Pierce, who had been ready to body up Kobe, suddenly reversed his steps, lunging toward Jiang Chen.
But he was a beat too late.
Jiang Chen caught the pass cleanly, his motion smooth as silk. In one fluid rise, he released a high, rainbow-arc three over the scrambling defender.
Swish!
Another perfect shot — pure and effortless.
78–93.
The deficit shrank to fifteen, with five minutes still left on the clock.
From the sideline, Kobe roared, veins standing out on his neck as he shouted orders and encouragement in the same breath. His arms cut through the air, his voice echoing through TD Garden. The fire in his eyes said it all — Jiang Chen wasn't just a role player anymore; he was the one keeping their hope alive.
The Lakers' bench exploded. Every man stood, fists pumping, feeding off the surge of energy from that single shot.
Even Phil Jackson, the ever-composed Zen Master, let out a sharp whistle, unable to hide the spark of emotion breaking through his calm.
It felt as though destiny itself refused to let these Finals end quietly.
…
"Damn it! Pierce, forget Kobe—stick to that Chinese player!" Rivers barked, stomping the sideline in frustration.
Pierce's jaw clenched tight. The public scolding burned more than the words themselves. His glare locked on Jiang Chen—this rookie had turned the game upside down, made him look foolish, and now even his coach was calling him out.
Enough was enough.
He gestured sharply to Rondo, signaling for an isolation. Rondo nodded, swung him the ball, and drifted away. The floor cleared, leaving Pierce and Jiang Chen alone at the top of the arc—one-on-one.
Pierce crossed half court with a measured pace, lowering his shoulder as he built rhythm and force. His game was old-school—strength, patience, precision. Few wings in the league could body up like him. He'd traded hits with LeBron James himself and never backed down.
Now this rookie thought he could stop him?
"Alright then," Pierce muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Let's see if you can handle this."
He drove hard to his left, muscles tensing as he barreled forward, ready to absorb contact and finish through it.
But the instant their bodies met—everything changed.
Instead of pushing the rookie back, a shock ran through his core. It wasn't Jiang Chen who yielded—it was like hitting reinforced steel. The impact sent a jolt up Pierce's spine, his balance shattering in an instant.
His feet stumbled backward. His arms flailed as he tried to steady himself, but the force was immovable, cold, and solid as stone.
Step by step, he lost ground—until his legs gave way, and he crashed to the hardwood, stunned disbelief flashing across his face.
…
The entire arena froze.
Tens of thousands of fans stared in disbelief, their collective gasp swallowed by silence.
Was that real? Was Pierce… acting?
Paul Pierce — the "Truth," the man who could absorb LeBron's shoulder blows and still finish through contact — had just been knocked backward by a rookie? It didn't compute. It defied logic.
Beep!
The sharp whistle sliced through the stunned air. The referee's arm shot up—blocking foul, on Jiang Chen.
"No way!" Kobe erupted, storming toward the officials with fire in his eyes. "That's an offensive foul! He was set—Pierce flopped!"
But the referee only shook his head, gesturing firmly. "Defensive contact initiated the fall."
Kobe froze, then let out a long, ragged exhale. His jaw clenched. There was no changing the call. He turned, walking over to Jiang Chen, and gave him a solid pat on the shoulder.
"Don't let it get to you," he said lowly, voice steady but burning. "That was elite defense. Keep bringing it."
Jiang Chen nodded, a faint grin forming despite the whistle.
Frustrated? Not in the slightest. His pulse pounded with excitement.
That collision had reawakened something inside him—the sheer, crushing force of Murasakibara Atsushi's physical power coursing through his frame.
It was monstrous. The contact that should've sent him flying had instead folded Pierce like paper.
That strength… it might have rivaled prime Shaquille O'Neal's—raw, immovable, dominant enough to bend the very balance of a game.
For an instant, Jiang Chen even chuckled to himself. With power like this, if I switched to rugby, I might bulldoze everyone there too.
...
Pierce lay sprawled on the hardwood, the roar of TD Garden crashing around him like a wave. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, and for a brief, dizzy moment, he couldn't comprehend what had just happened.
Absurd. Impossible.
How could that rookie have that kind of power?
When they collided, he hadn't felt human resistance—it was like running headfirst into reinforced concrete. His chest still buzzed from the impact, the memory of that immovable force replaying in his mind.
Teammates hurried over, helping him to his feet.
"Hell of a sell, Paul!" Ray Allen grinned, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Got us a big one there. Perfect flop, man."
Pierce froze, blinking in disbelief.
Even Garnett joined in, smacking him lightly on the back of the head with his trademark fire. "That's the Finals, baby! Sell it, draw it—whatever it takes to win!"
Their laughter hit harder than the fall itself.
A flop. That's what they all thought.
Pierce pressed his lips together, forcing a crooked smirk. The truth—that he'd been overpowered, thrown off balance by a rookie—he couldn't admit that. Not here. Not in front of the team.
So he stayed quiet, nodding along, pretending it was all part of the plan. Better to be seen as cunning than to confess he'd been bulldozed.
But as his gaze found Jiang Chen again, something shifted inside him. A faint unease crawled up his spine. For the first time in years, he felt a twinge of doubt.
That kid's strength… it wasn't normal.
And Paul Pierce silently promised himself one thing—he wasn't meeting that rookie chest-to-chest again. Not if he could help it.
...
The Celtics set up again on offense.
Rondo crossed half court, barking orders, slicing through the noise with sharp gestures as he orchestrated the movement. Screens flared on both sides.
Ray Allen darted through a maze of picks, curling to the wing with surgical precision. The ball hit his hands in stride—rise, release, perfect form.
Splash!
Three points.
The lead stretched back to eighteen.
It was Boston's first clean half-court bucket since Jiang Chen had checked in, and TD Garden erupted in a storm of green. The crowd leapt to its feet, roaring in relief.
Sure, the Lakers had found a spark in their mysterious Chinese rookie. But the Celtics still had Ray Allen—the purest shooter alive.
If Jiang Chen wanted to duel from deep, he still had miles to go.
Ray held his follow-through, then raised both arms high, mimicking Jiang Chen's earlier celebration. His stare cut across the floor, locking on Jiang Chen with icy provocation.
The message couldn't be clearer.
"Damn it!" Kobe hissed, shaking his head. "If it weren't for that blown call, that was our bucket."
It wasn't often he complained about officiating, but this one burned. Every possession in the Finals mattered—every whistle, every shot could swing the title.
Jiang Chen's calm voice cut through the tension. "Kobe, steady the tempo. We still have a chance."
There was no panic in his tone—just quiet control. The steadiness grounded even the Mamba's fire.
Kobe exhaled hard, nodding. "Alright. Let's get it back."
The Lakers regrouped.
Kobe probed, calling for a screen, scanning for Jiang Chen. But Pierce stayed glued to him this time, shadowing every movement, refusing to give even a sliver of space.
Unable to shake free, Jiang Chen suddenly veered backward—retreating all the way toward the half-court logo.
The crowd murmured, confused.
What was he doing that far out? From that range, even initiating an offense was nearly impossible.
Kobe frowned, uncertain—but trust won over hesitation. He swung the ball to Jiang Chen anyway.
Pierce kept his distance, arms spread, smirking. From out there, Jiang Chen would have to come to him eventually. No reason to risk a drive.
Jiang Chen caught, bounced forward twice, reading the floor. Instantly, Boston's defense shifted—Pierce stepped up, and Ray Allen slid over, forming a quick double.
But Jiang Chen never looked rushed.
Just as the trap closed, his wrist snapped. A laser pass zipped across the lane—clean, fast, right into Kobe's shooting pocket.
Kobe caught and rose in one motion.
The ball sailed high, cutting through the air, spinning under the white glare of the arena lights.
Swish!
All net.
Kobe threw his head back, roaring to the ceiling, his fists clenching as he tore at his jersey. He sprinted toward Jiang Chen and smacked his hand in a thunderous high-five.
That pass—bold, perfect, unselfish—had been everything.
The bench erupted. The Lakers mobbed Jiang Chen, shouting, pumping fists, the energy contagious.
Across the court, Pierce stood frozen, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His mind couldn't process it—this rookie wasn't just strong. He saw the game like a veteran, moved with calm, made plays with precision.
How could a benchwarmer read the floor like that? How could he carry himself as if he'd been here all along?
The Finals. The biggest stage in basketball. And Jiang Chen was owning it.
Ray Allen clenched his jaw, regret flickering in his eyes. If he hadn't slid over to double, Kobe never would've gotten that open look.
Beep!
Doc Rivers called timeout.
But this time, the anger in his face had vanished. What replaced it was far more dangerous—panic.
The Celtics still led by fifteen. Yet the energy had shifted, the certainty gone.
For the first time all night, Boston's lead didn't feel safe.
From here on, nothing would come easy.
...
CCTV-5 Live Broadcast
"Unbelievable! Jiang Chen's performance is truly unbelievable!" Yang Jian's voice trembled with excitement, his tone rising and falling with the rhythm of the game. "The Lakers were finished—down by thirty-three points! Everyone thought it was over! And then Jiang Chen came in and flipped the Finals on its head!"
Yang Yi leaned closer to his mic, his usually steady tone cracking with emotion. "Just look at this! A Chinese player, in the NBA Finals, carrying the Lakers back from the brink!" His words came fast, overflowing with disbelief and pride. "We're witnessing history unfold right in front of us!"
The momentum had turned completely. Boston, once so confident of sealing the championship, now looked rattled—hesitant, scrambling just to hold their lead.
"At this moment," Yang Yi declared, his voice firm and full of conviction, "the whole world can see it—Chinese players can shine on the biggest stage!"
Yang Jian followed, his tone resonating with fierce pride. "No matter what doubts there were before, no matter what anyone said—after tonight, no one will dare to underestimate Jiang Chen again!"
...
…
TD Garden — Celtics Bench
The entire Boston sideline sat in stunned silence.
Who could've imagined this? A benchwarmer—a water cooler player—had pushed the mighty Celtics to the edge.
That Chinese rookie was doing what even Kobe Bryant hadn't been able to do.
"Double-team him! Don't give him an inch—shut that kid down!" Rivers barked, voice sharp and commanding.
Play resumed.
The Celtics inbounded from the sideline. Rondo sprinted across half court, his dribble low and fast. A quick crossover slipped him past Fisher, forcing help from the weak side. Instantly, he kicked the ball out to Ray Allen on the perimeter.
Ray caught, rose, and released in one fluid motion.
Bang!
The shot rimmed out.
Under the basket, Gasol muscled his way through Garnett, gritting his teeth as he secured the rebound.
The Lakers wasted no time. Fisher pushed the pace, eyes darting ahead, then fired the ball to Jiang Chen streaking up the wing.
But the moment Jiang Chen touched it, the trap was already there—Pierce and Rondo converging like twin blades, arms outstretched, cutting off every passing lane.
Jiang Chen hesitated, pivoted, then rose into a tough pull-up over both defenders.
Clang!
This one missed.
Boston pounced.
Rondo snatched the rebound and exploded down the floor, weaving through defenders with lightning-quick steps. He glided into the lane and flipped in a smooth scoop layup off the glass.
81–98.
Back to a seventeen-point lead. Just over four minutes left.
On the sideline, Rivers punched the air, shouting toward his bench. "Yes! That's it! Double the Chinese kid—don't let him breathe!"
He could see it clearly now. Jiang Chen was the Lakers' pulse. Break his rhythm, and the whole offense fell apart.
The miracle surge—they'd finally killed it.
Kobe still fought, but his touch was off. Gasol remained shackled under Garnett's relentless defense. Without Jiang Chen's burst of brilliance, Los Angeles had no spark left.
Rivers could already feel the weight lifting from his chest. The title, after all the grind, was finally within reach.
As long as they controlled the tempo, kept the clock running—nothing could stop them now.
The Garden roared, the sound swelling to a deafening wave.
"Beat the Lakers! Beat the Lakers!"
The chant thundered through the rafters, echoing across Boston's cathedral of basketball.
On the court, purple and gold shoulders sagged. The fire that Jiang Chen's barrage had ignited moments earlier flickered out.
Everyone could see it—contain Jiang Chen, and the comeback died with him.
Kobe's face twisted, veins visible beneath the sweat. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.
Am I really going to watch the championship slip away like this?
He burned to take over, to summon that familiar late-game fire—to bury Boston the way he'd buried countless teams before.
But tonight, the rim was merciless. Every shot, every fadeaway—rim, rattle, miss.
The Mamba's fire refused to die, but the ball simply wouldn't fall.
...
"Guys, what's wrong?" Jiang Chen clapped his hands sharply, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "Come on—don't hang your heads. We still have time to turn this around!"
The rest of the Lakers turned toward him. Something in his tone—firm, bright, unshakable—snapped them out of their daze. It was as if a light had broken through the fog, forcing their eyes open again.
"But they've locked you down!" Odom blurted out, frustration clear in his voice. "They're double-teaming you every time—you're the only one they're worried about!"
"It doesn't matter," Jiang Chen said evenly, a faint smirk curving at the edge of his lips. "I can do more than shoot."
His teammates blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in his voice.
They all remembered the scouting report—spot-up shooter, limited creation, no elite athleticism. Nothing about him had hinted at this kind of confidence… or fire.
Kobe's gaze sharpened, studying him. Even Gasol and Fisher exchanged puzzled glances.
What did he mean by more than this?
Jiang Chen could feel their doubt, but it didn't shake him. If anything, it fueled the spark already burning inside.
Only a shooter? He exhaled slowly, his blood beginning to heat. That was the past.
[Activating: Aomine Daiki Basketball Skill Experience Card.]
[Effect: Host gains enhanced high-speed dribbling, Formless Shot, Wild Instinct, and free entry into Zone State. Duration: 5 minutes.]
The system's cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
Jiang Chen's expression hardened instantly. His breathing slowed. His eyes narrowed, gleaming with an intensity that felt almost feral.
The faintest grin touched his lips.
The hunt was about to begin.