"Give me the ball! I'll finish this game."
Jiang Chen's voice rang out across the court, steady and full of conviction as he sprinted into the frontcourt.
Odom, Fisher, and the others froze in place.
Take over the game?
The thought itself sounded absurd. To them, Jiang Chen was still just a rookie—a spot-up shooter who had suddenly caught fire. And to say this in front of Kobe Bryant, the undisputed leader of the team? It bordered on madness.
Instinctively, every Laker turned toward Kobe. This was his team, his stage. No one would follow Jiang Chen's call unless Kobe allowed it.
Seven three-pointers or not, he was still a newcomer. One night of brilliance didn't make him the king of the Finals.
Kobe's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of conflict flashed across his face. His pride urged him to take the ball, to remind everyone that this was still his team.
And yet—those impossible threes replayed in his mind. Each one had carved through Boston's defense, each one had reignited a dying team. Deep down, Kobe knew it: Jiang Chen's hand was hotter than anything he could summon right now.
Finally, Kobe exhaled slowly and gave a short, deliberate nod. It wasn't surrender—it was recognition.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, fire burning in his eyes. "Show me you can finish it."
The message was clear. For tonight, the Lakers would ride Jiang Chen's wave. If he could withstand Boston's suffocating traps, maybe—just maybe—the miracle comeback was within reach.
…
The Lakers began their possession.
Fisher crossed half court with the ball. Jiang Chen broke free from his defender in a sharp cut to the top of the key, his hand raised high—demanding the ball with the confidence of a team's alpha.
Fisher didn't hesitate. He fired the pass.
The instant the ball hit Jiang Chen's hands, Rondo exploded forward, closing the distance in a blur. Pierce slid with him, and once again the Celtics' suffocating double-team closed in—arms wide, angles sealed, pressure mounting.
But Jiang Chen's rhythm changed.
His dribble lost all pattern, his movements loosening into something wild and fluid. Every bounce was unpredictable, guided not by thought but by instinct—pure feel, raw reaction. The ball seemed alive under his fingertips, responding before his mind could even command it.
He moved like a black panther—graceful, untamed, impossible to read. Each step carried a pulse of danger, every shift of weight a threat.
Then the pace spiked. His dribble blurred, echoing across the hardwood—pa! pa! pa!—so fast the sound itself fractured. The ball no longer traced a visible path; it flashed between his hands, vanishing and reappearing with each movement.
Rondo crouched low, eyes darting helplessly. Pierce widened his stance, trying to funnel Jiang Chen toward the baseline, but neither could locate the ball. For a split second, they realized—they couldn't even see it.
Jiang Chen feinted left, snapped right, the ball slashing between his legs and whipping behind his back in a single motion. Rondo lunged, a fraction too late. Pierce's hand grazed air. The trap collapsed.
Jiang Chen planted hard, slid back, and with a retreating step created space beyond the arc.
He rose into his shot—body twisting, form unorthodox yet fluid, a motion that bent logic itself. The ball left his fingertips in a high, sweeping arc that seemed to climb toward the rafters.
For a heartbeat, TD Garden held its breath.
Then—swish.
Nothing but net.
His eighth three-pointer of the night.
84–98.
The deficit shrank to fourteen.
…
For a second, the entire arena fell silent.
Tens of thousands of fans sat frozen, mouths half-open, unsure if what they'd just seen was real.
"What just happened?" someone whispered.
"Why is that Chinese rookie so fast?"
"What kind of dribble was that?!"
The crowd replayed it in their minds, stunned. Jiang Chen's movements hadn't followed any coaching manual—his crossovers, between-the-legs, and behind-the-back dribbles were too loose, too unorthodox. Yet that looseness became his weapon. It was fluid, unpredictable—chaos turned into rhythm.
This wasn't basketball taught in a clinic.
It was basketball that broke the rules.
And it was beautiful.
Moments later, the big screen flashed the replay. Even slowed down several times, two of the dribbles were still a blur—too fast for the cameras to track cleanly. Gasps rippled through the stands as disbelief gave way to awe.
The Celtics bench stared, shaken.
What level of ball control is that?
How can it move that fast?
In that instant, they understood—this Chinese rookie was far more than a shooter.
Pierce's chest tightened. Rondo clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath his focus.
One grim thought echoed between them: We're in trouble.
Across the court, the Lakers' bench erupted.
Kobe slowed as he crossed half court, eyes locked on Jiang Chen—and for the first time all night, a grin broke across his face. He pounded his chest with a fist and let out a roar.
Odom smacked Jiang Chen on the back as they ran, laughing in disbelief.
Fisher pointed at him with both hands, shaking his head like he couldn't process what he'd just witnessed.
Gasol jogged back on defense, wide-eyed, murmuring under his breath.
Jiang Chen—the quiet rookie who had barely been noticed—was now setting the Finals ablaze with a brilliance none of them had foreseen.
Not just hot shooting. Not a lucky run.
But strength that commanded respect from veterans.
This wasn't an accident.
This was a hidden gem finally shining under the brightest lights.
…
CCTV-5 Broadcast
Yang Jian's voice cracked with disbelief.
"What undrafted player can step into the NBA Finals and drain eight three-pointers in less than a quarter? This is unbelievable!"
The camera cut to the court—the stunned faces in the crowd said it all. Even the Boston fans couldn't process what they were witnessing.
Yang Yi's voice came next, full of excitement.
"Perhaps this very game marks Jiang Chen's rebirth—a dazzling debut on basketball's biggest stage!"
He couldn't hide his smile, his tone carrying pride and relief alike.
"With a performance like this, does Jiang Chen even need to worry about staying in the NBA? No way—his problem now is which team he'll choose next season! I can guarantee there will be franchises lining up, desperate to sign him."
...
…
On the court
The Celtics resumed their attack.
Rondo handled the ball at the top of the arc, calling for Garnett's screen. KG set his pick, popped to the free-throw line, caught the pass, and rose smoothly for his trademark mid-range jumper.
Gasol lunged forward, arm extended to contest. From the weak side, Jiang Chen slid in, closing fast to challenge the release.
Bang!
The shot clanged off the rim.
Jiang Chen exploded into the paint, carving through bodies to snatch the rebound with both hands. He didn't hesitate—turning instantly and pushing the ball upcourt, his dribble igniting into a blur.
The pace surged.
Rondo sprinted back to cut him off, crouched low, arms spread wide. Jiang Chen dipped his shoulder, then snapped through with a violent change of direction—gone in a single stride.
Pierce rotated over, stepping up to wall the lane. Jiang Chen stopped on a dime, pulled back sharply, then spun on his pivot, slipping past the Celtics' captain as Pierce lost his balance for half a second.
Ray Allen waited near the arc, the last line of defense. He squared up, feet shifting in rhythm, eyes locked on Jiang Chen's chest.
But Jiang didn't slow down.
He charged straight at Allen—then, in one seamless motion, whipped the ball behind his back. The move was so sharp it seemed to vanish midair. Planting hard on his left foot, he exploded past, leaving only a blur in Allen's line of sight.
The lane opened wide.
Jiang Chen surged into the paint, rose high, and hammered down a vicious tomahawk slam.
From rebound to dunk—less than ten seconds.
The crowd erupted.
The lead was down to twelve.
Three and a half minutes left on the clock.
…
On the sideline, Doc Rivers felt his scalp go numb. His body trembled, eyes wide with disbelief.
This couldn't be real.
That Chinese rookie—an undrafted player—was supposed to be a spot-up shooter. Nothing more.
Yet just now, he had dribbled through three defenders in succession, combining impossible speed with dazzling control, then finished with a dunk that belonged to a superstar.
"Damn it," Rivers muttered under his breath, fists clenched. "Where did this kid even come from?"
His gaze darted to the scoreboard, then to the timeout marker—only one left. He couldn't burn it now. Not yet. He had to save it for the final minute.
All he could do was pray—pray his team would steady themselves, pray the lead would hold.
But unease gnawed at him.
He could see it in their faces—the confidence that had fueled Boston all series was slipping. The swagger, the composure, the arrogance—they were being replaced by something else. Doubt. Hesitation.
And it all came from one man.
Jiang Chen.
When they'd led by thirty-three, everyone thought the game was finished. The championship was already theirs.
But then this undrafted rookie from China had erupted, dragging the Lakers into a furious chase. Every skill he revealed—every impossible shot, every breathtaking move—shook the floor.
He wasn't just shining as a role player. His presence was swallowing the spotlight itself, eclipsing even the Finals' brightest stars—Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce.
That was the part that hurt the most.
"Slow it down! Control the tempo! Don't give them chances to run!" Rivers bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise.
He needed to wake his players up, remind them this was the Finals. Every possession mattered now. A single mistake could decide the title.
Ray Allen, Pierce, Garnett—they all blinked, snapping out of their daze. A moment ago, they'd looked stunned, even lost.
Jiang Chen's rhythm had rattled them. His dribbling was too fast, too fluid—too unnatural. You couldn't read his movement, couldn't predict his next step. It was unnerving.
And from the way they exchanged glances, one truth was clear.
They were afraid.
Afraid of what they didn't understand.
Afraid of what this rookie might do next.
Three minutes remained.
The game pressed on.
The Celtics launched their offense.
Under the Lakers' suffocating defense, Ray Allen rose for a jumper—clang!—off the rim.
Gasol gritted his teeth, battling Garnett for position, and snatched the rebound with both hands. He instantly looked up—past Fisher, past Odom.
He was searching for Jiang Chen.
And the Celtics were too. Their eyes followed him instinctively. At this point, he wasn't just a player—he was a live bomb, ticking louder with every possession.
The pass hit Jiang Chen's hands, and his aura shifted instantly.
His movements loosened, his body language predatory—every dribble alive, sharp, unrestrained. He moved like a panther slipping free of its leash, his instincts guiding him faster than conscious thought.
He crossed half court and accelerated. Three defenders collapsed on him—Pierce closing from the left, Rondo sticking to his hip, Ray Allen stepping up from the arc.
Jiang Chen didn't flinch.
He rose from deep, his body twisting midair into an unorthodox but perfectly balanced motion. The shot lifted in a high, impossible arc.
Bang!
The ball rattled out.
For a heartbeat, TD Garden exhaled in relief.
Watching him shoot was terrifying—each release carried an inevitability that felt heavier than even Ray Allen's perfect form.
The rebound shot upward. Garnett and Pierce boxed out, arms raised, ready to secure it.
But before it dropped, something shifted inside Jiang Chen.
He frowned, eyes narrowing. His instincts screamed.
Missed? Then I'll go further.
And suddenly—everything slowed. His breathing steadied, vision widened. The court expanded before him, every detail crisp, every motion predictable. He could see the spin of the ball, the defenders' reactions before they happened.
The world bent around his focus.
The Zone.
Jiang Chen's legs coiled like springs—and he launched.
Gasps tore through the stands as he soared into the paint, rising over Garnett to pluck the rebound straight off his fingertips.
The Garden froze. Garnett turned, arms still raised, disbelief etched across his face.
But Jiang Chen was already landing.
No pause. No reset. He took two sharp dribbles backward to the arc, gathered, and rose again—smooth, effortless, unstoppable.
Swish!
The net snapped clean.
89–98. The gap shrank to nine.
Jiang Chen's eyes burned with light, his entire being thrumming with power. This… this is the Zone.
Every sense heightened—strength, speed, vision, reflexes, touch. His body felt reborn, every nerve tuned perfectly to the rhythm of the game.
In the anime, only a handful had ever reached this state. Even Midorima Shintarō, master of the high rainbow shot, had never stepped into it. But now Jiang Chen—fueled by Aomine's instinct, Midorima's range, and Tomoki's defensive will—was beyond them all.
At this moment, under these lights, he wasn't just channeling Aomine.
He was something greater.
The arena erupted.
Fans leapt to their feet, voices colliding into chaos.
"Holy shit! Did he just snatch that off Garnett's head?!"
"He's not a benchwarmer—he's Jordan! No, even Jordan never did that!"
"Look at his speed! He's moving like he's in fast-forward!"
"Oh my god, if this keeps up, Boston's done! The lead won't survive this!"
Seven minutes ago, Boston fans were picturing champagne.
Now, the Finals had become a nightmare.
And that nightmare wore purple and gold.
…
On the court
Pierce and the others wore the look of men staring into an abyss.
The scoreboard still read Boston up by nine—but in their hearts, it felt like they were the ones chasing.
That Chinese rookie's performance defied reason.
Every possession, every move, shattered what they thought they knew about him.
And the most frightening part?
He wasn't slowing down.
He was getting stronger.
More explosive with each attack.
More impossible with each possession.
Where's his ceiling?
Does he even have one?
The contrast was glaring. Boston's stars carried the weight of survival on their shoulders, their expressions tight and burdened. Meanwhile, the Lakers burned with life again.
Their bench was electric—players stomping their feet, whipping towels in the air until the fabric nearly tore. The roar of adrenaline replaced the silence of despair.
Kobe, Gasol, Odom—all shouted at once, their voices drowned by the thunder of the crowd. Their eyes burned, locked on the rookie who refused to yield.
At the moment when hope should've died, Jiang Chen had risen—a blazing torch in the darkness, lighting the path back from the brink.
…
Celtics possession.
Rondo crossed half court, eyes scanning for Ray Allen curling off a screen.
But before the pass could even leave his fingertips—a shadow flashed across his vision.
Jiang Chen.
In the Zone, his reflexes bordered on the supernatural. He'd already read Rondo's every cue—the shoulder tilt, the eye line, even the twitch of his hand.
By the time the pass left Rondo's fingers, Jiang Chen was already there, slicing through the lane like lightning.
Steal!
Gasps erupted through TD Garden.
Without breaking stride, Jiang Chen tore down the court at full speed. No one could catch him—not Rondo, not Pierce, not even Allen's younger legs. His acceleration inside the Zone was untouchable.
The crowd rose as one when he stopped on a dime at the arc, rose, and released.
His shot lifted in a perfect, soaring arc—so high it seemed to scrape the rafters before falling straight down.
Swish!
Nothing but net.
Boston's hearts sank. Pierce smacked his thigh in frustration; Garnett barked orders, trying to hold the defense together. But behind the noise, their eyes gave them away—fear.
Rivers shouted himself hoarse. "Trap him! Don't let him touch it!"
Three green jerseys hounded Jiang Chen, bodying him, denying him the ball like their lives depended on it.
But that overcommitment cracked Boston's defense wide open.
And Kobe Bryant—ice-cold all night—suddenly found daylight. Twice in a row he rose from mid-range, once from the elbow, once from the baseline.
Swish.
Swish.
The gap shrank again.
96–98.
The Garden went silent.
Less than a minute left.
The Lakers, once left for dead, now stood on the verge of the greatest comeback in NBA Finals history.
And at the heart of it all was Jiang Chen—
the rookie rewriting reality, possession by possession.