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Yang Jian and Yang Yi exchanged glances, disbelief flickering in their eyes.
"Jiang Chen's performance just now… that was the level of a true superstar," Yang Jian said, his voice trembling slightly. "To be honest, it reminded me of Michael Jordan."
He let out a soft, incredulous laugh. After staying quiet for almost an entire season, Jiang Chen's sudden eruption tonight felt almost unreal — too fierce, too dominant.
"I thought he was just a role player having a hot streak," Yang Yi admitted, shaking his head. "But he's forcing his way into being the team's ace. With that physical talent, that handle, that scoring ability, and that explosiveness… he might be even stronger than Jordan."
Yang Jian exhaled slowly, still struggling for words. "It's hard to believe. In just a few possessions, he made me feel like I wasn't watching a human being."
Yang Yi nodded, eyes bright with anticipation. "After tonight, I'm genuinely excited to see what his career becomes. With the level of dominance he's showing, the championship might already be tilting toward the Lakers."
A brief pause followed before he added, almost sympathetically, "It's not that the Celtics aren't strong — they've just had the bad luck of running into a miracle."
...
On the court, it was Boston's possession.
Rajon Rondo advanced past half court, keeping his dribble low as he scanned the defense. He accelerated toward the paint, drawing the Lakers' help, then slipped a bounce pass to Ray Allen cutting in from the weak side.
Under pressure, Ray steadied his body and floated the ball over the contest. It brushed the glass and dropped cleanly through the net.
The Celtics' lead grew to four points.
This time, Allen didn't risk provoking Jiang Chen as he had earlier in the game. He simply let out a brief roar of emotion and turned to sprint back on defense.
The entire arena felt tight, every sound swallowed by tension. The outcome of the Finals was about to be decided.
After conceding, the Lakers pushed the ball forward again. Jiang Chen received the inbound at the baseline and began to advance. Paul Pierce and Rondo closed in immediately, trying to trap him between the sideline and midcourt. Jiang Chen slipped through the gap with a rapid crossover, accelerated into the lane, and met Kevin Garnett waiting near the rim.
In the air, Jiang Chen switched hands and finished with a reverse layup that arced beautifully off the glass. The movement was graceful yet forceful, and the ball fell softly through the net.
Boston tried to answer quickly.
Pierce came off a curl to the top of the arc, caught the pass, and found himself one-on-one against Jiang Chen again. He had yet to score a single basket when guarded by the rookie, missing all four of his previous attempts, but as captain and leading scorer, he felt the responsibility to take this possession himself.
Pierce crossed left, then right, searching for a rhythm to attack. Jiang Chen's stance dropped lower, his eyes tracking every movement. Within the Zone, his perception sharpened to the smallest twitch in Pierce's shoulders and the subtle shift of his center of gravity.
He read the move in advance, timed it perfectly, and struck.
The sound of his hand meeting the ball echoed sharply through the Garden. The steal was clean and complete.
Pierce froze for an instant, then turned in frustration, realizing too late that challenging Jiang Chen directly had been a mistake. The rookie's defensive ability had been underestimated all night, and this turnover could very well decide the championship.
By the time Pierce looked up, Jiang Chen was already sprinting down the floor. His strides devoured the hardwood, and he reached the rim before anyone else could react. The layup dropped in effortlessly, bringing the score level at 98–98.
The Garden fell completely silent. Once again, Jiang Chen had taken the life out of the building. Twenty thousand fans stared in disbelief at the scoreboard that now showed a tie.
Doc Rivers wiped the sweat from his forehead and called Boston's final timeout.
"Listen up," he barked in the huddle. "On offense, we go inside. Feed Garnett or Perkins. No three-pointers, and no one goes one-on-one against Jiang Chen."
He slammed his clipboard down. "That kid has been hiding his strength all game. We let him get comfortable, and now he's broken us. If we had trapped him when he hit that fourth three, we wouldn't be in this mess."
The players listened silently. A thirty-three-point lead had vanished completely.
"For the last possession, we cover his three-point shot with everything we have," Rivers continued. "Force him into the paint. If he drives, foul him immediately. Don't give him an easy score. Make him earn it at the line."
His voice hardened. "This is the last stretch. Go out and fight for it."
Across the court, the Lakers' bench gathered around Phil Jackson. He simply looked at his players and spoke in a calm, even tone.
"Give the ball to Jiang Chen."
There was no need for further tactics. Everyone nodded in agreement, even Kobe Bryant. After what Jiang Chen had done tonight, he had earned their complete trust.
When play resumed, Boston ran its set cleanly. Rondo used a screen from Perkins to enter the paint, faked a pass to the rolling big man, then whipped the ball out to Garnett. Garnett rose smoothly and released a jumper from midrange.
The ball went through the net without touching the rim. The Celtics were back in front, 100–98.
The arena erupted in noise. Fans leapt to their feet, chanting as if willing the clock to move faster. One defensive stop was all that separated them from the championship.
Phil Jackson didn't call timeout. He trusted his players to make their own decision.
Jiang Chen took the inbound and crossed half court at a steady pace. Kobe, Fisher, Odom, and Gasol all spaced out toward the corners and wings, clearing the lane entirely. The noise in the Garden began to fade into a low, collective hum.
Twenty-four seconds remained.
This final possession would decide everything.
Jiang Chen stopped at the top of the arc, dribbling rhythmically as the seconds ticked away—eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. His teammates grew restless. He still hadn't attacked.
Was he waiting for the last shot? If he missed, the championship would slip away.
Even Kobe's instincts urged him to step forward and take control, but just as he moved, Jiang Chen shifted gears.
The rhythm of his dribble suddenly accelerated, the ball pounding so fast it blurred into streaks. His super-high-speed dribble burst to life within the Zone, his body moving faster than the defenders could register.
Pierce lunged, but Jiang Chen's change of direction left him completely behind. Rondo rotated over, only to be spun away by a seamless pirouette.
Jiang Chen broke through the double-team and entered the restricted area. The instant he stepped inside, the entire arena reacted: Boston's bench sprang up, hands outstretched, shouting for contact; the Lakers' sideline surged to its feet with a mix of hope and dread; fans all around the lower bowl rose simultaneously, some screaming for a foul, others begging for a block. On the floor, Kobe threw his hands to his head, Gasol and Odom shouted for a kick-out pass, and Fisher pointed to the clock as if trying to slow time itself.
Garnett waited at the dotted line, chest squared and arms wide. As the reigning Defensive Player of the Year, he had been preparing for this collision. He roared and launched, certain the trap had worked. If he forced hard contact here, the best Jiang Chen could do was go to the line.
Jiang Chen rose to meet him with a calm expression and a faint, almost defiant smile.
They collided in midair. Garnett's forearm caught Jiang Chen's shooting arm with a heavy crack that carried through the quiet between screams, sending him off balance and spinning backward.
As his body tilted and began to fall, Jiang Chen released the ball with a loose, fluid motion. It was the purest expression of Aomine Daiki's formless shot, a release guided by feel rather than posture—precise even without balance.
The ball climbed toward the rafters and began its slow descent. Every head in the Garden tracked the spin. It struck the front rim, bounced softly, rose a finger's width, kissed the iron again, rolled across, and finally dropped through the net.
100–100.
The whistle sounded at once. The officials called a shooting foul on Garnett.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then the entire arena reacted at once: twenty thousand people clutched their heads, mouths open, voices lost in disbelief. On the Lakers' bench, players spilled onto the sideline with their hands in the air; on Boston's, several sank back into their seats while others pleaded toward the officials without conviction. On the floor, Kobe turned and screamed into the air, Gasol pumped his fist, and Odom grabbed Fisher by the shoulders and shook him.
The call was clear; even Boston's staff could not argue it. The slap had echoed through the building, and the contact that twisted Jiang Chen in midair was obvious.
As he landed hard on his back, Jiang Chen stared into the lights for half a second before exhaling and letting a small smile form. The scoreboard showed 0.9 seconds remaining.
He stood with help from his teammates and walked to the line for the extra free throw. Even while losing balance and control of his body, his release had remained pure. That was the essence of the formless shot—no fixed posture, only rhythm and instinct—and it had carried him through the heaviest contact of the night.
He had bent basketball logic again, and for that instant, he looked untouchable.
...
On the sideline, Doc Rivers pressed his hands against his temples, disbelief clouding his expression. He looked toward Garnett, arms spread wide as if demanding an explanation.
The strategy had been perfectly clear.
They were supposed to foul before the shot — stop Jiang Chen from scoring, send him to the line for two free throws, and preserve control of the final possession.
Not foul and allow a 2+1.
Now, the Celtics' fate rested entirely in Jiang Chen's hands.
Garnett stood frozen near the rim, the noise of the Garden fading into a dull roar in his ears. His mind replayed the entire sequence in flashes — Jiang Chen's calm eyes, that faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth right before the contact.
His expression changed instantly.
Taking two slow steps backward, Garnett stared at Jiang Chen, who was still lying on the court surrounded by teammates. For the first time, real shock filled his eyes.
This rookie had baited him.
The realization struck like lightning. Jiang Chen hadn't lost control of the play — he had deliberately lured Garnett into the foul.
A cold sweat broke down Garnett's back.
He had thought he was the hunter, the veteran predator forcing the rookie into a desperate mistake. But Jiang Chen had flipped the roles completely. The rookie had been in control all along, calmly waiting for the exact moment to strike.
What kind of confidence did that take?
To lure the league's best defender into a foul — in the final play of the Finals — was sheer madness. One miscalculation, one miss, and he would have handed Boston the championship.
Yet he had taken that risk without hesitation.
As Garnett stood there in disbelief, a strange sense of respect mixed with despair washed over him. Losing to a player like that didn't even feel unfair.
Nearby, the Lakers erupted.
"Buddy! That was beautiful!" Odom shouted, sprinting toward Jiang Chen.
Gasol and Fisher joined in, pulling him up from the floor, patting his chest, his back, his head — too exhilarated to form full sentences. The doubt that had flickered across their faces earlier was gone, erased by awe.
Kobe stepped in front of Jiang Chen and gripped his shoulder firmly. His voice was low but filled with pride. "Make this free throw."
Jiang Chen nodded once. His breathing steadied as he walked toward the line.
The entire arena went quiet. Twenty thousand people held their breath.
He bounced the ball twice, spun it once in his fingertips, and exhaled slowly.
Then he shot.
The ball traced a perfect arc, dropped cleanly through the net, and the whistle operator confirmed the score.
101–100.
The Lakers were in front.
Only 0.9 seconds remained.
Boston had no timeouts left. Rondo had to inbound from the backcourt.
He clutched the ball tightly, searching for any opening, then fired a desperate pass toward Pierce near midcourt. Pierce leapt, grabbed it, and hurled it forward in one last, hopeless motion.
The ball sailed high, missed everything, and bounced out of bounds as the final buzzer echoed through the Garden.
Game over.
Jiang Chen had done it.
A 2+1 that sealed the victory.
For a second, there was silence — a heartbeat of disbelief — and then chaos.
The Lakers bench exploded onto the floor. Players poured in from every direction, surrounding Jiang Chen, shouting, hugging, jumping in wild celebration. Kobe lifted his arms and let out a primal yell toward the rafters. Phil Jackson smiled faintly on the sideline, his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal quiet satisfaction.
In the last ten minutes of that game, every man in purple and gold had witnessed a miracle.
Jiang Chen had single-handedly erased a thirty-three–point deficit, forced the Finals back from the brink, and delivered a game-winning play that would be remembered for years.
The scoreboard showed the story in simple numbers: Lakers 101, Celtics 100.
The series was now tied 3–3.
The Finals would go to a decisive Game 7.
And from that night on, every fan, every commentator, and every opponent in the league would remember the name — Jiang Chen.