Melo's face flushed with rage. He glared at Luke, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
Luke maintained a dry, indifferent tone. "Of course I do. A loser who can't claw his way out of the West? A lone wolf who shot barely 40% in the Conference Finals? A 'team leader' who got absolutely dismantled by Kobe?"
"You—"
Melo clenched his fists. Every word felt like a slap to the face, and for a split second, he genuinely wanted to step forward and flatten this kid. But he caught himself. Commissioner David Stern was obsessed with the league's image lately; if a superstar punched a draft prospect and the news leaked, Stern would make the Nuggets' lives a living hell next season.
He forced his breath to steady. "Anyone can run their mouth," Anthony said coldly. "Idan told me you're a college kid in this year's draft. Come back and talk to me when you're actually in the league and averaging 25 a night."
He sneered, adding, "Besides, can Asians even play? In all these years, there's only been Yao, and he only made it because he's a giant. I seriously doubt you've got the goods."
A cold glint flashed in Luke's eyes. Normally, he might have swung back, but this was a basketball court. He didn't need his fists to settle this.
"Then let's go," Luke said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I'll show you exactly how 'good' I am."
"You take the ball first," Melo said, firing a chest pass at Luke with unnecessary force. The ball traveled so fast that Luke's palms stung upon impact. "Let's see how strong a draft-bound Asian really is."
Luke caught it, then immediately fired it back just as hard. He shook his head. "You take it. I don't need to score to beat you."
On the outside, Luke looked like the ultimate stoic. On the inside, he was panicking. Me, take the offensive? After only two weeks of training, he could barely keep his handle steady under pressure. If a tank like Melo bumped him, he'd cough up the ball instantly. His only choice was to force Melo into a defensive battle and rely on Tony Allen's legendary lockdown skills.
Melo gave a mocking laugh. "Fine by me!"
He caught the ball, checked it to Luke, and received it back. He settled into his signature triple-threat stance. Despite the trash talk, Luke locked in. He knew Melo was a scoring machine who could drop 22 points in his sleep; underestimating him was a death sentence.
Melo scanned Luke's stance. He noticed Luke stood with his feet parallel—a smart move that allowed him to shadow a drive to either side. Clever, Melo thought, but he's too focused on the stance. He's sagging. I can shoot right over him.
Confident, Melo rose for a jumper.
But the moment he left the floor, Luke's long arm snapped upward. It wasn't just a contest; it was a "hand-in-the-face" defense. Luke's palm essentially blotted out the sun. Blinded and caught off guard by the sheer length of Luke's reach, Melo's shot was rushed.
Clang!
The ball rattled off the front of the rim. As the sound echoed through the gym, a notification chimed in Luke's mind:
[System Alert: Detected Host is training with an NBA All-Star. Training Multiplier increased by x4!]
Luke's heart soared. The system was incredible! One-on-one with Melo counted as training, triggering the 4x All-Star bonus. Combined with his [Unique Nightclub Prince] reward—the 20x card—his current multiplier was a staggering 80x!
According to the system logic, training with a regular pro gave 2x, an All-Star gave 4x, a Superstar 8x, and a Hall of Famer 16x. If he could somehow get MJ to play him, he'd be looking at a 320x boost.
Luke's eyes practically turned into dollar signs. He looked at Melo again, but he didn't see a superstar anymore. He saw a Tool. A high-quality, 80x-multiplier-generating tool.
If he didn't squeeze every drop of value out of Carmelo Anthony during this camp, he wouldn't be a worthy system host.
"I guess NBA players aren't all they're cracked up to be," Luke remarked, his voice dripping with venomous trash talk even as he mentally celebrated.
Melo bit his lip, frustrated. He was shocked by Luke's wingspan. He hadn't even seen the hand coming before his vision went black. It was a suffocating, annoying style of defense—the kind where you're constantly worried about getting poked in the eye, forcing a split-second flinch.
"Hmph. Don't get cocky, kid. That was a warm-up."