you earlier. Please, go ahead.”

Chen Yilun nodded politely, slipped him a small tip, and walked downstairs.

The guard watched him leave, then noticed the upper-level ticket still in his hand. A new question came to mind.

He glanced up at the nosebleeds, seats so high they nearly touched the ceiling.
“Why would Chen Yilun buy a ticket for the top row?”

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Chen Yilun stumbled his way to the edge of the court. The celebrity game had just ended, and the 2014 rookies, along with some from the 2013 class, were warming up.

This year’s rookie game came with a new twist: Team USA versus Team World. Team USA was made up of players like Victor Oladipo, Trey Burke, and Zach LaVine, but honestly, they didn’t look all that impressive.

Team World, on the other hand, was much flashier: this year’s No.1 pick “Maple Jordan” Andrew Wiggins, “Aquaman” Steven Adams, “The Greek Freak” Giannis Antetokounmpo, “The Paris Tower” Rudy Gobert, Dennis Schröder, the future “Love Killer” Kelly Olynyk, and the overlooked rookie Nikola Jokić.

2015 was a special year. It marked Adam Silver’s first year as commissioner and was later remembered as a turning point. After this season, small-ball swept the league, and international players began claiming a bigger share of the spotlight. Many even say 2015 was the beginning of the decline of American basketball.

Chen Yilun straightened his slightly wrinkled suit and stood courtside, just in time to meet Jokić’s eyes.

“How are you feeling? Nervous?” Chen teased the sweaty Jokić, who had just finished warming up.

“Not really, feels about the same as usual. Just a little loud,” Jokić chuckled in his distinct European accent.

“Good, as long as you’re not nervous. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous.” Chen thought back over the past six months with Jokić. No matter the situation, this easygoing European rookie was always cheerful. While other rookies hit the wall and panicked, Jokić just rewarded himself with two big meals and moved on.

“Maybe you’re growing faster than I thought.”

If not for Chen Yilun’s butterfly effect, Jokić would still be in Europe right now. He wasn’t supposed to come to the NBA until next season—and even then, it would’ve taken a couple of years before he showed his dominance. But thanks to Chen’s influence, Jokić arrived a year early and grew quickly under the devilish training of his mentor, Vlade Divac. Maybe the Kings’ road to revival wouldn’t take as long as people thought.

The game soon began.

LaVine managed to earn a starting spot, while Jokić sat on the bench.

“Bam!” LaVine shook off his defender, caught Oladipo’s alley-oop, and slammed it over Giannis.

Of course, this was still the early version of Giannis—thin and raw, with a huge frame but none of the muscle yet. He looked awkward on the court compared to the monster he’d become later.

“Nice one!” Oladipo couldn’t help but high-five LaVine on the way back. “I heard you were a dunker, but I didn’t think you were this good.”

“You too. That pass was fast and on point,” LaVine grinned.

“Good eye. Next possession, it’s all you—go one-on-one.”

One-on-one? LaVine hadn’t heard that in a long time.

With the Timberwolves, he had settled into a 3-and-D role—not because the team forced him, but because he chose it. The coaches and GM had told him several times they hoped he’d take on more responsibility as a secondary ball handler, but he never stepped up.

It was easier to stay in his comfort zone. He had great athleticism, good stamina, and a solid three-point shot. Early on, when his role was limited, he worked hard as a role player just to stay on the floor. But that role became his comfort zone, and even when the coaches wanted to give him more touches, he wasn’t sure how to handle it.

This time was different. As Oladipo crossed half court, he signaled everyone to clear out, then handed the ball to LaVine before jogging to the corner.

At the top of the arc, unsure of his next move, LaVine glanced at Chen Yilun on the sideline. Chen’s encouraging look said it all: Go for it!

LaVine took a deep breath and faced Andrew Wiggins, his draft classmate. He hesitated, then tried to drive inside.

But Wiggins was Wiggins—his talent was off the charts. The moment he read LaVine’s move, he pressed up, cutting off every bit of space.

Tough defender! LaVine feinted a drive into him.

Wiggins bit, stepping back to disrupt LaVine’s balance.

But LaVine instantly pulled back, stepped away, and rose for the jumper. The ball arced through the lights and dropped cleanly through the net.

“Good shot!”

Chen Yilun jumped up and clapped, shouting, “That’s it! That’s how you play!”

The outburst caught the attention of Team USA’s coach, Alvin Gentry, who shot Chen a glare sharp enough to kill. Who’s the coach here, you or me?

Feeling the heat of Gentry’s stare, Chen quickly ducked his head and shut up. He couldn’t risk angering the man—if LaVine got benched because of him, it would be a disaster.

After a round of substitutions, Jokić finally checked in. Right away, he teamed up with Schröder for some two-man action. Both were pass-first players, and in no time, they had the opposing rookies running in circles.

The rest of Team World had it easy—running into open shots or suddenly finding the ball in their hands without much effort.

Compared to them, Team USA just wasn’t on the same level. Aside from LaVine and Oladipo, no one else could really compete. The game quickly turned into garbage time.

It didn’t even reach a competitive fourth quarter before it ended. Wiggins walked away with the Rookie Game MVP trophy.

As Wiggins smiled innocently with the trophy, LaVine realized his night was over and started packing up. Just then, Oladipo came over.

“Zach, those two teammates of yours are pretty tough,” Oladipo said, pointing at Jokić and Bojan. Honestly, the chemistry between Bojan and Jokić was incredible. Being teammates gave them an extra edge, and their connection looked far smoother than anyone else’s on the court.

“That’s right! My teammates are amazing!” LaVine said proudly.

“I really envy you. First year in the league and you land on a team on the rise.” The envy in Oladipo’s tone was impossible to miss.

You couldn’t blame him. As last year’s No. 2 pick, he had lost the top spot to Anthony Bennett in bizarre fashion, and now he was stuck on the mediocre Orlando Magic. Predictably, they were tanking again this season.

Meanwhile, LaVine—one year younger—joined a surging Kings team and was already being trusted with real minutes. It was the dream start. Why couldn’t his luck be a little better?

...
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Chapter Text

After the first day of All-Star Weekend, the second day was packed with flashy contests. First up was the CJ Skills Challenge. CJ eliminated Dennis Schröder in the group stage but unfortunately lost to Brandon Knight in the second round.

In the end, just like in the original timeline, “Black Dog” Beverley claimed the Skills Challenge title.

Chen Yilun stood on the sidelines, noticing CJ looking a little down. He couldn’t help but step forward to comfort him.
“It’s just a meaningless contest. No need to feel bad about it.”

“Huh?” CJ looked a little surprised that his feelings had been noticed. He nodded awkwardly.

Chen Yilun put his arm around CJ’s shoulder. Since they were about the same height, he didn’t even need to stretch.
“You’ve got to remember, our goals are way bigger than a small skills challenge. Don’t lose sight of the big picture.”

Hearing this, CJ’s mood lifted. He nodded firmly. “Yeah!”

The Slam Dunk Contest that followed was completely dominated by LaVine. Every dunk he pulled off was a level above the rest, especially the final one—a behind-the-back, back-to-the-basket, switch-handed windmill dunk with CJ’s help—that left the judges so stunned they all stood up together.

LaVine easily took the Slam Dunk Contest title.

...

The real highlight came on the third day: the All-Star Game.

Known as basketball’s “Spring Festival Gala,” the eyes of fans all over the world were fixed on Madison Square Garden. Socialites and celebrities filled the arena to watch.

Even Chen Yilun had traded in his usual flashy look for an expensive custom suit.

Truth be told, Chen Yilun wasn’t the reckless playboy the media portrayed. On the contrary—back when he worked with the Spurs, he was a complete technical nerd, always holed up in his office, rarely leaving without a reason.

That was why hardly anyone in the league had known his name before.

His flamboyant image now was entirely thanks to his mentor’s influence.

Gregg Popovich, a titan among coaches, had always been more than just tactics and schemes. He built a persona—sharp-tongued, full of jokes—deliberately shaping the image of a mischievous old man. His banter-filled “love-hate” relationship with “Color Man” Craig Sager was one of the league’s classic off-court acts.

Because at its core, the NBA is a business. If you give the media something to chew on in the small details, they’ll shift their focus exactly where you want it—leaving you freer to act where it really matters.

As a side note, TNT’s most iconic sideline reporter, the great warrior Craig Sager, had already been diagnosed with acute leukemia by then, his life entering its final countdown.

Without Sager’s dazzling suits, the NBA lost a splash of vibrant color—a true loss for the league.
Rest in peace, Mr. Sager.

...

Chen Yilun squeezed through the crowd and found his seat.

It was one of the best in the house. Of course, on his salary, there was no way he could afford it. He had shamelessly begged his boss, Ranadive, for the seat.

As soon as he sat down, he noticed his boss already there with his daughter, Anjali.

“Why are you so late?”

Ranadive gave him a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the court.

“Sorry, boss. First time at the All-Star Game—traffic was bad on the way.”

Feeling a little embarrassed, Chen Yilun straightened his slightly wrinkled jacket. It was a high-end Italian custom suit he had barely dared to wear before. Seeing the creases made his heart ache.

“You’ve been doing a good job lately,” Ranadive suddenly said. “I have to admit, you’ve given me quite a few surprises. This season, the team’s overall strength and competitiveness have both improved a lot.”

“That’s all thanks to your leadership, boss. Under your guidance, both the players and the staff are moving forward steadily.”

Chen Yilun gave the expected flattery.

Hearing this, a faint smile tugged at Ranadive’s usually shadowed face.

“The team’s momentum looks good. Do you have the confidence to keep it up after the All-Star break?”

“Of course!” Chen Yilun pounded his chest in assurance.
“The team is on the right path now—nothing can stop us!”

Ranadive nodded. “Good. Then I’ll be watching you.”

Finally free from his boss’s questioning, Chen Yilun let out a quiet breath, only to realize his shirt was already damp with sweat.

Even after living two lives, deep down he was still just an ordinary employee. Every time he talked with his boss, the nerves were unavoidable.

Glancing around, he quickly spotted familiar faces everywhere.

A few seats away sat the legendary Logo Man, Jerry West, chatting with this year’s Western Conference All-Star coach, Steve Kerr.

Farther away were Danny Ainge of the Celtics and Rockets head coach Kevin McHale.

And looking even farther, Hollywood stars and Grammy regulars filled the crowd.

If his boss left early, Chen Yilun thought, he would definitely try to strike up a conversation with a couple of actresses and maybe get their numbers.

...

While he was daydreaming, the arena grew even livelier.

One by one, the star-studded players stepped onto the court to warm up.

For Cousins and CJ, both first-time All-Stars, it was easy to blend into the background among so many superstars.

But soon, Chen Yilun noticed a crew hauling equipment to the sidelines, their eyes fixed on Cousins and CJ.

He looked closer and couldn’t help but laugh.

It was his old teacher—Wei Ping Bryant! This year, he was working as a sideline reporter for C5!

After tossing up a few shots, the bored Cousins also spotted Wei Ping and his crew.

Since the Kings had a Chinese team leader and an Indian owner, the players made a point of being extra courteous to Asian reporters and fans, just in case they had ties to the front office.

So Cousins pulled CJ along and headed over.

“DeMarcus! CJ! I’m a reporter from China. Today is your All-Star debut—how are you feeling?”

Wei Ping had only planned to interview Cousins, but with CJ joining in, it turned into a two-for-one.

“From China?” CJ’s expression immediately softened.

“We know our fans worked really hard to get us into the All-Star Game. Thank you all for your support.”

Hearing this, Wei Ping grew excited.
“That’s right! Manager Chen Yilun worked tirelessly back home to rally votes for the Kings. The team is almost like China’s home team now!”

“Really?!” Cousins’ eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to visit China!”

“That’s wonderful! We’d love to welcome you both to China!”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

The All-Star Game tipped off with the jump ball between the Gasol brothers.
Last year, Pau Gasol opted out of his contract and signed with Chicago, so this year’s game featured the rare sight of both brothers starting at center—for opposing teams!

As expected, the matchup quickly turned into a dull offensive showcase.
First, Curry and Thompson connected for a classic Splash Brothers play, then John Wall burst to the rim for a thunderous dunk.

Chen Yilun sat upright, watching for a while. He glanced around and noticed no one was paying attention to him. The boss and his daughter were fully engrossed, even cheering whenever a highlight lit up the court.

Perfect—no one cares what I’m doing.

Quietly, Chen Yilun slipped his phone from his jacket pocket and started scrolling through messages.

For casual fans or those unfamiliar with basketball, the All-Star Game might look entertaining. But anyone who truly knows the sport finds it painfully boring.
No real plays, no defensive schemes—most of the time it’s just players going through the motions.
That kind of pure exhibition is tough to watch.

And it wasn’t just Chen Yilun who was checked out. Even the coaches and executives in the front row only pretended to watch before returning to their own business.

You might wonder: if managers don’t care about the game, why bother showing up?
The answer was the same for all of them: the trade deadline was just four days away.

That’s why seasoned reporters and insiders always kept a close eye on which managers lingered around during All-Star weekend—those teams were usually gearing up to make a move.

“Stop looking at your phone. DeMarcus and CJ are subbing in.”

Ranadivé’s voice cut into Chen Yilun’s focus as he studied his reports.

Looking up, he realized half the first quarter had already passed, and both coaches had begun making substitutions.
Not that the starters had even worked up a sweat.

CJ and Cousins stood at the scorer’s table waiting for the whistle. Suddenly, CJ leaned over and whispered,
“Let’s run something together.”

“Got it!” Cousins’ eyes lit up.

After half a season together, their chemistry was strong. A few words from CJ, and Cousins already knew what he had in mind.

The moment they checked in, the chance came quickly. CJ brought the ball across half court and set up. The Eastern Conference defenders moved lazily into position, showing no concern for how he planned to attack.

Cousins stepped up to set a fake screen. CJ used the motion for a hesitation move, looking like he was about to shoot.
His defender, Lowry, stepped forward for a half-hearted contest—but missed Cousins slipping down the lane in full stride.

The paint was wide open, with only Millsap under the rim.
CJ turned his body and lobbed the ball high. Spotting trouble, Millsap bailed immediately.

Come on—this isn’t a real game. Who’s going to risk getting posterized in an exhibition?

Cousins soared, snatched the lob midair, wound up, and smashed home a massive windmill dunk.

“Nice one!”

Anjali leapt from her seat, cheering loudly.

Watching the lively, beautiful Anjali, Chen Yilun gave a faint smile. She was attractive, but he felt nothing beyond that.
Their conversations were strictly professional—she was fascinated by basketball operations and treated him as a teacher.

As for hitting on the boss’s daughter? That wasn’t his thing.

The game wrapped up quickly.
Since All-Star exhibitions had few fouls and almost no timeouts, they always ended faster than normal games.

This year brought an unusual twist. In the original timeline, Westbrook had won All-Star MVP, but because of Chen Yilun’s presence, he hadn’t even made the roster. The Western Conference still came out on top, but this time the MVP went to James Harden—The Beard.

He raised the trophy high as New York fans filed out of Madison Square Garden satisfied, ready to enjoy their weekend.

For Chen Yilun, though, the real battle was just beginning.
Over the next four days, he wouldn’t get a single minute of rest—sleep included.

But before diving into work, there was one more thing to take care of.

“Teacher Wei Ping!” Chen Yilun, taking advantage of his position, stepped onto the court and spotted Wei Ping broadcasting live.

“Well, well! Isn’t this our Manager Chen? Come on over!”

Wei Ping, speaking into the camera, turned when he heard fluent Mandarin and recognized Chen Yilun.

“I’ve been wanting to chat with you for a long time, but never had the chance. Finally, today!” Wei Ping shifted aside and pulled Chen Yilun into the frame.

“You came to watch the game too?”

“Of course. Cousins and CJ were playing—I had to come support them.”

Wei Ping laughed. “Exactly. We even talked to them before tipoff, and they had nothing but praise for you!”

“They’re too kind.” They exchanged a few pleasantries before the broadcast cut back to the C5 studio.

Once the cameras were off, Wei Ping dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“By the way, Yilun, a lot of folks in the industry back home want to meet you. The national program also has some things they’d like to discuss. What do you think?”

As expected.

Chen Yilun knew his position had drawn attention—it was too sensitive to ignore.
A general manager might just be an executive, but as the decision-maker for a franchise, his influence on Chinese basketball far outweighed that of any individual player.

With the national team in decline, it wasn’t surprising they saw him as part of the solution.

“No problem. I’ll do what I can to help,” Chen Yilun replied with a smile.
He and Wei Ping exchanged numbers.

“But let’s wait a couple of days to talk—you understand.” Chen Yilun winked.

Wei Ping nodded knowingly. “Of course, of course. You must be swamped. End of the month—we’ll be in touch!”

After saying goodbye to Wei Ping, Chen Yilun steadied himself.

“The final battle is about to begin.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

“Don’t give me that nonsense! I’ve made myself clear—no means no. You still want my first-rounder? Why don’t I just throw in Cousins and CJ as a package while I’m at it?”

Chen Yilun was visibly frustrated, raising his voice during the video conference.

Ever since the All-Star Game ended yesterday, Chen Yilun had spoken again with Danny Ainge to align their plans. After all, this deal was mainly about the two of them working together to trap the Suns.
So today’s meeting turned into a head-to-head showdown between Ainge and Ryan McDonough, with Chen Yilun providing backup on the side.

But McDonough, a seasoned veteran in league front offices, wasn’t someone easy to push around.
After prying a first-round pick out of the Celtics, he turned his sights toward the Kings.

To drag Chen Yilun deeper into the negotiations, McDonough tried everything he could—even putting the Morris brothers on the block.
But Chen Yilun didn’t budge. He refused to take on anything beyond the role of facilitator.

To Ainge and McDonough, Chen Yilun was nothing more than a pointless third wheel.

Mozgov, while a solid blue-collar big man with defensive upside, was at best a role player.
The guy Chen Yilun wanted—Crowder—was still just a second-round pick with some potential.

His first two seasons with the Mavericks, the most crucial stretch of a young player’s career, had been spent as a marginal, replaceable piece. Only this season with the Celtics had his situation started to improve.
Players like him carried a standard label around the league: a throw-in.

McDonough knew Crowder alone wasn’t enough to squeeze value out of the Kings, which was why he kept pushing for Yilun to take on more.
But Yilun was stubborn—he wanted Crowder and nothing else. Nobody could figure out why Crowder mattered so much to him.

The key was that, on paper, acquiring Crowder was a losing deal for Yilun. To balance it, the other two teams had to sweeten the pot.
That meant McDonough would have to give up part of what he’d already gained.

On the other side of the call, Ainge was feeling the strain. He was determined to land Isaiah Thomas, even putting his Clippers first-rounder on the table to get it done.
But the resistance from the other two had exceeded his expectations.

McDonough knew his own limits—he was an experienced GM, after all. But Yilun’s negotiating ability had far surpassed his.

This kid’s the real deal.

At his desk, Ainge rubbed his face hard, then threw himself back into the heated exchange.

At the highest level, business battles are often fought with the simplest weapons. In the virtual conference room, the three went at each other relentlessly—voices raised, faces red, trading barbs back and forth.

“#+@&%!”

Mike Malone opened the door to Chen Yilun’s office and froze. He saw Yilun furiously arguing, his intensity almost tangible. Swallowing hard, Malone backed out quietly and shut the door again.

“That’s terrifying.”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Does our Manager Chen really curse people out that viciously?”

“Wait—that sounded like Chinese. Isn’t he negotiating trades? Do they even understand Chinese on the other side?”

After a moment of thought, Malone guessed Yilun must have slipped into his mother tongue in the heat of the moment.

“Alright, enough!”

Danny Ainge was the first to fold, raising his hands in surrender. At his age, he couldn’t keep up with the two younger men in a shouting match.

“Let’s regroup and set the main framework first. If we keep this up, the trade window will close before we finalize anything.”

“Fine.”

Chen Yilun loosened his tie, letting some air into lungs that felt ready to burst.

“We’ll send out Crowder, the Kings give up Mozgov, and the Suns part with Isaiah Thomas. Agreed?”

Ainge tapped his pen against the desk impatiently. “For balance, the Suns also need to include their trade exception to me. That’s the only way it works. Do we have a framework?”

“I’m fine with it.”

“Me too.”

“Good.” Ainge exhaled deeply. Over an hour of heated exchanges had mostly been about testing boundaries, seeing if more players could be pulled into the deal.
Now that the core framework was set, they could get into the details.

“My bottom line is this: I’ll give the Suns this year’s first-round pick. That’s it. If either of you wants another first-rounder, don’t bother asking.”

And it was no surprise Ainge spoke with confidence. As one of the most iron-fisted executives in Celtics history, he’d already stripped the Nets of five years’ worth of first-rounders.
On top of that, he’d stockpiled a treasure chest of picks through smaller trades.

No team in the league had more draft capital than the Celtics.

In 2016 alone, they held three first-rounders and five seconds—overflowing with future assets.
Which was exactly why Ainge was desperate to make a move this year. If he didn’t turn those picks into talent soon, within a couple of years their value would tank.

“Chen, I can throw in another second-round pick in 2016. That’s as far as I can go.”

“You’re really offering me that second-rounder?”

Chen Yilun sneered. That so-called 2016 second-round pick was the last of the batch, most likely at the very end of the round.
A pick like that could usually be bought on draft night with a bit of cash.

“Take it or leave it. That’s all I’ve got.”

Ainge spread his hands, shifting the pressure onto McDonough.

The message was clear:
If you want to unload Isaiah Thomas’ contract, you’d better pay the price.

McDonough drew a deep breath, flipping through his notebook until he found something.

“The best I can do is a 2017 second-round pick swap.”

“What kind of swap is that? Don’t be stingy!” Chen Yilun pressed instantly.
“It’s just a second-rounder, and not until 2017. I don’t want a pick swap—I want the actual pick.”

Hearing that, McDonough perked up. Bargaining meant Yilun was engaged. What worried him was the idea of Yilun walking away altogether.

The two haggled back and forth until they finally settled.

“Fine, 2017 second-round pick—done deal, no changes.”

“Works for me.”

After reaffirming the details, the three logged off.

Closing his laptop, Chen Yilun cleared his throat, already hoarse from shouting.

Whether it was upgrading the roster or stockpiling future assets, he might not have struck gold, but he could still call this deal a solid win.

...
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Chapter Text

The night in Sacramento was lively—not quite on the level of New York or Los Angeles, but as California’s capital, it had everything a city needed.

Small-market cities had one advantage over the metropolises: fan loyalty. And that was something the big cities couldn’t match.

Which is why, as soon as Chen Yilun and Mike Malone stepped out of the car, a few fans immediately recognized them.

After greeting the enthusiastic fans, Chen Yilun and Malone entered the restaurant one after the other.

“Why do you always bring work to the dinner table? You’re like one of those corporate guys who never switches off.”

Malone asked suddenly as he adjusted the napkin in front of him.

“Huh?”

Chen Yilun blinked, surprised by the comment. He hadn’t expected Malone to toss out something so random.

“Uh…” Chen Yilun thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s just the way things are back home. We’re used to doing it this way.”

“Maybe so.”

Malone took a sip of his lemon water and let the subject drop.

“It’s basically settled that we’re trading Mozgov, right?”

Malone trusted Chen Yilun almost completely. He didn’t pry into his decisions—he only needed to be informed of the final result.

“Yeah. You’ve been telling me the frontcourt’s too crowded and that I needed to find a solution.”

Chen Yilun skimmed the menu, placed his order, and handed it to Malone.

Right now, the Kings’ frontcourt was a full-on logjam.

Cousins, Jokić, Oden, and Mozgov—four usable bigs.

That alone had blown up the small-ball tactics the two of them had discussed before the season even started.

With four traditional big men, how could you possibly run small ball? Before the All-Star break, they’d already been forced to play Cousins at power forward.

“This Crowder kid isn’t bad. He could be a great piece, and he’d help patch up our perimeter defense.”

“I know. Do you think I don’t trust your eye?”

Malone shook his head. “The thing is, Mozgov’s leaving and you’re bringing in another young guy. Isn’t the team getting a little too young?”

This season, while the Kings still had Cousins and Gay as their core, most of the rest of the rotation had been turned over.

And now Mozgov was out, replaced by the younger Crowder.

Malone couldn’t help but wonder if this group of young players could really handle the pressure of big games.

Chen Yilun thought for a moment.

“It should be fine. We’ll manage for now. Once we hit the playoffs, we’ll still have Gay.”

Right now, Rudy Gay was the undisputed leader in the locker room.

Most of the players with comparable experience had already been traded away by Chen Yilun. Cousins alone couldn’t carry the team.

“With Gay there, I’m not worried about the young guys losing their composure.”

Malone thought it over and relaxed. “But are you that confident we’ll even make the playoffs?”

“If we don’t, what the hell have I been working on for the last six months?”

Chen Yilun shot him a look. “We’re both on the line this year. With the record we’ve built, you know how temperamental our boss is.”

“As long as we make the playoffs, we’ll be fine. But if we blow it at the finish line, just wait to see if the boss spares us.”

At that, Malone shivered involuntarily.

Honestly, their current owner wasn’t exactly one of the league’s better bosses. He loved meddling in team operations, just like a headmaster at a school.

So far, the only reason Chen Yilun and Malone had been running things their own way was because the team’s progress had been so good that the boss hadn’t had an opening to interfere.

“Either way, we have to make the playoffs this year.”

Chen Yilun took the champagne from the waiter and poured two glasses.

“As long as we get there, we’ll be fine.”

He clinked glasses with Malone before continuing.

“And honestly, I don’t think it’ll be that hard. As long as we maintain this level after the All-Star break, a playoff spot is basically guaranteed.”

“That’s manageable,” Malone said after a pause. “With this roster and chemistry, we should make the playoffs. We just might not hold on to home court advantage.”

“Home court advantage, my ass!”

Chen Yilun downed his champagne in one gulp.

“You’re still thinking about a championship? I’ll be thankful just to make the playoffs, let alone get home court.”

“Just give people enough to dream about.”

Chen Yilun stared directly at Malone as he spoke.

Taking a bottom-feeder to a championship in your very first season? That only happens in some brainless fantasy novel.

In reality, it takes two or three seasons to build up.

Team chemistry has to be developed. Tactics have to be drilled. Rookies need time to grow. Role players have to be tested in different combinations to see who actually works.

Only once all those questions are answered can a team be considered a true contender.

Right now, the Kings weren’t anywhere close.

“Got it.”

Malone took the appetizer from the waiter, already forming a plan in his mind.

“If we do it your way, I’m confident I can get it done.”

“That’s what I like to hear!”

Chen Yilun accepted his appetizer and refilled his glass.

“With that, I can count on you. Everything I do depends on your work.”

...

The same scenes were playing out across the country, as front offices scrambled to close deals.

Before they knew it, February 19 had arrived.

“I knew you weren’t asleep yet, kid!”

Buford’s hearty laughter came through Chen Yilun’s headset.

“Coach! Are you kidding me? At this hour, you’re calling just to joke around?”

Chen Yilun sat in the Kings’ conference room, exhausted. The entire coaching and management staff had stayed up all night, waiting for the trades to be finalized.

“That’s your job, not mine. I’m lying in bed already. Just wanted to say hi before I sleep! Hahaha!”

Buford chuckled a few more seconds before hanging up.

It was confusing and even a little disruptive, but Chen Yilun knew his mentor was only trying to ease his nerves.

The seconds ticked away, closer and closer to midnight.

And when the clock finally struck zero, the three teams completed their moves as planned.

When the dust settled, Chen Yilun collapsed back into his chair.

In theory, his work for the season was done.

The rest of the year would be about doing his part—and leaving the rest to fate.

The Kings, Celtics, and Suns had finalized a three-team trade.

Details:

Celtics sent out Jae Crowder, the 2016 Clippers first-round pick, and their lowest 2016 second-round pick; they received Isaiah Thomas.

Suns sent out Isaiah Thomas and their 2017 second-round pick; they received Timofey Mozgov and the 2016 Clippers first-round pick.

Kings sent out Timofey Mozgov; they received Jae Crowder, the Celtics’ lowest 2016 second-round pick, and the Suns’ 2017 second-round pick.

Everything was settled!

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Shortly after the Kings completed their trade, Chen Yilun’s staff began receiving phone calls.

It was the same old truth—
There are no secrets in the league!

Informants and intel sources started reporting trade news from around the league.

“Just give me the important stuff! Prioritize the West!”

Seeing his staff all clamoring to report at once, Chen Yilun felt a headache coming on and quickly stepped in to stop the chaos.

“The Nets and Timberwolves made a deal—KG’s back in Minnesota!”

An assistant GM was the first to speak up.

“That doesn’t matter. KG at the end of his career isn’t a threat. What’s next?”

Chen Yilun motioned for someone else to continue.

“The Thunder traded Reggie Jackson and Kendrick Perkins. In return, they got Kyle Singler, DJ Augustin, Enes Kanter, and Steve Novak!”

“That’s quite a haul! They brought in that many players?”

Reggie Jackson was another outstanding graduate of the Thunder’s “Oklahoma Academy.”
This season, he took advantage of Westbrook’s injury, stepping seamlessly into the starting point guard role and performing brilliantly.

But since Reggie refused to accept being Westbrook’s backup, the Thunder had no choice but to remove him from their long-term plans.

“The Suns weren’t done with us. They also made a move with the Heat—sending Goran Dragic to Miami!”

“The Suns are completely tearing it down.”

Malone’s face brightened.

This was all good news for him.
The Thunder’s trade clearly weakened them in the short term to build for the future.
And with the Suns, a playoff team last season, blowing up their roster, there was now one less competitor for a postseason spot.

As for the Timberwolves? Malone dismissed them outright.

What could KG do with a bunch of raw rookies?

What Malone didn’t realize, though, was that the Garnett trade marked the beginning of the collapse of the Nets’ so-called superteam.
Brooklyn’s reputation as the league’s biggest sucker was about to hit Barclays Center.
And their GM would forever be nailed to the pillar of shame.

Meanwhile, players like Reggie, Isaiah Thomas, and Dragic—all quality pieces—had gone East. Each of them could cause some trouble for the Cavaliers.

“Everyone, you’ve all worked hard lately!”

Chen Yilun clapped his hands, signaling for quiet. “That’s it for tonight. Go home, rest up. We’ve done everything we could. Now the only mission left is making the playoffs. Work hard, and Mike and I won’t let you down this summer!”

...

February 20.

The Kings hosted the Celtics at home. Before the game, Chen Yilun and Mike Malone welcomed Jae Crowder, who had traveled with the team to Sacramento, into their office.

Crowder still felt a little dizzy. This was the second time he’d been traded this season.

At the end of last year, he was dealt from the Mavericks to the Celtics, who had high hopes of developing him. He’d even been ready to buy a house in Boston.

But who would’ve thought he’d be shipped off again so soon?

Good thing I hesitated and didn’t buy that house.
That was all Crowder could think about now.

“Crowder, you just got here today. Don’t play in tonight’s game. Spend the next couple of days getting used to the team.”

Malone handed him a set of practice gear. “Your jersey isn’t ready yet. Just wear this for now.”

“Got it! Thanks, coach!”

Crowder took the gear and was about to head out when he noticed a big man waiting at the office door.

He looked familiar…

“Crowder, right?” The man spoke first as Crowder stepped out. “I’m Peja Stojakovic. From today on, I’ll be your shooting coach.”

Peja!

Crowder instantly recognized him—once the deadliest three-point shooter on those Kings teams!
Wait, did he just say… my shooting coach?

“Don’t get too excited.” Peja pulled Crowder along as they headed downstairs. “I’ll be strict. That old man Divac hasn’t stopped bragging since he got himself a good apprentice. You’d better not embarrass me!”

...

Because the trade had only gone through hours earlier, the Celtics came with a shorthanded roster.
Isaiah Thomas was still on a plane to Boston!

So tonight’s game wasn’t much of a contest.

CJ used a Casspi screen, turned into the paint, and, seeing Zeller rotating over, lobbed the ball high into the air.

Cousins, who had been waiting inside, leapt up and threw it down with authority!

“Let’s go!”

Cousins celebrated with a chest bump that sent CJ stumbling back several steps.

“The Kings have been a real treat to watch this season.”

In the studio, Charles Barkley marveled at the Kings’ free-flowing offense.

“I just wonder who it was that kept trashing them at the start of the season.”

Kenny, sitting opposite, jumped on the chance to jab Barkley.

“That’s different!” Barkley shot back immediately.

“Did you like the Kings at the start of the season? They were a patchwork roster, led by a guy who had just gotten healthy and was still a huge question mark!”

“But credit where it’s due—Coach Malone and Chen have worked wonders. The Kings’ chemistry is fantastic now.”

By the end of the third quarter, young coach Stevens had already pulled his starters and waved the white flag.

But before leaving, he cast a meaningful glance at the Kings’ bench.

As one of the league’s rare all-around talents, Chen Yilun had already caught his attention.
And for a franchise as storied as the Celtics, the goal was always the championship!

If Chen Yilun and Malone stayed together long-term, the Kings were bound to be part of that title race.

“Stop staring.”

Peja suddenly appeared behind Crowder.

“Grab your things and come with me to the gym.”

LaVine, Ben, Boyang, and even Ray looked on with tears in their eyes as Crowder followed Peja out.

Hang in there, brother! We’ve finally passed the torch!

Divac and Peja, once teammates on the Kings’ peak squads, had always been close. But this season, their bond had started to fray.

The spark? Jokić.
After a summer training with Divac, Jokić had grown rapidly and become a key hub in the Kings’ system.

That success made the old man Divac a bit cocky.

Look! Look at him!
My apprentice!
My apprentice is the best in the world!

And once he started bragging, who better to rub it in than his old buddy Peja?

So a bizarre dynamic developed within the Kings.

Peja and Divac would finish their work—

“What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Huh? How’d you know my apprentice got another double-double?”

Back and forth, until Peja finally snapped.

So you’re the only one who can train apprentices, huh? Think I can’t do it too?

That’s when LaVine and the other perimeter guys started suffering. Any chance Peja got, he dragged them in for extra shooting sessions.

With the NBA’s already packed schedule, they’d be exhausted after a game, only to find Peja waiting like a hawk to pull them back into the gym.

More than once, LaVine and the others were pushed to the brink of exhaustion.
It took Malone stepping in before Peja finally eased up.

But this time, with Crowder’s playing style so similar to Peja’s, Malone personally assigned Peja to mentor him.

Good brother… we’ll remember your sacrifice.

As they watched Crowder’s unsuspecting back, LaVine and the others spoke silently in their hearts.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

After wrapping up their game against the Celtics, the Kings boarded a plane to Los Angeles the next day.

“Bro, how do you look so wrecked after just one night?”

On the Kings’ private jet, Ben McLemore sat next to Crowder.

Looking at Crowder, who seemed completely drained, Ben held back a grin and asked knowingly.

“You guys…”

Crowder hesitated before finally speaking.

“Do you usually train this hard?”

“Pfft!”

Ben, who had been drinking water, couldn’t help but spit it out.
“Bro, you don’t get it. You’ve been singled out for special treatment. Look at that big guy up there.”

He pointed toward Jokić, who was napping a few rows ahead.

“Him. When he came last year, he was like a mountain of meat. But that didn’t stop the higher-ups from believing in him. Mr. Divac personally trained him all summer. He slimmed down so much that his skin was loose when the season started.”

“Otherwise, how could a second-round pick be playing this well? He even started in two games recently!”

Hearing Ben’s words, the exhausted Crowder suddenly lit up with hope.

“I knew it! They must have finally recognized my talent!
This proves I have what it takes to be a true leader!”

Watching Crowder hype himself up, Ben casually lifted a magazine to hide the grin spreading across his face.

Hold on… wasn’t I once just a simple, good guy? How did I end up like this?
It must’ve started when Yilun joined the team. Yeah, that’s it! When the leadership goes bad, it drags everyone else down. He’s corrupted a pure soul like me!

...

“Clang!”

Chris Paul used DeAndre Jordan’s screen to carve out a sliver of space for a jumper, but the ball rattled around the rim before dropping out.

Underneath, Oden had Griffin completely sealed off, not giving him a chance.

“Zach!” Oden roared as he secured the rebound, then fired an outlet pass.

LaVine shot down the court like a flash of purple, catching Oden’s pass in stride and sprinting toward the rim.

Hedo Türkoğlu, guarding LaVine, raced desperately to stop the fast break.

But just as Türkoğlu reached out to contest, LaVine whipped a sharp pass straight to the corner.

Ben was already there, set his feet, lined it up, and let it fly.

“Swish!”

The net snapped clean.

“These Kings are getting tougher and tougher,” muttered Coach Rivers, scratching his bald head. As the coach of a Clippers team with title ambitions, he kept a close eye on anyone who could stand in their way.

“Let’s set up another meeting to break down their tactics. I want a full report on the Kings before April.” Rivers leaned over and whispered to his assistant.

And it wasn’t just the Clippers—many Western Conference contenders had begun to take notice of the Kings.

There were only eight playoff spots. If the Kings were climbing, someone else would have to fall.

Plenty of teams had already marked the Kings as a threat and were preparing to target them.

But tonight, the Clippers were completely shut down.

With Mozgov gone, his minutes had been split between Jokić and Oden.

Oden had now become the backbone of the Kings’ interior defense.

Even players as physically imposing as Griffin and DeAndre Jordan struggled to get anything against him.

When “Lob City” couldn’t get off the ground, the game suddenly became much simpler.

The Kings settled into their favorite half-court offense. Oden posted up against DeAndre Jordan, and CJ fed him the ball without hesitation.

Feeling the pressure on his back, Oden decided to back down his man.

DeAndre, the Clippers’ defensive anchor, wasn’t about to give in. He dug in, locking horns with Oden.

The two giants wrestled fiercely in the paint.

Just as DeAndre braced for a power move, Oden suddenly spun past him, driving to the basket.

On the weak side, Griffin was tangled with Cousins and couldn’t rotate over.

But DeAndre wasn’t about to give up. Showing surprising agility for his size, he spun around and closed the gap.

At the last second, Oden stopped short, stepped back, and rose for the jumper.

The shot dropped cleanly.

“No matter how many times I see it, it still doesn’t seem fair,” said Charles Barkley in the studio. “If I’m not mistaken, Oden’s 27 now, right?”

“Twenty-seven years and 29 days,” Kenny replied.

“He came into the league at 19, the pride of a generation, and now, after everyone gave up on him, he’s finally showing the talent we all knew he had.”

Barkley shook his head. “At 27… can you really say he’s only just now showing it?”

“I’d say…” Kenny hesitated. “Maybe this is simply Oden healthy. You can’t really call it wasted potential anymore.”

That basket summed up the whole game. The Kings, with balanced contributions, pulled out a 102–96 win on the road.

...

“Yeah, I’ll be there around noon tomorrow.”

Fresh from the shower, Ben strolled back into his room in a bathrobe, ready to rest. But his roommate Crowder was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, murmuring into it.

“Who’re you talking to?”

As Crowder hung up, Ben asked casually, towel in hand.

“My coach. He just confirmed the time with me.”

Ben froze mid-wipe.

“You mean… you were talking to Peja?”

“Yeah. He was checking when he’ll be back in Sacramento so we can schedule some extra sessions.”

“No way!” Ben shot upright.

“Bro, we just finished a game today, and we’ve got team practice in two days. You’re telling me you’re going in for extra work tomorrow?!”

“Of course!” Crowder’s eyes burned with determination. “The team really values me. I can’t waste a single moment.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

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Chapter Text

“What are you saying? You hyped him up so much that he ended up like this?”

Chen Yilun stood by the bed, staring at Crowder who had already collapsed into sleep, and pressed his hand against his forehead in frustration.

Next to him, Ben lowered his head like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong by his teacher.

“How is he now?”

“Nothing serious.”

The team doctor glanced over the report twice. “He just overtrained and pushed himself into exhaustion. A couple of days of rest and he’ll be fine. Chen, don’t take it too hard—this kind of thing happens a few times every year in the league.”

The doctor was clearly fighting back a laugh.

Crowder was ridiculously easy to fool—Ben had tossed out a few hyped-up lines, and Crowder drove himself into exhaustion.

“Just wait until we get back—I’ll deal with you then!”

Chen Yilun shot Ben a glare full of anger.

At that moment, a booming voice shouted from outside.

“Where’s my disciple? Where’s my precious disciple?!”

Peja burst into the medical room in three long strides. Chen Yilun quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him back outside.

“It’s nothing. The kid just trained too hard. He just needs a couple of days of rest.”

Hearing that, Peja finally relaxed, the tension draining from his face. “Good, good. Otherwise, I’d really be the sinner of the team.”

Seeing him calm down, Chen Yilun added, “Peja, I know you mean well, but you can’t rush things. We can’t force growth.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Peja nodded furiously. “I was too impatient. I’ll reflect on it.”

As a member of the staff, Peja understood exactly how much Chen Yilun valued Crowder. He was seen as the last puzzle piece the Kings hoped could shore up their wing defense.

The Kings’ offense might look seamless, but their perimeter defense was full of holes. None of their wings were particularly strong defenders.

That was a serious problem. In the regular season it might not matter, but come playoff time, those weaknesses would be exploited mercilessly.

After all, “defense wins championships” had always been the league’s most unshakable creed.

“As long as you keep that in mind.” Chen Yilun pulled Peja into his office. “You’ve been with Crowder these past couple of days. What’s your honest take on him?”

Peja paused, carefully weighing his words.

“It’s just the two of us here, so speak freely.”

Chen Yilun slid open his drawer and pulled out a pack of Huazi cigarettes. While Peja’s attention was elsewhere, he quickly lit one, then shoved the pack back into the drawer.

It wasn’t that he was stingy—cigarettes from home were impossible to get here. This pack he had secretly snagged from Coach Wei Ping during All-Star Weekend.

“Crowder isn’t quite as good as I expected,” Peja finally admitted.

“It matches his draft position and what he showed on his last team. His three-point shooting isn’t consistent, his athleticism is just above average, and the hardest part is his defensive instincts.”

Peja gestured in the air. “His instincts just aren’t there. If he wants to become a real defender, he’s going to need a lot of work.”

Chen Yilun nodded along.

Many fans in later years would remember Crowder as a premier 3-and-D player, but that was really just perception. His career three-point percentage was only league average. As for defense, his reputation outweighed his actual performance.

The fact that he never made an All-Defensive Team was proof enough.

“That doesn’t matter,” Chen Yilun said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. “He’s still young. Just work with him gradually. And don’t take Divac’s words too seriously. You two… honestly, I’m embarrassed to say it, but you’re grown men in your forties still bickering over this stuff. It’s childish.”

“If it bothers you that much, I’ll find you a good prospect later—let you get your payback.”

At that, Peja’s face flushed red. “I know, I know. I’ll head out then.”

After Peja left the office, Chen Yilun pulled up his system.

All his badges were still sitting unused in the system’s inventory. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to use them—the system’s badge mechanics were just too frustrating.

Once a badge was bound, it couldn’t be removed. Was he supposed to hand over something he’d worked so hard to earn? And he couldn’t even get it back afterward!

Only a brain-dead author would come up with something like this.

If it hadn’t been for a quest at the start of the season, he wouldn’t have even used the Dual-Threat Guard 101 badge.

Still, his experience at All-Star Weekend had given him some new ideas about the badges he held.

As Chen Yilun was still mulling over the thought, the cigarette burned down to the filter. He quickly finished it off and started planning his next steps.

In theory, he could afford to take a long break now.

The trade deadline had passed. All that was left was preparing for the offseason trade market and the draft.

But Chen Yilun wasn’t the type to sit idle. He had originally thought he’d use his foresight to run some side ventures and become a boss himself. But once the work started, he realized—he didn’t have the time. Not at all.

Besides, his life now was far more comfortable than in his previous one. It was better to just focus on what he truly loved.

Humming a tune, Chen Yilun drove out of the parking lot and headed to the airport.

Today, he had an important guest to pick up personally.

After waiting for more than an hour, his guest finally appeared.

A slightly overweight middle-aged man in a dark suit stepped out of the arrivals gate, followed by an assistant-like figure lugging several bags.

“Over here!” Chen Yilun waved.

“Thank you for making the trip. You must be Director Zhang!” The two shook hands in greeting.

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Manager Chen, for personally coming to pick us up.”

The man was a representative of the Chinese Basketball Association. During All-Star Weekend, Coach Wei Ping had introduced Chen Yilun to the domestic basketball world. Now that the deadline had passed, the CBA couldn’t wait to strengthen their relationship.

And it wasn’t just the CBA. Coaches, managers, even youth program directors across China had been calling nonstop, all hoping to leave a good impression.

It was no surprise—they had good reason to. The NBA had long been deeply tied to China, but this was the first time a Chinese national like Chen Yilun had control over the full resources of a team.

“Come on, let’s get settled. The hotel’s already booked. That was a long flight—you need a good meal first.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

In Sacramento’s Chinatown, inside the most luxurious private room of a Chinese restaurant, a table that could seat more than ten was reserved by Chen Yilun for only three people.
Chen Yilun, Director Zhang, and his secretary, Xiao Li.

“You’ve come all this way, of course I have to treat you to some local specialties.” Chen Yilun opened a bottle of baijiu and reached to pour for Director Zhang.
Director Zhang quickly stood up, holding his glass with both hands.

After Chen Yilun poured for him, Xiao Li, who had already taken his seat, smoothly picked up the bottle, poured a glass for Chen Yilun, and sat back down — keeping the bottle firmly at his side.

Chen Yilun noticed the move and couldn’t help but smile in admiration.
That kind of sharp attentiveness was invaluable. Honestly, who wouldn’t want a subordinate like that?

“But I’ve been living here for over half a year, and Western food here really doesn’t suit me — bland and hard to enjoy.” Chen Yilun joked. “After all that, this place still fits our tastes best.”

“I understand. I’ve heard about the food here,” Director Zhang replied.

After clinking glasses, Director Zhang spoke. “Xiao Li, bring out our gift.”

“No, no, that’s too kind.”

“It’s nothing expensive. Just a small token from the basketball community back home.”

Director Zhang waved his hand and took a basketball from Xiao Li.

“Before we came, Chairman Yu spent days thinking about what to bring you. In the end, it seemed like you didn’t need anything. Since the Asian Championship is coming up this year, here’s a basketball signed by the entire national team!”

If not for Director Zhang’s reminder, Chen Yilun might have forgotten. That’s right — this year was the Asian Championship, the last great moment for the national team in the original timeline.

That year, the team stood united, reclaiming Asia’s throne and earning a direct ticket to the Olympics.
But afterward came a generational gap and a rocky decline.

Chen Yilun accepted the signed basketball with great care.

“This gift is perfect. I don’t even want to put it down!”

The moment he saw it, he was already reluctant to let go.
This wasn’t some mass-produced league souvenir. Genuine national team signed basketballs were only a handful in the entire world — priceless and unattainable.

For a basketball fan, the temptation of such a collectible was irresistible.

“I’m glad you like it.” Seeing Chen Yilun’s genuine delight, Director Zhang finally relaxed.

“This time, we mainly came to discuss the future direction of domestic basketball with you.”

For various reasons, even after decades of development, basketball participation in China remained very limited. And not just in terms of players — there were also huge gaps in coaches, managers, analysts, trainers, and other essential roles.

Most of the time, it felt like groping in the dark. The fresh blood of the sport was sustained almost entirely by the youth training programs of a few clubs.
But since it was only barely being sustained, there would inevitably come a day when it could no longer hold up.
That day was already drawing near.

Still, on the surface, the national team looked strong, with veterans like Yi Jianlian and Da Zhenzi leading the way, supported by promising newcomers like Wang Zhelin, Si Zi, and Zhou Qi.
And this year, the “Big Monster” would fully make his name known, becoming the new standard-bearer among domestic centers.

Of course, that was all a story for later.

“Here’s the thing. Recently in Beijing, there’s been a proposal under discussion. Since this is your area of expertise, we wanted to hear your thoughts.”

After a few rounds of strong liquor, the two had grown much more comfortable with each other. Director Zhang no longer spoke so formally.

“Go ahead.”

What Director Zhang said stunned Chen Yilun. Wasn’t this the early concept of the future Young Eagles Program?
So they already had this idea back then.

Chen Yilun didn’t openly oppose the plan. Given the current conditions, sending young players abroad for training really was cheaper than building up the entire structure at home.
But with his foresight, he knew the program’s success rate would end up alarmingly low.

“The idea itself isn’t bad,” Chen Yilun finally said after some thought.
“But the training methods and focus here are very different from ours. Getting a school team spot is easy, but wouldn’t competing directly with American high school players be too much for our kids?”

“That’s something we’ve been considering too. In the short term, the plan may not yield much. But raising talent is a long process, and we still want to align with the world — even if just little by little.”

“I see.”

After pausing for a moment, Chen Yilun continued, “If it’s about working with schools here, I do have quite a few connections. It wouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”

Since it was their first meeting, they couldn’t go too deep into details. Showing goodwill and openness to cooperation was enough.

As the two continued drinking, Xiao Li quietly slipped out of the private room.

With just a glance, Chen Yilun already knew what he was up to. But too bad — restaurants here required advance reservations, and he had already paid in full when booking.
Typical Americans, not even giving guests a chance to show some courtesy.

After wrapping things up with Director Zhang, Chen Yilun slowly made his way home.

If he could build good cooperation with contacts back home, then the badges in his system warehouse would finally have a proper use.

Chen Yilun had always lived by one principle:
better wasted at home than handed over to others!

With his rebirth and the boost cards in hand, he was already in an invincible position. The badges had become almost redundant.
The only reason he hadn’t used them yet was because he couldn’t bear to let such a powerful advantage go to waste on others.

But if it was for his own people, that was a different story.

What? You think this breaks the system rules?
How’s it breaking anything! The rule just says it has to go to team members! I’ll talk to the boss, get myself listed on a subordinate team, and sign the kid to a 10-day contract first.
At worst, when the summer league comes, I’ll ask for a roster spot. Who can say summer league players aren’t part of the team?

Thinking of this, Chen Yilun found himself humming a tune.

I really am a genius.

...
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Chapter Text

“Hey, hey, hey! Mr. Chen! Can you hear me? This is Old Cui from the XX Youth Training Team.”

Ever since Chen Yilun had gotten in touch with the Basketball Association and expressed his willingness to cooperate with domestic basketball, it was like opening Pandora’s box.
The very next day, his phone didn’t stop ringing.

The domestic basketball circle was so small, everyone was connected in some way. The Basketball Association hadn’t tried to keep the news under wraps.
By nightfall, word had spread everywhere—Chen Yilun was open to cooperation.

That was all it took to stir things up.

In the past, a few people had reached out, but always cautiously. After all, while everyone called it basketball, Chen Yilun was playing at an entirely different level.
What if he dismissed domestic basketball as too weak and refused to get involved?

That was why Director Zhang had traveled to the U.S. in the first place.
But now Chen Yilun had made his stance clear: while he worked abroad, he was still committed to supporting basketball back home.

That changed everything.

As a General Manager, Chen Yilun had plenty of resources, but there was no way he could carry the entire domestic basketball scene on his shoulders.
Still, those who reached out early and made themselves known would have a better chance of gaining opportunities later.

Rumor had it that people from some of the top clubs were already booking flights to Sacramento to meet him face-to-face.

After fielding call after call, Chen Yilun finally couldn’t take it anymore and switched on Do Not Disturb mode.

Keeping your phone on 24/7 was part of a GM’s job, but if he didn’t turn it off now, he wouldn’t even be able to run a meeting.

At the conference table, nearly the entire Kings front office was present, quietly waiting for him to finish.

“Go on, go on.”

Chen Yilun gestured for his analyst to continue the report.

“Our main task this offseason is Rudy Gay’s contract. His deal expires this summer, and he’ll become a free agent.”

“Rudy’s been very professional,” said head coach Malone, the first to speak. “We’ve already talked with him—he’s happy with the team’s direction and is even willing to take a pay cut.”

“If possible, we should definitely keep him. Rudy’s done a great job as the locker room leader, and Cousins listens to him.”

After hearing everyone out, Chen Yilun set the tone for Gay’s extension.

As a versatile all-around player, Rudy Gay was in the perfect role now. The team didn’t need him to put up superstar numbers and carry them on his own. They just needed him to be the steady veteran presence, keeping things stable and helping organize the offense when necessary.

Even more importantly, Gay was one of the few players in the league who could actually keep Cousins in check.
(If you’re curious, look up the clip of Gay and Cousins going at it—it’s hilarious.)

“Go ahead and talk to him. Try to lock him in for another three years, but keep the annual salary under $10 million.”

In the original timeline, Gay had also re-signed with the team this offseason, on a three-year, $40 million deal.
But with the roster changes now, his role as the second option had already dropped to the third.

If he were an ambitious second-in-command eager to prove himself, he would’ve demanded a trade long ago.
But Rudy was different—he was known for not being overly competitive.

As long as his job was stable and he had the team’s respect, there was an 80% chance he’d stay. He was even willing to take a pay cut for comfort and consistency.

“Another issue is this year’s draft.”

With the contract settled, the discussion immediately moved on.

“This year, we only have the first-round swap option with the Knicks. Do we need to make another trade to get more picks?”

Coming right after the blockbuster 2014 draft class, the 2015 rookies looked underwhelming by comparison. Many scouts were already calling it a weak draft year.

“No need to rush. Let’s see what kind of gift our friends in New York hand us.”

The room burst into laughter.

Last year, Chen had made a deal with the Zen Master (Phil Jackson). With both Carmelo Anthony and Amar’e Stoudemire sidelined by injuries, the value of that swap pick was climbing higher and higher.

“My take is this…”

Once the laughter died down, Chen Yilun continued, “After the draft order is set, we’ll take another look. Honestly, I’m not impressed with the players projected at the very top this year.”

“If the Knicks really give us a big gift, I’m planning to trade down again—turn one pick into multiple assets.”

Most of the front office agreed.

The Kings already had a strong core of young talent. There was no need to gamble on raw potential with a high pick. At this stage, the smarter play was to turn one into many, collect promising role players, and develop them.

...

After the meeting, Chen Yilun returned to his office and turned his phone back on.

“Ding, ding, ding…”

Instantly, messages poured onto the screen like a flood.

“What on earth is this?” Chen Yilun muttered in frustration as he checked his missed calls—only to see that Director Zhang had tried to reach him twice.

He quickly returned the call.

“Hello, Director Zhang, sorry about that. I was in a meeting with Do Not Disturb on. What’s the matter?”

“My apologies, Mr. Chen. I’m sure you’ve been pestered by people back home all day,” Director Zhang said, sounding slightly guilty. “Don’t worry, I’ve already reported it to the higher-ups. Someone will set them straight. For now, just focus on communicating with the Basketball Association. Ignore the rest.”

“All right, thank you, Director Zhang.”

“There’s one more thing I should mention first.” Director Zhang’s tone shifted. “We’ll go over the details later, but during the offseason, the higher-ups want to arrange two friendly games between the national team and the Kings. It’s part of the preparation for the Asian Championship.”

“That’s great! I’m all for it.”

For Chen Yilun, having the national team come over for friendlies was nothing but beneficial. Not only would it build goodwill back home, it would also give the Kings a big boost in popularity.

“Perfect. That’s all I needed to know. We’re flying to Houston today. When I get back, let’s grab a drink.”

Thanks to Yao Ming, the Rockets had long been considered China’s home team. That bond lingered even after his retirement. If not for Chen Yilun, the Rockets would still hold the largest fan base in China.

But now, the market they had fought so hard to protect was destined to fall into his hands.

...
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Chapter Text

Time flew by, and before they knew it, March had arrived.

At Madison Square Garden, angry chants from the fans echoed through the arena. With their two core players sidelined by injuries, the Knicks were already nothing more than fish on the chopping block this season.

If that were the only issue, New York fans wouldn’t have directed such hostility toward the Kings. After all, the proud Madison Square Garden doesn’t waste its breath on nobodies.

What truly enraged them was that their first-round draft pick was firmly in the Kings’ hands. No matter how much the Knicks collapsed this year, it would be meaningless—their struggles would only serve Sacramento.

And what about Derrick Williams, the player they got in the trade?

His performance was acceptable, at least good enough to crack the Knicks’ current starting lineup. But he was nowhere near worth the price they paid.

This year’s swap rights were already a heavy loss, and on top of that, they had given up a 2018 first-round pick. That was salt in the wound.

Still, the boos and jeers had no effect on the Kings players.

“Everyone heard the coach’s instructions, right?” Rudy Gay adjusted his jersey as he prepared to step onto the court.

“Got it! Just crush them—it’s nothing!” DeMarcus Cousins rumbled.

The Kings were determined to dismantle the Knicks. The worse New York’s record got, the more valuable the pick became. It was like kicking someone who was already down.

Tonight’s Kings starting lineup: point guard CJ, shooting guard Ben, small forward Omri Casspi, power forward Rudy Gay, and center DeMarcus Cousins. This was the lineup they had started the season with—and their strongest one.

Across from them, the Knicks’ starting five: point guard Tim Hardaway Jr., shooting guard Langston Galloway, small forward Louis Amundson, power forward Derrick Williams, and center Andrea Bargnani.

Hard to believe, but that was actually the Knicks’ starting lineup.

Losing Carmelo Anthony and Amar’e Stoudemire was bad enough. But then, as if cursed, key backcourt players J.R. Smith and Iman Shumpert were also lost for the season.

Before the All-Star break, the Knicks still showed some fight. But afterward, as the league’s heavyweights picked up steam, they completely collapsed.

Cousins easily won the tip over Bargnani.

CJ caught the ball and dribbled slowly to the top of the key.

“Play one!” he signaled, calling Cousins up for a pick-and-roll.

The screen was mediocre, but it was enough. Hardaway, a defensive liability, got blown past as CJ burst forward.

Bargnani, slow to react, shuffled over to cut off CJ’s drive.

CJ darted into the paint with lightning speed but quickly realized the wings weren’t in position.

The set was designed for CJ and Cousins to create a mismatch, then Ben and Casspi would cross-screen to free up Gay, generating an open shot for Ben or Casspi.

But maybe because they weren’t in sync, the play broke down.

CJ hesitated, unsure whether to reset or attack Bargnani’s mismatch. Just then, he caught sight of a shadow cutting down from the top of the key.

Perfect timing.

CJ whipped a bounce pass behind him, landing it right in Cousins’ hands. Hardaway, tasked with guarding Cousins, was powerless. All he could do was watch as Cousins exploded toward the rim and slammed it home.

“Great finish!” Reggie Miller shouted from the commentary booth.
“Simple, but with the Knicks’ weak defense, there’s just no way to contain Cousins.”

“Wait—something’s off. Something’s definitely off!”

Gay jogged over and whispered to CJ.
“Forget the plays. Just dump it inside and let DeMarcus go to work.”

“Got it!” CJ nodded.

He waved his teammates to spread out, then fed Cousins in the post.

Cousins grinned, bodying up Bargnani one-on-one.

The scene was almost comical. The Italian big man was shoved backward step by step, helpless against Cousins’ sheer power. Cousins bulldozed into the paint and laid it in with ease.

Normally, a Knicks forward would’ve come to help. But with Gay lurking in the corner, Williams didn’t dare leave him open.

“How about it? Want to do a couple more?” Gay smirked as they ran back.

“Absolutely!” Cousins nodded eagerly. “I barely even used any strength—he just got shoved aside.”

Coach Malone caught on quickly and scrapped the original sets, letting Cousins dominate inside. Why run plays when one-on-one was enough?

From then on, Cousins spent the entire game hunting Bargnani and punishing him.

Williams tried guarding him instead? Fine—just run a pick-and-roll until the matchup switched back to Bargnani.

By the second quarter, as both teams rotated in their bench units, the game had turned into little more than an exhibition.

No wonder the Kings showed no mercy. Half the Knicks roster probably wouldn’t last another two years in the league.

On one side, a playoff contender at full strength. On the other, a roster cobbled together like a summer league team.

The Knicks were annihilated.

The furious crowd grew quieter and quieter. By the fourth quarter, the stands looked patchy, as if whole sections had been cleared out. Most fans couldn’t take it anymore and left early.

Final score: 102–86.

The Kings secured another dominant road win.

As the team prepared to head back to the locker room, Chen Yilun noticed Phil Jackson sitting in the corner.

The Zen Master caught his gaze, and the two exchanged a distant nod. Jackson’s face remained calm, but the trace of embarrassment in his smile was hard to miss.

“How’s it going here? Looks like New York’s been treating you well.”

Sacramento’s First Street Looper Ben leaned casually on the sideline, chatting with Williams.

“Old buddy, tough luck. We’re finally going to the playoffs, and you’re not here.”

“Cut it out!” Williams snapped.
“What does the team making the playoffs have to do with you? You can’t even keep your starting spot.”

“Hey! Watch your mouth! I’m sacrificing for the team! Unlike you—what do you even have to sacrifice?”

With a smug look, Williams thumped his chest.
“I gave up two first-round picks in a trade! Can you do that?”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

It turns out that when someone has nothing to do, time flies by.

After the trade deadline, Chen Yilun entered the most relaxed stretch of his year.

For the past two months, he had been sleeping in as late as he wanted, flying around the country with the team to watch games for free, or dropping by NCAA universities to eat and drink with coaches—all on the team’s tab.

The only official duty he had was attending the NCAA’s famous “March Madness.”

And to be fair, those games were incredible—unlike the NBA, they were pure, unfiltered basketball.

Young players poured sweat on the court, battling for the honor that represented the pinnacle of North American college basketball.

Just as Chen Yilun was slouched in his office chair, ready to drift through another lazy day, Malone walked in.

“Coming with us to Los Angeles tomorrow?”

“What for? I’ve still got a pile of work to do.” Chen Yilun tapped at his keyboard, pretending to be busy.

“Cut it out. I know exactly what you’ve been doing these past two months,” Malone said dryly, cutting straight through Chen Yilun’s poor act.

“I didn’t call you out before, but this is the final game of the season. You’re really not going to show up?”

“Wait, final game?”

Chen Yilun blinked at him, then quickly looked at the calendar on his computer.

“Hold on, it’s April 14 already?”

Tomorrow, the 15th, was indeed the last game of the regular season.

“How’s our record?”

Coach Malone nearly rolled his eyes into the ceiling. “You’ve got some nerve asking that. You’re supposed to be the team’s manager, and you don’t even know our record?”

“Hey, that just proves I trust you.” Chen Yilun laughed it off.

“You’re unbelievable, you sly fox.”

Malone sighed and continued. “Anyway, tomorrow’s result doesn’t matter much. Right now, our record is 52 wins, 29 losses.

“We’re two games behind the Spurs in the standings and three games ahead of the Mavericks. So no matter what, we’ll enter the playoffs as the seventh seed in the West.”

“Seventh, huh? That’s good enough.” Chen Yilun brightened immediately at the numbers.

The goal this year was simply to make the playoffs. Whether they bowed out in the first round wasn’t his concern.

Unless something unexpected happened, the Western Conference standings would be:

1st: Golden State Warriors
2nd: Houston Rockets
3rd: Los Angeles Clippers
4th: Portland Trail Blazers
5th: Memphis Grizzlies
6th: San Antonio Spurs
7th: Sacramento Kings
8th: Dallas Mavericks

The Pelicans, who originally held the eighth seed, had been squeezed out.

“Alright then, let’s go.” Chen Yilun gathered the papers on his desk. “After all, we finally made the playoffs. That’s worth celebrating.”

...

That night, the Staples Center was packed, even though the Lakers sat at the bottom of the Western Conference. In their final game, Coach Byron Scott benched all his starters, essentially surrendering in hopes of securing a better draft pick in the summer.

But Los Angeles, as one of the league’s biggest markets, still filled the arena to capacity.

Malone also sat Cousins and CJ to preserve them for the playoffs, starting LaVine and Oden instead.

The Kings won easily, closing the season with a 53–29 record.

When the final buzzer sounded, the Kings players couldn’t hold back their excitement any longer. They stormed the court in celebration.

“Congratulations to the Kings! After eight long years, they’re back in the playoffs!”

Back home, the game was broadcast live in a special segment.

Yang, at the studio desk, spoke with excitement.

“What an incredible turnaround. In just one year, their record nearly doubled. No doubt, the Kings are this season’s biggest dark horse!”

“If nothing unexpected happens, Chen Yilun should have the Executive of the Year award locked up,” Commentator Wei Ping added.

“His brilliant trades were absolutely crucial to the Kings’ rise this year!”

“Exactly. As the seventh seed in the West, the Kings will face the second-seeded Rockets in the first round. Wei Ping, what’s your prediction for that matchup?”

“I wouldn’t dare predict!” Wei Ping laughed, waving his hand. “For so many of us back home, Kings vs. Rockets is like choosing between family. All we can hope is that they give us a thrilling series!”

While the mood in China was celebratory, the streets of Sacramento had already erupted into a festival.

Long-suffering Kings fans flooded the streets in jerseys, celebrating like they’d already won it all.

“You’ve done well. Making the playoffs this year has given our board a huge boost of confidence!”

In Ranadivé’s office, Chen Yilun and Malone sat side by side on the guest sofa while Ranadivé paced excitedly back and forth.

Truth be told, none of this had been in his expectations.

When he lured Chen Yilun away from the Spurs, Ranadivé had only intended him to be a placeholder, a scapegoat if things went wrong. Yet without fanfare, Chen had delivered something huge.

“Boss, even though now’s not the best time, I need to remind you,” Malone said, seeing Ranadivé getting carried away.

“Making the playoffs is great, but we’re still a step behind the West’s top teams.”

“I know that.” Ranadivé waved dismissively.

“I won’t judge by results. My only demand is that the team shows heart—win or lose, make the games worth watching.”

The excitement of the playoff series would directly affect ticket sales next year. One way or another, the Kings had to put on a show.

“Don’t worry, boss, we’ll deliver!” Malone answered quickly, seizing the chance before Ranadivé changed his mind again.

“You’ve all worked hard this season. I’ll bring it up with the board—both of your bonuses will be doubled!”

...
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Chapter Text

“Run faster! Faster!”

Inside the Kings’ practice facility, Malone stood with his arms crossed, looking troubled as he watched the players go through drills.

“Don’t be so impatient. What can they really accomplish in just two days? If you ask me, it’d be better to give them a break and let them rest,” came Chen Yilun’s voice from behind.

Coach Malone turned around and instantly felt his blood pressure rise.
“Look at yourself! Is that how a professional manager should dress?”

Chen Yilun was wearing oversized beach shorts, a brightly colored floral shirt, and was leisurely sipping a cup of coffee.
“You here on vacation or what!”

“Relax, don’t be so uptight,” Chen Yilun said, patting Malone’s shoulder. “It doesn’t really matter. Aside from Gay, this is basically everyone’s first time in the playoffs. We’ll have plenty of chances in the future.”

“This year, let’s just stay calm and go as far as we can. Don’t forget, I’m still here.” He thumped his chest casually.
“Just wait until this summer—I’ll blind you with my moves.”

“We’re heading into the playoffs! Don’t say things that could hurt team morale!” Malone quickly covered Chen Yilun’s mouth before he could say more.

Even so, thanks to Chen Yilun’s antics, some of Malone’s tension eased. With a colleague this absurd, it was impossible to stay serious...

...

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Toyota Center!”

The DJ’s booming, excited voice echoed under the towering dome of the arena.

The Rockets’ home court was packed to the brim, every fan dressed in matching red shirts. From above, the Toyota Center looked like a roaring sea of red.

But within that ocean of fire, a small patch of purple stood stubbornly against the tide. The few Kings fans, clad in team gear, waved their flags and shouted with all their might.

“Bro, I’m kinda nervous,” CJ admitted to Gay in the player tunnel, his voice trembling.

He technically had playoff experience, but back then he was just a benchwarmer who only saw garbage time. This was his first time stepping onto the floor as a core player.

“Don’t be nervous. Just treat it like a regular season game,” Gay replied, laid-back as ever.

Cousins, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with excitement.
“Watch me tear them apart today!”

The role players trailing behind, like LaVine, looked at the three stars leading the way—one overly excited, one overly nervous, and one completely carefree.

“Are we really okay like this?” Ben, hanging back, couldn’t help but feel uncertain.

The Kings hadn’t rolled out their regular-season lineup. Instead, they benched Casspi, shifted Cousins to power forward, and started Oden at center.

It wasn’t by choice—it was necessity.

The Rockets this year already showed signs of becoming that future offensive juggernaut. If it came down to a shootout, the Kings likely couldn’t keep up. So they fielded this unusual lineup.

Meanwhile, the Rockets stuck with their standard starters: James Harden and Jason “Jet” Terry in the backcourt, Trevor “Switchblade” Ariza and Terrence Jones on the wings, and Dwight “Superman” Howard anchoring the paint.

As soon as both teams hit the floor, the Rockets’ fans cranked up the noise, so loud it felt like the roof might blow off the arena.

At tip-off, Howard outjumped Cousins, sending the ball to Harden.

Even at this stage, Harden was already flashing his potential as a scoring machine. After dribbling to the top of the arc, Howard faked a screen. Just as CJ brushed past, Harden suddenly accelerated and attacked the rim.

The Kings were in a 2-1-2 zone, designed to protect the boards and ignite fast breaks. As Harden slashed inside, the defense collapsed to cut off his space. But with his incredible court vision, Harden threaded a pass between two defenders.

The ball zipped straight to Terry in the corner.

But Gay, who had been near the wing, had already turned and sprinted toward him. If it had just been a simple drive-and-kick, the play would have failed.

Yet Terry didn’t hesitate—before Gay could close out, he put the ball on the floor. Instead of driving baseline, which would’ve been the natural route, he spun and cut at a 30-degree angle to the left.

Seeing Terry’s line, Ben, stationed around the 45, quickly rotated to help. That one defensive move cost them.

The ball was already out of Terry’s hands—whipped straight to the 45 on the arc.

Ariza caught it cleanly and, with Ben still scrambling, rose for a smooth pull-up.

“Swish!” The net snapped as the shot dropped.

“They’re trying to use the two guards to break the zone,” Malone muttered on the sideline. As expected of a veteran coach like McHale.

Many modern Rockets fans don’t have the best impression of him, thinking the old man had no tactics. But honestly, it wasn’t his fault.

The real issue was the lack of chemistry between Harden and Howard. Harden wanted a center who could set solid screens, protect the rim, and roll hard for easy finishes. But Howard’s screens were weak, and he was too proud to play second fiddle.

That’s why, later on, after Howard was traded and Capela took his place—a big who set better screens even if he couldn’t score much—the Rockets actually improved.

The camera then swung back to the Kings’ offense. With Cousins and Oden forming a Twin Towers lineup, the pace slowed dramatically. They had no choice but to grind it out in the half court.

The setup was tailor-made to counter Houston. Aside from Howard, the Rockets’ tallest player was Jones at 6'9”, only a bit taller than Gay. The Kings’ plan was simple: Cousins and Oden both had reliable mid-range shots, and Cousins could even stretch to three. Pull Howard away from the paint, and Oden would go to work inside.

Sure enough, Oden scored on Jones in the post.

But then the Beard went to work. Harden drilled a three off a screen, then drove to the free-throw line and floated one in.

The perimeter defense was simply too soft.

Watching Harden pick on CJ and Ben possession after possession, Chen Yilun, sitting with the front office staff, shook his head helplessly.

True, Ben had made real progress this season. Back in his comfort zone, he was slowly evolving toward his model, Ray Allen.

But as a newcomer still learning the craft, how could he possibly stand up to Harden?

The game began slipping out of control!

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“We just can’t stop them.” Chen Yilun rubbed his hands nervously..

Although the score was still close, anyone with some basketball sense could see it—the tempo of the game was slowly falling into the Rockets’ hands.

The Kings worked hard to drag the Rockets into a half-court battle, but Harden kept breaking through. Under his deliberate control, the pace only got faster and faster.

“Substitution!” Malone glanced at the clock—it was already midway through the second quarter.

The Rockets led 38–30.

With Harden constantly targeting them, the Kings’ starters were drained, far behind the Rockets in stamina. Malone had no choice but to make an early substitution.

Casspi and LaVine came in for CJ and Cousins.

Seeing two of the Kings’ main players head to the bench, the Rockets’ fans roared in celebration. To them, victory already seemed secure.

“In the next possession, go one-on-one with Harden. Don’t worry about scoring—just wear him out.”

As Coach Malone explained the tactic to LaVine, Chen Yilun nearly spit out his drink.

Wait, that tactic sounds familiar! Where have I seen that before?

He suddenly thought of something funny, lowered his head, and tried not to laugh. That would’ve been rude!

Once on the court, LaVine immediately signaled for the others to spread out so he could go iso.

At the start of the season, LaVine had wanted to mold himself into a 3-and-D player. But after a full season of Chen Yilun and Malone taking turns “CPU controlling” him, he had developed the confidence to create his own offense.

Seriously, if you stick to just being a 3-and-D guy, who’s going to pay to watch you?

“Spread out, spread out!”

LaVine directed his teammates, then drove hard after a quick crossover.

Harden stepped back half a step, waiting to see what LaVine would do next.

But LaVine, young and reckless, charged straight inside like a bulldozer.

Beep!

The referee’s whistle blew.

Howard helplessly raised his right hand.

Harden had once again defended lazily, leaving Howard to rotate late. But with LaVine already at full speed, fouling was his only option.

“At least try to defend! You just stood there staring and let him go right by!” Howard snapped at Harden.

This was still Nightclub Harden. His defense wasn’t terrible—about league average—but the fatal flaw was his lack of effort. He was the definition of lazy defense.

From the sideline, McHale immediately spotted Malone’s tactical intent and adjusted, assigning Ariza, their defensive stopper, to take LaVine head-on.

“We still don’t have enough ball-handlers.”

Chen Yilun shook his head at the scene.

The Kings’ roster just wasn’t on the same level. Both teams were built around offense, but the Rockets’ firepower was a whole tier higher.

By halftime, the Rockets led 55–46.

In the locker room, the Kings’ mood was heavy. They were in trouble, and no one had a real answer.

Even Malone looked helpless. The playoffs were a different world from the regular season—what worked in one often collapsed in the other.

“How about we go full Moreyball? Whether we win or not will just depend on our shooting touch.”

Chen Yilun leaned over and whispered.

“That’s all we can do.” Malone frowned deeply, then called everyone together to go over the new plan.

Ten minutes passed in a flash.

“Oh? Coach Malone is putting CJ and LaVine on the floor together!”

The sharp-eyed commentator quickly noticed the adjustment.

Normally, CJ and LaVine were staggered. If both ball-handlers played at the same time and the game dragged on, they’d burn out quickly. Once their energy was gone, the Kings would be like fish on a chopping board.

So, was Malone trying to settle the game in the third quarter?

McHale gave him a meaningful look, then turned and whispered to Harden. “Push the tempo. Have Terry and the others wear down their perimeter guys as much as possible.”

With the whistle, the third quarter began.

On the sideline, Chen Yilun suddenly had an idea.

It had been a while since he used his boost card—time to activate it!

“Run!”

Jokić battled Howard for the rebound, grabbed it, and handed it directly to CJ.

The moment CJ caught it, LaVine, Casspi, and Gay all sprinted down the floor.

CJ raced past half court, launched a quarterback-style pass, and hit Gay in the lane. Gay faked Terry out of position and finished an easy layup.

The Rockets immediately felt the power of the boost card.

“What did they do at halftime? How are they hitting everything?”

Harden, breathing heavily, watched Gay drain another three. Suddenly, the Kings were on fire from deep, throwing the Rockets completely off rhythm.

Frustrated, Harden’s defensive intensity finally picked up.

I’m just lazy, not someone who doesn’t want to win!

Fueled by that thought, Harden launched into a shootout against the Kings.

The third quarter ended with the Rockets barely ahead, 76–75.

“Hold on, just keep this touch going! We’ve got a chance to steal this road game!” Malone shouted hoarsely.

But Chen Yilun’s face was grim. He stayed quiet.

The boost only lasted 20 minutes. Even with the Kings’ fast pace saving them some time, with all the stoppages and free throws, it would expire barely two minutes into the fourth.

Sure enough, just over two minutes later, the Kings’ shooting went ice cold.

The Rockets immediately seized the moment and buried them with a decisive run.

“The gap’s still too wide.”

That night at the staff dinner, Malone stayed gloomy the whole time. Only at the end did he finally mutter, “Don’t be sad. Seventh seed against the second. We fought until the very end—you did your best.”

Chen Yilun gulped down a mouthful of beer before answering. “Don’t let it get to you. Tonight’s food was so dry I nearly choked just trying to swallow.”

“Besides, don’t be too discouraged. It’s only Game 1. Go home, regroup, and get ready for Game 2.”

But the miracle never came.

The Kings lost both road games. Back in Sacramento, they barely managed to take one, only to drop the next two and bow out of the playoffs.

The young Kings were given a harsh lesson in reality.

It’s the trial every great team must endure.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“Chris Paul drives in! Going right! Danny Green can’t catch him! Duncan steps up to help! No time left!”
“He’s pulling up over Duncan? The shot’s good!!!!”
“The Point God! He’s killed the Spurs!”

Staples Center erupted, the roar crashing out like an endless tidal wave.

Wearing a mask in the stands, Chen Yilun quietly witnessed a shot destined for the history books.

Without greeting any of his former colleagues, Chen Yilun had slipped in to watch the game alone—and left just as silently.

The silver-and-black king, once ruling from his throne, had been brought down from his pedestal.

Even the NBA commentators on-site couldn’t hold back their shouts.
“It’s over! This year’s Finals are over!”

Everyone believed that once the Clippers toppled the Spurs, the championship was already theirs.

But in San Francisco, unnoticed by all, a blue-and-gold giant stretched lazily and gazed at the now-vacant throne.

“Drama, pure drama. This year’s playoffs really have too many classic moments.”

Already on vacation, Malone had dragged Chen Yilun out for breakfast. He was engrossed in a freshly printed basketball paper.

“You dragged me out early in the morning just for this?”
Across from him, Chen Yilun yawned nonstop, listlessly stirring his coffee.

“Look, the Clippers are done again.”

After finishing the paper, Malone handed it over with a sigh.
“I thought after that dagger against the Spurs, the title was in their pocket. But now? Embarrassing.”

“That’s… a good one.”

Chen Yilun forced his eyes open to look at the headlines.

Even with his own presence as an unstable factor, the wheel of history still rolled forward on its original path.

After beating the Spurs, the Clippers faced the Rockets, who had knocked out the Kings, in the second round.

Up 3–1, Paul went down with another injury. The Rockets, united as one, stormed back with three straight wins to take the series.

It became the defining moment of the Rockets’ famous “Headband Gang.”

It was also the ninth time in NBA history that a team had come back from a 1–3 deficit. And poor Coach Doc Rivers etched his name in history as the first coach ever to blow a 3–1 lead twice.

Truly one of a kind.

“What the hell’s with Doc Rivers? After all that, teams still want him as their head coach?”

After a sip of coffee, Chen Yilun finally voiced what countless fans were wondering.

“Have you surfed online too much and fried your brain?”
Malone stared at him in disbelief. “You’re a professional, and you ask something that shallow?”

“I don’t know the guy personally. Just curious.”

Realizing Chen Yilun was serious, Malone dropped the jokes and explained.

“First, Rivers has the résumé. He’s a thousand-win coach—not just from longevity, either. His career win percentage is over 50%. Outside of your old man and Spoelstra, no one else can match that. He’s not some empty figurehead. The guy knows his tactics.”

“Second, even if he’s not a tactical genius, his control of the locker room is unmatched. Players respect him everywhere he goes. A lot of times, handling players is more important than drawing plays.”

“Those two things alone make him one of the league’s hottest commodities.”

Malone looked at him. “Got it now?”

“Got it!”
Chen Yilun nodded quickly.

“Who do you think takes the championship this year?” Malone asked suddenly.

The Conference Finals were about to begin—Hawks vs. Cavaliers in the East, Warriors vs. Rockets in the West.

“Golden State, for sure!”
Chen Yilun didn’t even hesitate. That was a no-brainer.

“So certain? Not gonna support your senior brother?” Malone chuckled.

Of the four remaining coaches, two were Chen Yilun’s fellow disciples. Steve Kerr with the Warriors was obvious. But Hawks head coach Mike Budenholzer was Popovich’s very first disciple.

Budenholzer had spent nearly 20 years as an assistant under Popovich and was recognized as the strongest within the Spurs system beneath the old man himself.

“Forget the Hawks. No way they’re getting past LeBron.”

Chen Yilun frowned after a sip of coffee and dropped in another spoon of sugar.

“I think the Cavaliers have a real shot,” Malone mused. “LeBron’s dominance is just too much.”

“Wanna bet on it?”

Hearing Chen Yilun’s suggestion, Malone’s eyes lit up.
“What’s the bet?”

Seeing him take the bait, Chen Yilun held back his grin.
“Last time I was at your place, I saw a nearly 30-year-old whiskey in your liquor cabinet. Let’s bet on that!”

Malone burst out laughing.
“So that’s why your eyes kept wandering at dinner last time. You were drooling over my whiskey. Fine! If you lose, you owe me a bottle of the same class.”

“It’s a deal!”

...
...

“￥#……%&*!”

In Malone’s apartment, the usually refined coach was now spewing trash talk at the big screen.

On it, Curry beamed as he accepted the Larry O’Brien Trophy, the symbol of ultimate glory. Golden State’s long-awaited fourth championship—after 40 years—was finally real.

“Admit defeat! No excuses!”

Chen Yilun’s voice rang out from across the room.

Malone turned, struck speechless with rage.

The moment the Warriors clinched, Chen Yilun had already slipped to his liquor cabinet, fiddling with the glass cover.

“Hands off! Got a key, or are you just pawing at it?”

“Haha!”

Chen Yilun hugged the precious bottle, grinning like an idiot on Malone’s sofa.

“That’s all you’ve got.”

Malone shook his head in confusion. By all rights, Chen Yilun made good money and wasn’t usually stingy.

So why did he enjoy taking advantage of him like this?

After a round of roughhousing, Chen Yilun grabbed the bottle and prepared to leave.

“Not staying for dinner?”

“Nope!”
He waved him off. “Vacation’s over. Time for a good night’s sleep—back to work tomorrow.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

With the first Cavaliers vs. Warriors showdown finally concluded, all the team managers were growing restless.
Once the Finals ended, the draft lottery would follow, then the opening of free agency.
This was the best window for managers to make their moves.

“This year is critical!”

Inside the large conference room, nearly the entire Kings staff was present—even owner Ranadive had come in person.

“This year, we successfully reached the playoffs, and on top of that, we hold the Knicks’ first-round swap rights. What we do this summer will lay the strongest foundation for our future championship push.”

Chen Yilun spoke passionately at the front.

“Right now, the biggest stars on the trade market are LeBron James, Kevin Love, and LaMarcus Aldridge!”

“The first two can be ruled out immediately. They just teamed up for the first time this year and already made the Finals. There’s no way they’d come here.”

Chen Yilun paused. “So our only realistic free-agent target is Aldridge!”

“Do we even have the cap space to sign him?”
Ranadive asked.

“Uh… it’s tough.”

Chen Yilun thought for a moment.

“After Rudy re-signs, we’ll open up about $10 million, but once you factor in the team’s other escalating contracts, that space drops below $6 million.”

“And if we use New York’s pick, the rookie contract takes up more of it.”

“So that means we have to trade!”
Ranadive rubbed his nose in irritation.

“There’s actually another way,” Chen Yilun muttered under his breath.
“If we trade Cousins, it’s a whole different story.”

“What!”

The room erupted like a marketplace, voices overlapping in shock.

“Impossible! Cousins is our box office guarantee—we can’t trade him!” Ranadive immediately objected.

“And more than half of our plays end with Cousins. If we trade him, what’s left to run?” Malone, rarely one to oppose, also spoke up.

As expected, the resistance to trading the franchise star was even stronger than Yilun had imagined.

“I understand everyone’s concerns, but here’s the simplest question—does Cousins’ timeline really align with our team’s development?”

Chen Yilun tapped the table to quiet the room.

The team’s main developmental core was Jokić, CJ, and LaVine. If you stretched it, you could also count Ben.
All were only in their first or second year.

Cousins had just signed a five-year, $80 million deal last season. Considering his age, his prime clearly conflicted with the younger core’s growth window.
As long as Cousins was around, Oden and Jokić would be stuck as backups.

“Friends, I don’t even need to explain Jokić’s performance this year, do I? What’s clear is that when Cousins is leading, we have no fight in us. Malone, you tell me—when Cousins is on the floor versus when he’s not, which version of the team runs smoother?”

Malone fell silent. He couldn’t deny it—whenever Jokić played, the team’s entire flow improved.
A center who could both shoot and pass was simply too valuable.

“No! Absolutely not!”

Just as Chen Yilun pressed harder, Ranadive cut him off again.

This old bastard. Completely blinded by money. First he dumped unreasonable tasks on me, and now he blocks me just to protect his own pocket.
No wonder people in the future call you the worst owner in the league!

Chen Yilun cursed furiously in his heart.

“I support Yilun’s proposal.”

Just when Chen Yilun felt cornered, an unexpected voice rang out.
Assistant GM Divac openly sided with him!

“I also think we should seriously reconsider whether building around Cousins makes sense.”

Assistant Peja immediately joined in as well.

Both had received plenty of favors from Yilun last season. And with Jokić as his prized pupil, Divac naturally had Yilun’s back.

“We can learn from this year’s champion Warriors,” Peja continued. “Since Adam took office, the league’s direction has been obvious—encourage offense, increase possessions!”

“If the trend holds, the future belongs to guards. Traditional big centers will keep losing influence. If that’s truly the way things are headed, then we have to think hard about this—Cousins still has four years left on his contract. No one knows what the league will look like in four years!”

As a former elite shooter, Peja clearly sensed the league’s reform signals.

Divac and Peja’s stance made Ranadive deeply unhappy.
Hadn’t he brought in Chen Yilun to counterbalance the veterans so he could play fisherman and reap the benefits? But now both veterans—Divac and Peja—were siding with Yilun. For the first time, Ranadive felt the team slipping out of his control.

“Vivek!”

Seeing Ranadive on the verge of exploding, Chen Yilun quickly motioned for Divac and Peja to stay quiet. He softened his tone.

“I said at our first meeting—we must be crocodiles. Lurking at the bottom, waiting for prey.”

He slowly walked up to Ranadive.
“Now’s our chance. The migrating wildebeests have entered the river. We can’t just open our jaws—we need to bite down and rip off a piece of flesh!”

But Ranadive still refused to move.

Useless boss. What can you even do with someone like this? Nothing!

No matter how Yilun tried, Ranadive wouldn’t give in.
In the end, the meeting dissolved in chaos, unresolved.

“Chen! What do we do now?”

In the parking lot, Divac kicked an empty soda can in frustration.

“What’s the rush? You think a decision this big gets settled in one meeting? What do you think this is, some brainless power fantasy?”

Chen Yilun stood beside him, looking small.

“I’ll talk to Ranadive alone tonight. We have a saying.”

“I know, I know!”
Peja cut in quickly.
“‘Those who recognize the times are wise!’”

“You two really can’t let this joke go, huh?”

“No—the saying I mean is: ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Today’s meeting was just to apply pressure. I’ll make him nod in the end.”

...

Chapter Text

“We have an old saying: Where there’s a will, there’s a way! Today’s meeting was just to put some pressure on him—I’ll make him nod!”

As Chen Yilun and the others held their little meeting, Coach Malone wandered into the parking lot.

“What are you doing here, you sellout!”
Divac glared fiercely at Malone.

Divac had always thought Malone was on their side, but at the meeting earlier, Malone had been the first to oppose Chen Yilun. He never expected it—Mike Malone, with his thick eyebrows and upright look, had betrayed the team!

“No, no, no—Mike is with us.”
Chen Yilun quickly held back the furious Divac. “I told Mike from the start, and he fully supported trading Cousins.”

“What?!”
Divac froze, then quickly realized. “So the two of you were just playing a double act in the meeting room?!”

“What else did you think?”
Chen Yilun pulled Malone closer, and the four of them huddled together, whispering. “Think about it—if both the coaching staff and front office stand united and demand to trade Cousins, with our boss’s petty nature, he might agree, but next season he’ll definitely plant spies in our ranks. Do you really want every move we make to be shackled?”

“No way. What good would that do for the team?” Peja voiced his confusion.

“You just don’t get it!” Chen Yilun snapped, leaving the three speechless.

“I know how he thinks. He’d rather drag the team down than give up control.”

“That’s despicable!”
Divac clicked his tongue. “So what do we do now?”

“Cousins has to be traded! Right now, he’s just made the All-Star team—this is peak trade value!” Chen Yilun pressed on. “As for how to make the boss agree, leave that to me. I’ll give him an offer he can’t refuse.”

...

Late at night, inside Ranadive’s luxurious villa.

Anjali carried in two cups of steaming hot traditional Indian chai, carefully setting them down in the living room.

“Thanks.” Chen Yilun took one, meeting Anjali’s eyes that wished him luck.

“I know exactly why you’re here, and I won’t agree! Trading Cousins is digging our own grave!”
Ranadive sipped his tea, still brimming with anger.

Chen Yilun stared at the steaming earthy-brown liquid in his hand.
“Vivek, you know as well as I do—not trading Cousins is what’s really digging our grave.”

“What did you just say!”
Ranadive’s temper, which had slightly cooled, flared right back up.

With a loud “bang,” he slammed his cup onto the coffee table. Anjali, eavesdropping from outside, flinched in fright.

But Chen Yilun didn’t move an inch.

“Vivek, you’re the owner of this team—one of the thirty owners in the league. Your information has to be more up-to-date than mine. Even I know Adam Silver is pushing for league reform. Don’t tell me you don’t understand what that means.”

“Of course I know what it means! But that doesn’t mean I should dismantle a playoff team for it!” Ranadive shot back.

“It’s not dismantling—it’s evolving this team into a true contender!”
Chen Yilun suddenly raised his voice.

“I know exactly what you’re worried about! You’re afraid that once Cousins is gone, there won’t be another star to fill the gap, and next season you won’t make as much money as this year!”

“Nonsense!” Ranadive roared, stung at his sore spot, like a lion about to pounce.

“Vivek, I can’t work like this! You can’t expect me to deliver without giving me the tools to work with! How am I supposed to fulfill my promise? How am I supposed to turn this team into a championship contender?”

Ranadive caught the implication in his words and sneered. “So if I don’t agree, you’ll resign? Don’t think I don’t know—Golden State has been recruiting you. Even ‘the Logo’ has openly said they want to groom you as his successor!”

“I never said that!”

“But that’s what you meant!”

The two men’s heated argument suddenly gave way to an uneasy silence.

Though Ranadive disliked Chen Yilun, firing him—or worse, letting him leave for another team—was impossible.
He already knew Chen Yilun was all but guaranteed to win Executive of the Year. Letting him walk now would be suicide.

Beyond that, Chen Yilun had poured his heart into the team. If he left, morale would collapse. And the media would definitely dig out the reasons, branding Ranadive as petty and vindictive. After that, what quality front-office staff would ever work for him again?

With that thought, Ranadive’s tone softened.

“Why are you so determined to trade DeMarcus? Is he really that bad?”

“We must trade him!” Chen Yilun saw the opening and pressed harder.
“DeMarcus may be a ticket-seller for a weak team, but we’re chasing a championship, aiming for greater glory. DeMarcus has to go—we need a true leader!

And as for revenue, don’t worry. I’m confident our financials will hit new heights next year!”

“Oh?”
At those words, Ranadive finally showed real interest. “And what guarantee do you have?”

“July.” Chen Yilun revealed his final trump card.
“In July, the Chinese national team will accept my invitation to play a friendly in Sacramento. I’ve also secured deals to boost our broadcast presence in China by 50% next season.”

“More importantly—”

Now Ranadive was leaning forward on the sofa, listening intently.

“The Chinese Basketball Association and I are partners. They’ll help us negotiate with the NBA’s China office. Starting next season, whether it’s jersey sales or media coverage, the Chinese market will give us proper respect.

And don’t forget—we also have the Indian market. So tell me, why wouldn’t I be confident that our financials will rise to a whole new level?”

Finishing his pitch, Chen Yilun locked eyes with Ranadive.

After a long silence, Ranadive finally asked, “Can you guarantee these resources will really come through?”

It worked!
Chen Yilun was ecstatic inside, though his face remained solemn. “I’ll stake my career on it.”

As expected—when dealing with ruthless owners, dreams and glory mean nothing. Show them real profits, and they’ll change their tune instantly.

Chen Yilun left Ranadive’s villa in high spirits.

But what he didn’t know was that after he left, Ranadive stood at the door, smiling as he watched him go.

“Dad, why are you smiling?” Anjali asked as she came up beside him.

“I’m smiling at Chen Yilun.” Ranadive closed the door with a grin.
“I underestimated him. I thought he’d be easy to handle, but he’s tougher than those old foxes in the league. In such a short time, I’m already following his lead.”

“Then why are you happy? Don’t you hate it when subordinates tell you what to do?” Anjali asked, confused.

“I hate foolish subordinates who assume they know best. But Chen Yilun—”

“He’s on the level of a partner.”

Ranadive slowly sank back into the sofa.

“My dear daughter, haven’t you always said you want to learn team operations? In a few days, go report to the team. Chen Yilun will be a good teacher for you.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“You mean your dad told you to join my team?”

Chen Yilun stared wide-eyed at Anjali, who stood in front of him in a sharp business suit.

“Yeah! I played on my high school basketball team and have always loved the game. Now that my family owns a team, I want to learn about team operations. My dad said you’d be a good teacher, so he sent me here.”

“Hold on.”

Chen Yilun immediately made a phone call to confirm.

“Uh… so, princess, what exactly do you want to do here?”

After getting confirmation, Chen Yilun slumped back into his office chair, a little uneasy. He stammered as he asked.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Anjali’s delicate brows furrowed.
“The person standing in front of you isn’t some rich girl, but Anjali Ranadive! You’re my boss—whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it!”

“Stop, stop!” Chen Yilun quickly cut off her pledge of loyalty.
“We already have a deputy manager and an assistant manager. For now, how about just being a regular assistant?”

“Of course!”

Anjali’s face brightened instantly. “As long as I can learn something, I’m willing to do anything!”

Just then, Peja pushed the door open.

“Boss, it’s almost time for our appointment. When are we heading out… Huh? Princess, what are you doing here?”

Chen Yilun and Peja walked ahead while Anjali followed slowly behind, lugging a huge handbag.

“Wait, why is she working with us?” Peja whispered to Chen Yilun.

“How should I know? The boss told her to come in, what can I do about it!” Chen Yilun sighed, clearly troubled. “I don’t even know what job to give her. I just made something up on the spot. Want me to assign her as your assistant?”

“No way!” Peja shook his head hard.
“I’m already the assistant to the GM—basically your assistant. And now she’d be my assistant? What is this, some kind of government bureaucracy?”

Good point.

Chen Yilun thought about it. Having an assistant for the assistant really did sound ridiculous. Better to drop the idea.

“We’ll figure it out later. For now, just keep her close as an assistant. With her looks, she might actually come in handy around the league.”

…

The two of them arrived at a café downtown.

In a private booth, a middle-aged white man in a light blue suit, with a warm and approachable face, immediately stood up to greet them when he saw the three walk in.

“Please, sit.” Chen Yilun motioned for him to take a seat.
“Thanks for making the trip. Must’ve been tiring.”

Once seated, Chen Yilun began chatting casually with the man.

“Who’s this?” Anjali whispered after sitting down next to Peja.

Peja instinctively wanted to tell her to be quiet, but after a moment’s hesitation, he explained. “Mike Schmitz.”

“Never heard of him.”

Anjali blinked her big, clear eyes, looking innocently confused.

Peja could only continue patiently. “He’s an NBA draft analyst for Yahoo Sports. He’s looking to switch over and become a scout for us.”

“We’re hiring scouts?”

“Yeah. Several of our scouts’ contracts are expiring this year, and Yilun isn’t satisfied with the staff the previous GM put together. So we’re taking this summer to rebuild the team.”

While they whispered, Chen Yilun got straight to the point.

“I’ve read over your résumé—it’s impressive. But I have one question. You had a good job at Yahoo. Why leave for us? Salary and workload-wise, Yahoo’s probably the easier path.”

“Because I don’t want to be an analyst forever,” Schmitz replied. “I want to work in a team’s front office. Joining your team would give me a better path forward.”

Most people didn’t know much about Schmitz.

In his original career, he had worked for Yahoo for years, then moved to ESPN in 2017 as a draft analyst, before jumping to the Trail Blazers in 2022 as an assistant GM.

His biggest claim to fame was being one of the earliest to predict Luka Doncic’s success. Back in 2017, Schmitz was a die-hard believer, strongly recommending that the Kings use their second pick on Doncic.

Of course, the Kings ended up taking Marvin Bagley instead.

“Alright, I don’t have any more questions. Do you two have anything to ask?”

Chen Yilun gathered the documents on the table and looked at Peja and Anjali.

“What’s your view on this year’s draft?” Peja asked after a moment’s thought.

Schmitz paused to consider, then said, “The first overall pick will come down to Karl-Anthony Towns or Jahlil Okafor. But in my opinion, Towns is clearly the better option. Okafor has a high chance of being a bust.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“I’ve been following Okafor’s games closely. His scoring is too one-dimensional and doesn’t fit today’s NBA trends. As for the defensive potential everyone keeps mentioning, I think it’s an illusion. Most importantly—” Schmitz paused, then continued, “his style and awareness are stuck in the pre-2007 era. If he doesn’t adjust quickly, he’ll struggle to survive in the league.”

After hearing this, Chen Yilun and Peja exchanged a glance and nodded.

“Alright, Mike. Stick around a bit. Take some time to check out Sacramento. Whether or not we move forward, you’ll get an email from us by 8 p.m.”

“Sounds good.”

…

“What do you think of Schmitz?”

Peja was driving, Anjali sat in the passenger seat, while Chen Yilun leaned back alone in the rear, flipping through files.

“Pretty solid,” Chen Yilun said, lifting his head.
“He’s got his own opinions on rookies and doesn’t blindly chase potential. Once we’re back at the office, draft a contract and call him in to sign tonight.”

With that, he lowered his head and returned to work.

“Oh, and Peja—check where Del is. If he’s already landed, send someone to pick him up. I’ll treat him to lunch. I’ve got some things to ask him.”

“Del who?”

The ever-curious Anjali blinked and looked at Peja.

“Del Harris,” Peja said, eyes fixed on the road.

“The famous Silver Fox Harris!”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Chen Yilun welcomed legendary scout Del Harris, the “Silver Fox” with deep ties to China, into his office.

Harris was one of the few league insiders who truly understood China. In 2004, he coached the national team, and in 2007, it was at his urging that the Bucks boldly selected Yi Jianlian with the sixth overall pick—even though Yi had openly said he didn’t want to play for them and refused their workout.
Still, the Bucks stubbornly drafted him.

“Del, how have you been lately?”

Chen Yilun poured a glass of water and handed it over. At seventy-eight, Harris’ temples were gray, but his energy hadn’t faded.

“Very well,” Harris replied with a smile. “I just visited China not long ago. The country has changed so fast. After only two years away, it felt like a completely different place.”

“Del, the real reason I asked you here today is because I want your advice as a senior.”

“Go on, we’re practically family. Ask whatever you like.”

“Would you be interested in coming out of retirement to serve as my team’s chief scout?”

The question caught Harris off guard. “Me? I’m seventy-eight. It’s time for me to enjoy my later years, not have my old bones worked to death.”

His refusal didn’t surprise Chen Yilun. The old man was already accomplished and had no need to work for a living. If he were offered Chen’s position itself, maybe he’d consider it—but chief scout? Too small a role, too little pull.

“Are you looking for scouts?” Harris suddenly changed the subject. “Would you dare to take a chance on a newcomer? I happen to know a young guy who’s pretty good. And—he’s from your hometown!”

“My hometown?” Chen Yilun froze at the familiar word. “He’s also from China?”

“That’s right,” Harris said calmly. “He’s the son of an old friend of mine from my days in China. The kid came to the States to study sports management—I even helped him get into his program. He graduated two years ago and has been working odd jobs around the league since. Would you consider giving him a chance?”

“Of course. He’s my countryman and the son of your old friend. I’d be glad to help. But...”

Chen Yilun paused deliberately.

“I get it, I get it—I’ll owe you a favor. Just say what you want.” Harris chuckled.

“Del, I know your network runs deep. After the lottery in two days, help me spread the word, see if anyone’s interested in my lottery pick.”

“You’re selling your lottery pick again?”

Harris’ eyes widened. What on earth was this kid thinking? Other GMs were desperate to trade up for high picks, but for two years in a row, this one had been trying to trade down instead.

“There’s one more thing. I need you to pass along a message in the league as a third party.”

Chen Yilun leaned in close. “Say the owner has put Cousins on the trading block.”

As soon as Harris spread the word, the league erupted in chaos.

DeMarcus Cousins?
Had the Kings lost their minds? After finally making the playoffs, they were really going to trade their franchise star?

The previously quiet trade market instantly caught fire. Cousins’ name caused such a stir that Harris’ second message—that the Kings were shopping their first-round pick—was completely overlooked.

“I don’t agree! Absolutely not!”

Jerry West stormed into owner Joe Lacob’s office.

“Why not? We missed out on Kevin Love last year. Now you want us to pass on DeMarcus Cousins too?” Lacob gave him a displeased look.

“Giving up Love won us a championship!” West snapped, his voice sharp.

“And you’d blow up a championship roster just to chase some flashy All-Star? If you trade him, I’ll hand in my resignation tomorrow!”

While Logo Man and Lacob clashed, other teams scrambled to tear up and redraw their own plans. Chen Yilun’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Get lost! You think you can buy Cousins at that price? Keep dreaming!” he shouted before slamming the phone on Udoka.

On the other end, Udoka was cursing too. “Only you Kings idiots still treat Cousins like a treasure. You think he lays golden eggs?”

The same scene repeated itself in Chen Yilun’s office all day.

On paper, Cousins’ trade value would peak if he made another All-Star appearance next season—but neither Chen Yilun nor the team had time to wait. He urgently needed to trade Cousins, promote Jokić, and have Oden come off the bench. That would finally solidify the Kings’ frontcourt.

...

While the outside world spiraled into chaos, Cousins’ home was weighed down with despair.

When his agent called, Cousins felt like his world had collapsed.

His agent had been warning him since before the season ended, and Cousins himself had noticed the team’s waning need for him. Still, when the day actually came, disappointment hit hard.

The Kings were the only team he had ever played for. In his heart, they had long since become his family. And now, he might be thrown out. How could that not hurt?

“DeMarcus, don’t take it too hard. Coach Malone and Manager Chen both promised me they’ll send you to the team you want. Take a couple of days to think about your preferred destination.”

His agent sat beside him, trying to console him.

“In other words, this trade could be a clean break. The team is set on developing Jokić, and moving you is also about considering your future.”

...

Amidst the noise and speculation, the date turned to May 20.

That night, thirty teams would determine their draft order.

Normally, each team just sent a representative. This year, the Kings’ representative was the ever-popular heiress, Anjali.

Chen Yilun didn’t even bother attending. Whatever pick they landed was getting traded to the Knicks anyway.

“With the 21st pick in this year’s draft... the Sacramento Kings!”

Scattered applause echoed through the small venue.

As a playoff team, the Kings were guaranteed to miss the lottery. With the brutal Western Conference, their record had been stronger than most Eastern teams, so the 21st pick was right in line with expectations.

The drawing continued smoothly.

“With the 5th pick in this year’s draft... the New York Knicks!”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“The team with this year’s fifth pick is... the New York Knicks!”

Today, the Zen Master didn’t show up at the draft lottery in person—he sent an assistant instead.
The assistant, after pulling a high draft pick, wore a polite but slightly awkward smile.

As soon as the vice president finished speaking, the room erupted in loud applause, though a few mocking laughs were mixed in.

In the end, the top three picks stayed the same as history: the Timberwolves landed the first overall pick, the Lakers the second, and the 76ers the third.

Don’t forget, the Timberwolves already have Andrew Wiggins, the 2014 No. 1 pick, and Anthony Bennett, the 2013 No. 1 pick!
That means all three number one picks from the past three years will be playing together on the same team next season!

After watching the lottery, Chen Yilun switched off the TV.

“So, what do we do with this fifth pick?”

At that moment, Chen Yilun’s apartment was packed. Malone, Divac, and Peja were squeezed onto his not-so-spacious sofa.

“You really should move into a bigger place.”
Divac’s massive frame forced him to curl up in the corner of the couch, hugging his knees. “You’re a GM now. How can you still live in such a tiny apartment?”

“I like small places—they’re cozy. I live alone and I’m always on the road anyway. What would I do with a big house?”

After a bit of joking around, Malone got back to the main topic.

“Right now, what we need most is a wing. Casspi’s already a free agent, and the only guy we’ve got left is Crowder. We need more depth at that position.”

As he spoke, Malone suddenly remembered something. “Haven’t you been working on a Cousins trade these past two days? Any solid targets?”

“Not yet.”

Chen Yilun rubbed his eyes, looking troubled.

“My top choice was Butler from the Bulls, but they won’t even pick up the phone.”

Butler would be a perfect fit for the Kings’ lineup.
But the Bulls already had Gasol inside, so scoring wasn’t an issue. And with Rose injured, Butler had become their franchise cornerstone. Bulls GM Gar Forman’s asking price was completely unacceptable for Chen Yilun.

“I’ll work on the forward spot once free agency opens, but we still need a backup plan. Maybe we grab a rookie wing just to add depth?”

“Agreed.”
Peja nodded quickly. “If that’s the case, then we really should trade down from the fifth pick.”

“Compared to wings, I think we should also look at bolstering the backcourt,” Malone said after a short pause.