The stadium's energy trembled as Yang Yan stepped into position, staring down his opponent across the hardwood—none other than Kevin Durant.
The genius of the United States, Yang Yan thought, locking eyes with the lanky phenom.
This was exactly why he had crossed an ocean to join the NCAA.
To confront the best.
To battle giants.
Durant gave Yang Yan a cursory glance, noting the unfamiliar yellow-skinned player now standing across from him. His brows lifted—slightly curious, but ultimately unmoved.
A substitute? Durant scoffed internally. He can't be that good.
He didn't bother masking his ambition. Durant's eyes darted to his teammate Greg Oden, then back to the ball. This is my game to dominate, he assured himself. The title belongs to me.
After a brief timeout, substitutions were finalized. The game resumed, and the University of Texas's strategy became instantly clear: give Durant the ball. Again and again. He was the finisher. The alpha.
It was brutal basketball—but undeniably effective.
For five relentless minutes, Durant torched Yang Yan.
Four attacks. Three scores.
Efficient. Ruthless.
Durant's rhythm was cold-blooded.
On the sidelines, Coach Gallagher couldn't hide his satisfaction. His smirk widened with each basket.
Meanwhile, Yang Yan stood on the court—isolated, fuming—not once had his teammates passed him the ball.
Five minutes on the floor.
Zero touches.
Basketball wasn't like football, where a striker could disappear for ten minutes and still be part of the game. This was five-on-five—and right now, Ohio State was playing four-on-five.
Yang Yan clenched his fists. The sting wasn't just being sidelined. It was something deeper.
He could feel the weight of judgment.
Of being "other."
Even with Yao Ming's pathbreaking NBA career, certain prejudices hadn't vanished. Yang Yan was tasting them first-hand.
Fine, he thought, if I can't count on anyone—then I'll go solo.
A missed shot.
The basketball clanged off the rim and bounced high into the air.
Yang Yan sprang into action.
He moved like a bolt from a bowstring—his leap commanding, his reach defiant.
He snatched the rebound from above the crowd, hands like magnets. The moment he landed, Mike Conley shouted for the ball.
"Yo! Over here!"
But Yang Yan didn't even glance his way. Why give it to you? I earned this.
He turned and bolted toward the opposing half.
The crowd gasped.
The burst of speed was startling. One blink and defenders were in his wake. Two blinks and he was already outside the arc.
Coach Gallagher's smirk twisted into a twitch.
Fast, he admitted, shockingly fast.
But speed alone didn't impress him.
Gallagher scoffed. This is nothing but amateur flash. No real player would accelerate so recklessly.
A sudden sprint like that could easily spiral into an offensive foul. It lacked control. Rhythm. Professional instinct.
Across the court, Durant recognized the move instantly.
He planted himself firmly at the free throw line—poised, ready.
Let the rookie crash, he thought, and I'll draw the foul.
Yang Yan, now hurtling at full speed, felt a stab of panic.
Too fast. I wasn't thinking. This'll be a disaster.
He saw Durant waiting. Arms out. Feet anchored. The whistle already in the referee's mouth.
And then…
A flicker.
A memory.
The skill I unlocked. Derrick Rose. No deceleration.
Yang Yan clenched his jaw. Now or never.
As Durant braced for impact, the spectators leaned in.
And then—
Yang Yan veered left.
A lightning-quick shift in momentum shot through his body—ankles, knees, core ignited.
No deceleration. No stumble.
His sneakers kissed hardwood, slicing through space, bypassing Durant's outstretched arms.
Durant barely reacted—too slow, too stunned.
Yang Yan surged past.
One step.
Two.
Lift.
Above the rim.
Boom!
A thunderous one-handed dunk slammed through the hoop. The gym erupted.
Silence.
Then chaos.
💬 "WHAT DID I JUST SEE?!" 💬 "Did he teleport?!" 💬 "That wasn't a move—that was sorcery!" 💬 "Someone tell me how that directional change even happened!" 💬 "He broke Durant's ankles AND reality!" 💬 "Okay okay… maybe that 'Dragon Kingdom genius' nickname wasn't a joke..."
The live-stream chat exploded on the other side of the world.
Fans gasped. Critics froze.
Doubters found their confidence cracking.
Meanwhile, Gallagher stood rooted on the sideline, jaw tight.
Unlike most in the audience, he had seen exactly what happened.
Yang Yan hadn't slowed down.
He had changed direction in full sprint—a feat Gallagher, in all his years coaching, had never seen before.
Normally, any directional shift required rhythm adjustment—a microsecond of slowdown, a calculated hesitance.
Everyone did it.
But Yang Yan didn't.
It was like watching someone rewrite physics in sneakers.
Gallagher's fingers twitched. His chest tightened.
What just happened…?
Who exactly is this kid?
And Yang Yan?
He simply jogged back to his half, expression calm—like the court was his.
Like this wasn't just a play.
It was a message.