[SYNCHRONIZATION INITIALIZED]
[SYNCHRONIZATION TERMINATED]
[System has been activated]
Name: Su Feng
Nationality: Chinese
Age: 16
Height: 188 cm
Weight: 71 kg
Current proficiency: Recreational Level
Shooting: 28
Passing: 14
Jumping: 28
Power: 18
Scoring techniques equipped: None
Missed shots recorded: 1
Missed shots required to unlock the next level of the system: 15,000
Su Feng stared at the virtual image floating in front of him, completely stunned.
'A system? Is this my cheat code?'
Words like "System," "Missed shots," and "Scoring techniques" blinked across the display, yet none of them came with instructions.
"Hey! Can you at least give me a tutorial?" he muttered.
But then again, considering everything he had already experienced—time-traveling more than two decades into the past, being caught in a live shooting on the way to school—the sudden appearance of a basketball cheat didn't seem that shocking anymore.
Su Feng's greatest strength had always been his composure.
After a moment of reflection, he started to feel a flicker of hope.
Maybe, if he worked hard enough, he actually had a shot.
He smiled to himself. My name has "Feng" in it… maybe I really am destined to become the next Rukawa Kaede.
"Enter the NBA… become a basketball star… marry a rich, beautiful woman?" The thought gave him a strange, giddy excitement.
To test whether he was hallucinating or not, Su Feng picked up his ball and attempted a few more fadeaway shots.
Ding! Missed shot +1
Ding! Missed shot +1
Ding! Missed shot +1
Ding! Missed shot +1
He used to feel bitter every time his flashy combos failed to drop. But now, watching those missed shots stack up felt… oddly satisfying.
Nobody else could possibly understand the mix of joy and frustration surging through him.
He quickly discovered that calling out "System" in his head would bring the interface back, and a note at the bottom right confirmed only he could see it.
Unfortunately, it didn't seem to come with any instructions, menus, or guidance. He had to figure it out the hard way.
Soon enough, he noticed something important:
When he intentionally missed a shot, it didn't count.
"So I actually have to try… If I focus and still miss, it's recorded."
Typical. Even a cheat like this didn't come with shortcuts.
Su Feng let out a long breath and refocused on his form.
He went back to practicing.
Ding! Missed shot +1
Ding! Missed shot +1
Ding! Missed shot +1
…
"Fifteen thousand missed shots to reach the next level?!" Su Feng stared in disbelief. "And I'm only at 54? What happened—when did I start improving?"
He let out a heavy sigh. Somehow, he had started to develop an actual feel for the ball.
"Who am I even supposed to complain to right now?"
"All I want is to miss more shots…"
"I need misses—not progress!"
"Don't stop me now—I'm trying to be inefficient!"
His initial excitement was beginning to fade. 15,000 missed shots felt like a mountain. The system demanded failure, but his body was learning success.
Still, if there was one thing he could never get tired of, it was basketball.
If it had been anything else, he would've given up already. But not this.
He thought of Sakuragi Hanamichi and his claim of shooting 20,000 times a week.
"Maybe I really need to do the same," Su Feng muttered.
But even that might not be enough. The more he shot, the more his body corrected itself. Muscle memory kicked in. His form adjusted. His balance improved.
At this rate, he was going to start making everything.
So he started trying harder shots—adding more movement, more difficulty, trying to challenge himself just to miss.
And then someone spoke behind him.
"Nice form. But you're too slow. If you shoot like that a thousand times, I can block you a thousand times. And by the way, this is my court."
Su Feng turned.
And froze.
He wasn't scared—he was stunned.
Even with the younger face and the leaner frame, he recognized him instantly.
It was impossible not to.
Philadelphia. Twenty-six years ago.
The attitude, the voice, the presence—it was unmistakable.
Kobe Bryant.
Even at this age, he had that aura.
Fans would later say "8" represented belief and "24" was tireless dedication. The angel and the warrior of Los Angeles. He chased greatness like it was instinct.
Some joked the victory banner followed him even in practice gyms—with the help of an AC vent, maybe.
He was the NBA's all-time leader in missed field goals—but not because he failed.
Because he dared to shoot more than anyone else.
He left a mark on the game that no one could ignore.
If Steve Nash refined the no-look pass in the post-Magic Johnson era, Kobe perfected the look that said, "I'm not passing."
Fans called him The Mamba.
Su Feng had always admired him—not just for his scoring, but for his relentlessness.
He attempted 14,481 shots and missed many, but he never hesitated.
He was the spirit behind the 81-point game. The face of fearlessness. The embodiment of obsession, precision, and unrelenting pursuit of dominance.
His name was Kobe Bryant.
And Su Feng could never mistake him.
Because he wasn't just a fan.
He believed in everything Kobe stood for—his mindset, his discipline, his unshakable drive to compete.
Even now, part of him still felt like the events of the previous night were nothing more than a vivid hallucination.
After a long silence, Su Feng dropped his ball, stepped forward slowly, and reached out to gently pat Kobe's head.
"It's really you…" he murmured.
Kobe froze.
"…What's with the sudden affection?!"
Annoyed, Kobe slapped Su Feng's hand away and took a step back, eyes narrowed.
"I don't know who you are," he said firmly. "And I don't want to repeat myself. This is my court."
"Yes, yes! That's it! That attitude!" Su Feng beamed.
He was elated—not just because he'd run into someone familiar, but because he was standing in front of the person he admired most. It felt like fate had handed him a reason to fully embrace basketball again.
And just like that, Su Feng made his decision: he was going to go all-in on basketball.
But outwardly, he was composed.
"I don't see any sign that says this court belongs to you," he replied calmly.
Kobe blinked, then cracked a small smile. This guy was odd, but something about him was interesting.
"Alright," he thought. "He's got some nerve."
Then Su Feng spoke again, and this time, Kobe was left speechless.
"Young man," Su Feng said, eyes gleaming, "I can tell you're not ordinary. So if you want to prove this court is yours… I'll give you a chance. One-on-one. If you win, it's yours."
He smiled knowingly, waiting for Kobe's reaction.
Kobe just stared.
"Is this guy serious?"
A one-on-one?
Does he not know I'm the best in Philly at this?
Su Feng's challenge sounded absurd.
Was he just trying to get a moment with his idol? Was this his way of asking for an autograph?
Of course not.
Su Feng had a plan.
Just thirty minutes earlier, he had stumbled upon the only system note he'd seen so far:
"Missed shot count increases based on training intensity and game difficulty."
And now, he was going to test it.
Kobe might still be in high school, but he was already near the professional level. He would soon skip college and head straight for the NBA. He wasn't quite there yet, but he was close—easily above any typical high school player, and likely not far behind the NBA's lower tier.
If Su Feng could go one-on-one with someone like that, wouldn't the system recognize that his training had just reached a much higher level?
Wouldn't that generate far more missed shots toward his progress?
He gripped the ball tightly, his mind racing.
Let's see how far this system can go.
...
Although the Chinese teenager in front of him was acting strangely, Kobe didn't turn down the challenge when Su Feng asked for a one-on-one.
Of course he didn't. If he had, he wouldn't have been Kobe Bryant.
To Kobe, this was an opportunity to show this delusional kid what real basketball looked like. To put him in his place. To teach him what it meant to step onto someone else's court and issue a challenge without the skills to back it up.
And so, the inevitable happened.
An absolute thrashing unfolded on that public court near Philadelphia's Market Street.
21–0.
We won't go over the beatdown in detail. Just know this: Su Feng was completely dismantled.
Every shot he attempted was swatted away by Kobe like it was nothing. The only two that escaped Kobe's reach missed the rim by a wide margin.
When the game ended, even Kobe didn't know what to say.
"…That's it?"
At first, he'd assumed Su Feng was a serious player—someone worth going full speed against. But it quickly became obvious that Su Feng was little more than a park-level amateur.
Still, one thing caught Kobe off guard.
It wasn't Su Feng's skill. It was his mentality.
Just when Kobe was about to throw out a perfunctory "not bad" and leave, Su Feng looked up with gleaming eyes and said excitedly, "I don't accept that loss! I wasn't ready. Let's run it back. One-on-one again!"
Kobe stared at him, visibly confused.
Meanwhile, Su Feng was thrilled.
Because during their game, he had discovered something new about the system: blocked shots didn't count toward the missed shot total.
But more importantly—do you know how many missed shot points Su Feng earned from the two clean misses that actually left his hand?
Two thousand.
Yes, two missed shots had earned him 2,000 points.
It confirmed his theory.
As soon as their game started, he'd heard the system whisper coldly in his head:
"Training intensity has reached NBA level."
NBA level.
Su Feng had originally made a careful, slow-paced training plan for himself, designed to grind his way through low-level games. But with Kobe Bryant standing in front of him, that plan had just been thrown out the window.
He was now facing a living shortcut.
Kobe might only be in high school, but Su Feng knew his personality inside out. And he knew exactly how to provoke him.
Kobe wasn't going to turn down another game—especially not after being challenged like that.
Su Feng grinned.
"You think you won just now? Please. I wasn't even warmed up. What, you scared to go again?"
Kobe's weakness wasn't on the court—it was psychological. He was prideful. Stubborn. Easily baited. In that sense, he reminded Su Feng of a Hearthstone streamer he'd come to know years later named Abbot—someone who could never walk away from a challenge without biting back.
And at the end of the day, Kobe was still a teenager.
What 16-year-old boy could ignore a taunt like that?
Especially not this 16-year-old boy.
Su Feng still remembered the time he lost his first kiss, all because a girl leaned in and dared him with five words:
"Are you a man or not?"
It was a cruel lesson in adolescent psychology. A reminder that sometimes, words cut deeper than actions.
So Su Feng leaned in now, smirking.
"Are you a man or not? Or are you afraid to go one-on-one again?"
That did it.
Kobe's expression darkened. "Why would I be scared of you?"
He grabbed the ball and fired it back at Su Feng—hard. His body language said everything: Game on.
In Kobe's mind, this wouldn't take long. He'd beat Su Feng again, fast and even more decisively. That way, he'd leave no doubt about who the court belonged to.
So, just like that…
The second one-on-one began.
Before they began again, Su Feng raised a hand with a request.
"You're not allowed to block my shots."
Kobe gave him another confused look.
"…What?"
Su Feng crossed his arms and replied self-righteously, "Are you that scared of my deadly shooting touch? Blocking is a coward's move."
Kobe stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and passed the ball back without saying a word.
He didn't understand what this guy was trying to do. But fine—whatever.
And just like that, Kobe stopped blocking Su Feng's shots.
Of course, that didn't mean it became any easier.
Even without leaping to contest, Kobe's defense was suffocating. He moved his feet well, cut off angles, and anticipated every drive or pull-up Su Feng tried.
But what Kobe didn't know… was that Su Feng wasn't trying to score.
What Su Feng wanted was to miss. Repeatedly. Spectacularly.
He focused all his effort on attempting the most difficult, awkward, inefficient shots he could muster—runners from odd angles, spinning fadeaways, off-balance jumpers off the wrong foot.
And every time the ball clanged off the rim, Su Feng felt genuinely happy.
To him, the sound of the rim rejecting his shot was like music. Each miss meant more progress toward the system's requirements.
But when it came to defense, Su Feng didn't mess around.
He gave everything he had.
It wasn't every day you got to go head-to-head with Kobe Bryant, after all. Su Feng wanted to understand how far he really was from the NBA level.
The answer?
…Very far.
The difference between a professional and a casual player wasn't something that could be described casually. If Kobe was the sky, Su Feng was still crawling on the ground.
And yet, as their second one-on-one went on, Kobe found himself confused again.
Because while Su Feng couldn't stop anything, he defended like his life depended on it. The intensity was real. His focus, unshakable.
At first, Kobe hadn't planned to go all out. But eventually, Su Feng's attitude pulled him in. He started playing seriously—out of instinct, out of pride.
And that seriousness didn't go unnoticed.
At one point, after another wild miss, Su Feng beamed at him and said with complete sincerity, "You're really my little angel."
Kobe froze.
"…What did you just say?"
He stepped back, startled—and in that brief hesitation, Su Feng took the opportunity to rise up and shoot.
It was a turning point.
A spin of the hips. A leap with perfect rhythm. The ball left Su Feng's fingertips and traced a clean arc toward the hoop—
Swish.
The ball went straight through.
His first make after dozens of failed attempts.
Kobe narrowed his eyes. He suddenly had the distinct feeling that he'd just been played.
Had all that weird talk been some kind of mind game?
He shook his head, but he couldn't help noticing something strange: Su Feng didn't look pleased.
Instead, he looked… disappointed.
Kobe was stunned.
You just scored on me. On Kobe Bryant.
Why do you look like you lost?
Am I a joke to you?
The second one-on-one ended with a predictable final score: 21–1.
As Kobe was getting ready to start his own training session, he heard that voice again behind him.
"Why? Are you backing down already? You seemed distracted out there. I'm disappointed in you. But hey, I'll forgive you… if you play me again."
Kobe's shoulders tensed.
Su Feng wasn't done.
"Hmm? Are you a man or not? Do you dare go again?"
"Come on, one more. I still don't accept defeat. Beat me until I surrender."
"Hmm? Don't tell me you're scared?"
Kobe blinked. "This guy…"
Su Feng pressed on, relentless.
"I was too careless just now. Give me another shot."
"Don't tell me… you're afraid?"
Kobe was starting to feel like he was being haunted.
Who keeps asking for one-on-ones like this?
What is this guy's problem?
Was Su Feng really the kind of lunatic who would keep losing until he somehow won?
How many years would that even take?
Although their matches weren't physically exhausting, Kobe couldn't keep playing forever. Even he would feel fatigue eventually.
Especially when the other guy played every possession like it was the Finals.
Toward the end, Kobe genuinely began to feel tired.
He even considered throwing a game—just one—just to make it stop.
But the moment the idea entered his mind, he shut it down.
Because he knew: if he lost even once, the kid in front of him would never let it go.
That mouth. That attitude.
No way.
He'd rather drop from exhaustion than hand Su Feng a reason to run his mouth.
And so…
The one-on-ones continued.
And Su Feng kept missing.
….
"Let's call it a day. I gotta go home for dinner."
Finally, after what felt like an endless string of one-on-ones, Kobe checked the time and realized it was already evening.
Normally, when he was pushing himself, Kobe lost all track of time. But today… for some reason, he had kept glancing at the watch he'd set aside near the baseline.
Su Feng looked genuinely disappointed.
Not because he lost—he was used to that by now—but because he was parting ways with what he considered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
A real, living cheat code.
Someone who could give him system points and happen to be the idol he'd admired his entire basketball life.
Of course, it wasn't just about farming progress.
Truthfully, Su Feng had enjoyed playing against Kobe more than he expected. It wasn't just training—it was fun.
Well… that, and—
"Damn! This missed shot count!" Su Feng suddenly exclaimed.
His eyes sparkled. He was thrilled.
Kobe raised an eyebrow. This guy was seriously strange.
And yet… watching Su Feng's disappointed expression as they packed up, Kobe felt something odd stir in his chest.
A twinge of guilt?
Wait, hold on.
Wasn't he the one who begged me for one-on-ones in the first place?
Why the hell should I feel bad?
He should be thanking me!
I'm the star of Lower Merion High School. The number one high school player in America. I spent my whole afternoon here playing with a guy who barely knows how to dribble.
Why would I feel like this?
"Will you come tomorrow?" Su Feng asked, looking at Kobe with a straight face.
Kobe hesitated.
"It still isn't clear who the winner is yet," Su Feng added seriously.
Kobe was speechless.
"Then it's settled! I'll wait for you here at 4 AM!" Su Feng declared cheerfully, not giving Kobe the slightest window to refuse. Before the stunned Bryant could respond, Su Feng had already turned and jogged off the court.
Kobe stood still.
What just happened?
Why is this guy acting like we're best friends?
And yet… something inside him held him back from dismissing it outright.
Then the words echoed in his mind again.
4 AM.
Who the hell trains at 4 AM?
Is he insane? It's freezing out here! Who does that to themselves? Only a lunatic would get up that early to train!
Kobe grumbled to himself. Have fun training by yourself at 4 AM.
And yet, even as he picked up his bag and turned to leave, something strange happened.
His mind replayed images from earlier—Su Feng's relentless defense, his terrible footwork, his stubborn effort, his strange yet sincere trash talk.
He really seems to love this game… Kobe thought.