The Celtics players walked off the court slowly, shoulders heavy and expressions blank.
None of them had imagined the game would end like this.
A thirty-three-point lead—gone, erased in less than a quarter.
And the fatal blow had come from a rookie's free throw.
Even as the final buzzer echoed through TD Garden, most of them still couldn't process what had happened. The scene felt unreal, like a bad dream they hadn't yet woken from.
Who could have believed that a rookie—someone who had barely seen minutes all season—would erupt with such power during what was supposed to be garbage time?
They had tried every adjustment, but nothing had stopped him. Every shot he hit had chipped away at their confidence until the impossible became inevitable.
Frustration simmered, but anger couldn't change the outcome. The scoreboard didn't lie. The Finals were tied.
All they could do now was accept the loss and prepare for Game 7.
And one thought haunted every player in green as they left the floor:
how were they going to stop Jiang Chen next time?
...
"Oh my God! Unbelievable! I still can't believe what we just witnessed!"
"The Lakers have completed a thirty-three–point comeback — the largest in NBA Finals history!"
"This Chinese rookie has completely carved his name into history! He's nailed the Celtics to the pillar of shame with one of the greatest miracles this stage has ever seen!"
"The Lakers have truly found a gem. If Jiang Chen keeps playing like this in Game 7, then the Celtics' championship hopes might already be gone!"
"In the last ten minutes, Jiang Chen shot twelve for sixteen from the field, including an astonishing ten for thirteen from beyond the arc, and capped it off with the game-winning free throw. Thirty-five points, two rebounds, three steals, and one block — all in a single quarter!"
"Single-quarter scoring record, Finals scoring record, scoring record for a substitute — this rookie from China has shattered every mark imaginable!"
The on-site commentators could barely contain themselves, their voices trembling with excitement as they listed each record, each statistic, each impossible fact.
All around TD Garden, the noise turned into chaos. Some fans still shouted in disbelief, while others simply threw their cheering signs to the ground. The bright slogan "Defeat the Lakers" printed across them now looked mocking and painful.
Disappointment rippled through the stands like a cold wave. The heartbreak was visible on every face.
At the start of the fourth quarter, Boston had led by thirty-three points. The crowd had already begun celebrating, waiting for the moment they would crown the Celtics as champions.
But in the space of ten minutes, everything collapsed. A player they had barely noticed before — a rookie from the end of the Lakers' bench — had stepped in and destroyed it all.
The frustration was overwhelming. Some cursed the Lakers' luck; others muttered in disbelief at Jiang Chen's sudden eruption. It felt as if fate itself had turned against Boston, tightening its grip until the air left their lungs, while fortune smiled only on the man in purple and gold.
On the court, the Lakers' wild celebration finally began to calm. One by one, players embraced, exchanged high-fives, and made their way toward the tunnel. Their expressions were exhausted yet radiant, still riding the rush of what they had just achieved.
Jiang Chen walked at the center of the group, towel over his shoulders, the roar of the Boston crowd fading behind him as they stepped off the hardwood and into the tunnel's shadow.
The miracle had been completed.
...
CCTV-5 Broadcast
Yang Jian and Yang Yi were both on their feet as Jiang Chen's impossible 2 + 1 dropped through the net. The sight left their faces flushed with excitement, their voices trembling with disbelief.
"He sealed it! Jiang Chen just ended the game with a 2 + 1 game-winner," Yang Jian said, barely containing himself. "What a perfect finish to a breakout performance."
Yang Yi nodded vigorously. "After tonight, who in the world won't know his name?" His voice carried both pride and emotion.
For years, Chinese fans had dreamed of seeing another homegrown star shine on the NBA stage. Now that moment had finally come.
"The NBA will have another Chinese superstar," Yang Yi said, his tone thick with feeling. "Yao is no longer alone over there."
In living rooms across China, countless fans were on their feet. They could already imagine the headlines and the conversations that would follow. From now on, the words 'Chinese players can't make it in the NBA' would no longer be said.
Yang Jian added quickly, "And not only that—Jiang Chen saved the Lakers tonight! He's become their savior. If the Lakers go on to win the championship, he'll be their biggest hero."
The two commentators exchanged glances, both overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they had witnessed.
"What kind of beginning could match such an ending?" Yang Jian murmured. "After being silent the whole season, he suddenly rises in the NBA like this… unbelievable."
Yang Yi smiled faintly. "Guess what that last play reminded me of?"
Yang Jian looked up. "Michael Jordan's 'Last Shot,' right?"
"Exactly," Yang Yi said. "But honestly… Jiang Chen's was even more shocking. To draw a foul and complete a 2 + 1 under Garnett's defense—just thinking about it gives me goosebumps. It's a kind of shock that's hard to describe."
Yang Jian nodded, emotion thick in his throat. "The difference is that Jordan's 'Last Shot' was a perfect ending. Jiang Chen's 2 + 1 is the beginning of his story. From this moment on, we'll see what kind of legend he'll write in the NBA."
For a brief moment, both men fell silent, their eyes glistening under the broadcast lights.
For their generation—people who had dedicated their entire lives to the growth of Chinese basketball—this was more than a highlight. It was hope made real.
"Maybe," Yang Yi said softly, "this new light of Chinese basketball will one day lead our national team alongside Yao, bringing pride to the country on the world stage."
Yang Jian smiled through his emotion. "If that happens, basketball might just outpace football in giving us something to believe in again."
The screen lingered on Jiang Chen's calm face as he walked down the tunnel, bathed in the fading cheers of the crowd.
A new chapter for Chinese basketball had just begun.
…
…
North Shore Garden Arena — Lakers locker room.
The room was filled with laughter, shouts, and the lingering echo of victory. The smell of sweat mixed with the faint sting of champagne spray in the air. Every player was grinning ear to ear, still caught in the euphoria of the greatest comeback of their careers.
Even Kobe Bryant, usually the first to calm down after a win, couldn't suppress his smile. His excitement still burned visibly in his eyes.
"Bro, your performance was unreal!" one teammate shouted.
"You were incredible out there! We're proud of you, man—this is insane!" another added, pounding Jiang Chen's shoulder.
"Down by thirty-three and you turned into a god," someone yelled over the noise. "You saved us!"
"I swear," Fisher laughed, shaking his head, "that's the craziest Playoffs performance I've ever seen!"
The celebration continued, loud and sincere. They had all seen what Jiang Chen had done, and even now, they were still struggling to process it.
The Celtics had been stunned by him—but truthfully, so were the Lakers.
Among them, Jiang Chen had always been the quiet one. In practice, he spoke little. During games, he was barely noticed. Sometimes, he didn't even react when teammates hit big shots. To most of them, he had been just another bench player, quiet and reserved—someone whose story wasn't supposed to matter in the Finals.
And yet tonight, when the team had been one step from elimination, everything changed.
Jiang Chen had stepped onto the court and lifted them from despair. He had been calm, relentless, almost supernatural. Like a sudden light breaking through darkness, his presence had ignited the entire team.
He had shocked the Lakers, the Celtics, the fans in the arena, and everyone watching around the world.
No one could explain where his explosion came from or how he managed to dominate so completely. But one thing was certain—after tonight, Jiang Chen would never again be the quiet, overlooked rookie.
In just ten minutes, he had gone from anonymous to unforgettable.
Kobe clapped a hand on his shoulder, his expression sincere. "Man, I've got to thank you," he said quietly. "You pulled us back from the edge and kept our championship hopes alive."
The title that had seemed lost moments earlier now felt within reach again. Jiang Chen had saved it all.
Jiang Chen smiled, his tone humble. "You're welcome. I'm part of the team—that's what I'm supposed to do."
On the surface, he was calm. But his mind was elsewhere—focused on something only he could hear.
The system had been silent since the final buzzer. Half an hour had passed, and still no response. Just as he began to wonder, the familiar electronic tone echoed inside his mind.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, for completing the mission. Rewards are now being issued.]
[Congratulations, Host, for obtaining 3,000 Achievement Points and 50 Skill Fusion Shards.]
[Note: 10,000 Achievement Points = 1 lottery draw. Upgrading a skill to Intermediate requires 500 Skill Fusion Shards; Advanced, 1,000; Expert, 2,000; Master, 5,000.]
[You currently have one lottery draw opportunity. Would the Host like to proceed?]
"Proceed with the draw," Jiang Chen replied silently.
This was no time for hesitation. The Finals were still alive, and every ounce of strength mattered.
In his mind, the system's roulette wheel began to spin, lights flashing as dozens of skill names flickered past. Jiang Chen's pulse quickened.
[Ding! Starting lottery draw.]
The wheel slowed gradually until it stopped on one name.
[Congratulations, Host, you have obtained Hayama Kotarō's Thunder Dribble skill. Initial level: Advanced.]
The moment he heard it, Jiang Chen's eyes lit up.
It was exactly what he lacked—a dribbling technique that could match his shooting. In every scouting report before this season, he had been labeled one-dimensional: not bad from deep, but weak with the ball. Now, that limitation was gone.
He knew exactly how terrifying Hayama's "Thunder Dribble" could be. Using only three fingers, it could generate deafening impact and speed. At four fingers, the ball would nearly vanish from sight. At five, it became pure lightning.
As if responding to his thoughts, the system displayed the new description in his mind:
[Hayama Kotarō's Thunder Dribble — One of the "Uncrowned Kings." Possesses elite dribbling technique. Upon fusion, gain his dribbling ability. Initial level: Advanced. Fusion rate: 60%. Gain enhanced control and acceleration. Steal probability +10%.]
[Note: Skill requires three-finger dribble. Four- and five-finger forms unlock with later upgrades.]
"System, fuse Hayama Kotarō's Thunder Dribble," Jiang Chen commanded immediately.
The interface unfolded before him:
Kuroko's Basketball System
Host: Jiang Chen
Height: 201 cm
Weight: 98 kg
Overall Physique: 89
Skills:
– Atsushi Murasakibara's Physical Talent (Master)
– Tsugawa Tomoki's Strongest Wall (Advanced)
– Shintarō Midorima's High-Arc Three-Pointer (Advanced)
– Hayama Kotarō's Thunder Dribble (Advanced)
Items: None
Achievement Points: 3,000
Skill Fusion Shards: 50
Jiang Chen's lips curved slightly as he looked at the stats. With this new technique, his offensive arsenal had grown even deadlier.
He shifted his focus back to the real world. The locker room was still alive with laughter and celebration. Kobe was joking with Odom, Fisher was shouting something about destiny, and Gasol was already talking about Game 7.
Jiang Chen leaned back in his chair, towel draped over his head, the faint smile still playing on his face.
North Shore Garden Arena — Lakers locker room.
A few minutes after the celebration began, a sudden knocking echoed through the door.
Thump, thump, thump.
A staff member stepped inside, looking a little nervous. "Coach, it's almost time for the post-game interviews. The NBA officials and several media outlets are specifically requesting Jiang Chen's presence."
The room went silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward Jiang Chen.
He blinked, caught off guard, and pointed at himself. "Me?"
He genuinely couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked to interview him. Probably not since the brief press conference when he first joined the Lakers.
"Of course you should go," Kobe said with a grin, giving him a light shove. "You earned it tonight."
Head Coach Phil Jackson nodded in agreement and gestured for both of them to follow.
The three of them walked down the long concrete corridor. The noise of celebration faded behind them, replaced by the distant hum of reporters and flashing cameras.
When they stepped into the interview room, all three stopped in surprise.
The space was packed wall-to-wall. Cameras, microphones, and reporters crowded every inch of the floor; the air shimmered under the bright lights. There had to be at least two hundred journalists from every major sports network in the world.
Even Kobe raised his eyebrows. "Wow… that's a crowd."
Without question, every one of them was here for Jiang Chen.
They took their seats at the front table. Instantly, the sea of cameras turned toward him. Flash after flash burst like lightning.
The first question came almost immediately.
"Jiang, tonight you made history. Down thirty-three points in the Finals, you led your team to an unbelievable comeback and hit the game-winning shot. What are your feelings right now?"
Jiang Chen paused for a moment, then answered calmly, "Very calm. I just took the opportunity to play and delivered the performance I should have."
A wave of confusion rippled through the room.
The performance he should have?
The reporters exchanged looks. This was a bench player who hadn't touched the floor in weeks, a rookie with one made three-pointer all season. Yet tonight he'd scored thirty-five points in less than ten minutes.
Was he serious?
Some scribbled notes furiously, others smirked. A few outright rolled their eyes.
"Do you think you can repeat this kind of performance in Game 7?" another reporter asked, his tone skeptical. "Make as many three-pointers as you did tonight?"
"Of course," Jiang Chen replied without hesitation. "I believe I'll play even better in the next game. Maybe I'll hit more than tonight."
That answer drew a chorus of low murmurs. Several reporters exchanged incredulous glances.
Ten three-pointers in a Finals game were already beyond belief—and he expected to do it again?
No one in history had ever managed that twice in a row. Not Bird, not Reggie Miller, not even Ray Allen.
"Are you sure you're not kidding?" a journalist from Sports Illustrated pressed, his voice tinged with ridicule. "You made ten threes tonight. That's already a record."
Jiang Chen lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. "Ten isn't that many. I only needed one quarter to do it. Next game, I'll have more."
The room fell silent.
Several reporters actually gasped.
Ten wasn't that many?
No player in NBA Finals history had ever made ten threes in a single game, and here he was treating it like routine practice.
They wanted to refute him—but every fact he stated was true. He had done it, and they had all watched.
Kobe glanced sideways at him, unable to hold back a smile. The rookie's confidence—no, his arrogance—was startling. It reminded him of himself years ago, when he had believed the world could be conquered with talent and will alone.
A voice from the back cut through the quiet. "Jiang, you shot ten-for-thirteen from deep tonight. That accuracy is unreal. Even Ray Allen only hit seven. How did you do it?"
Every camera leaned forward. They expected some grand explanation—a speech about focus, rhythm, or destiny.
Jiang Chen smiled lightly. "It's simple. I just stood on the floor, found my shots, and they went in."
A stunned pause followed.
Some reporters stared blankly, pens halfway through their notes.
Simple?
Threes were simple? Step-backs over defenders were simple?
They could understand every word he said, but somehow the sentence made no sense.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The reporters exchanged helpless looks, unsure how to continue. Jiang Chen's calm, unshakable tone had stolen the rhythm of the entire room.
And sitting beside him, Kobe simply chuckled under his breath.
This kid was something else.
The tension in the press room eased slightly, but curiosity still hung thick in the air. After a brief pause, another reporter raised his hand.
"Jiang," he began carefully, "you won the game tonight with that free throw after the 2+1. But may I ask—why didn't you take a three-pointer on that final possession? Were you trying to force overtime?"
Jiang Chen didn't hesitate. "Everything was under my control," he said evenly. "I never thought about overtime. When I drove into the paint, I was going for a 2 + 1."
The room went silent for a beat. Then came the confused murmurs, the exchanged looks, the inevitable disbelief.
Was he serious?
Even veteran reporters, hardened by years of postgame bravado, found themselves staring at him blankly.
A 2 + 1? On purpose?
Forget that Jiang Chen was a rookie — even Michael Jordan would hesitate to call that kind of play intentional. A drive against the league's top defender, in the closing seconds of an elimination game, with the championship hanging in the balance… and he claimed he had planned it down to the foul?
Ridiculous. Impossible.
Most of them wrote it off immediately as coincidence. It had to be.
He must have been lucky enough to draw contact and somehow finish through it. That kind of shot wasn't "control" — it was chaos dressed as destiny.
Kobe, sitting beside him, glanced over. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between admiration and disbelief. He'd made his share of game-winners, shots that would live forever in highlight reels. But to control a play like that—to deliberately bait a foul and complete the finish against Kevin Garnett—was beyond even his comfort zone.
It was hard for him to believe too.
Still, this was Jiang Chen's night. His first major interview since joining the Lakers. Let him have it.
Kobe smiled faintly to himself and said nothing.
Across the table, the reporters shook their heads in quiet amusement. Jiang Chen, however, remained calm. He could see the skepticism on every face. He didn't mind.
"You can always go ask Garnett," he added casually. "He was there. Maybe his answer will convince you."
That caught their attention immediately.
The atmosphere shifted. Pens and cameras twitched back to life.
Garnett.
Of course. The man who had made the foul, the one closest to the moment. If anyone knew whether Jiang Chen had planned it, it would be him.
Several reporters exchanged glances, already preparing to sprint to the Celtics' media room after this.
Before they could press further, another question came.
"Jiang, because of your performance, the Lakers pulled off the largest comeback in Finals history—thirty-three points—and forced a Game 7. What are your expectations for the deciding game?"
Jiang Chen looked straight into the sea of cameras. His voice was calm, but his tone carried the weight of certainty.
"Without a doubt—the championship," he said. "I'll do everything to help the team defeat the Celtics and bring home the trophy."
The reporters froze again.
That quiet conviction—it wasn't loud or arrogant, but it radiated an aura none of them expected from a player who, until tonight, had been a benchwarmer.
Kobe glanced at him once more, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kid's confidence bordered on audacity—but it was real.
And after what everyone had just witnessed, no one in the room could entirely dismiss his words.