Chapter One: The Decisive Strike That Heralded the Age of Kings

Apart from time itself, he had no other opponent. He could not halt the flow of time, but he had made time remember his name.

In the words of the commentator, when he made his move, at that moment, he forgot who he was and did not know who he would become. He reminded fans of many familiar figures, left them no time to count how many records he had broken, and stirred their anticipation for the records yet to be shattered—above all, that ultimate glory: the championship.

Do you know who holds the NBA record for most three-pointers in a single quarter? Do you know the single-game three-point record? The record for points in a quarter? Or that “T-Mac moment” when, in 35 seconds, 13 points were scored to move the heavens? Have you witnessed those wild NBA comebacks with a 20-point deficit in the final moments? Distant? Not at all! Let him show you what the NBA means, what a miracle is, what a legend truly is!

This city had a history of lackluster basketball crowds. Disappointment, disappointment! Fans dreamed, were let down, again and again. Now, a 20-point gap—with so few spectators to begin with, most had already left because of that number, leaving only a scattering of people around the arena, perhaps even those few remaining wore wry smiles.

Coach Nelson was still shouting on the sidelines, but before such a deficit, he seemed utterly powerless—everyone knew there was no hope left. The coach, of course, knew best. Usually, he rarely shouted; his style was laissez-faire, letting players play with freedom. But for him to shout now, it meant he’d lost all hope for this game.

The whistle blew. Both sides made substitutions. It was garbage time—the moment to let those who rarely played run down the clock. The outcome was clear. The Lakers’ Kobe hadn’t played at all in the fourth quarter; there was simply no need. The Lakers were down to just one starter left on the court, their point guard Farmar. For the Warriors, the forwards subbed out Jobs and X, while the main point guard Curry sat, replaced by Lin Fei. Wearing number 43, hailing from China, Lin Fei looked particularly short on the court, and perhaps even a little nervous. It was understandable: he’d been with the team for 43 games, but had only played a total of three minutes, scoring just three points from a single three-pointer.

Time showed vividly on the scoreboard: 3:00—just 180 seconds left. The score: 90 to 110. Three minutes could be enough for a miracle, but now they faced the Lakers, a perennial powerhouse.

Lin Fei caught the ball. The Lakers players played half-court defense—even the Lakers’ point guard was near midcourt! Coach Nelson watched his players with a blank expression, as did Lakers coach Jack, though Jack was at ease, knowing he was another step closer to the league’s 70-win record.

Losing was disappointing for the team, but Lin Fei’s heart was a mixture of emotions. He had another chance to play—some excitement, a bit of bewilderment. Though a player should always be ready, he felt almost out of practice.

He caught the ball—his hand trembled slightly. Pressure—he had to prove himself with so few minutes to play, even in garbage time.

He dribbled. The ball moved—just a feeling, a rhythm honed by repetition, heartbeats, wrists, and footwork working in harmony. The feel of the ball made him forget what it was to be nervous.

The wind, the sound—it felt like flying across half-court.

There was no play called by the coach this time. What should he do? How to play? Six seconds passed. He dribbled, thinking. He was only about a meter from the three-point line—left side, 45 degrees. The Lakers’ point guard Farmar was on him, tight.

7, 8, 9—the clock counted down.

He decided to go for it: “Just take the shot.” That thought flashed through his mind.

Once, he’d played with absolute freedom, but in the NBA, he was nobody—not even a second-string substitute.

Thought and action became one in an instant.

He drove forward—a burst of speed, lightning quick. Farmar wasn’t slow, retreating to cut off the drive to the free-throw line. But in an instant, he realized something was wrong. Lin Fei’s speed was something he’d never seen before. Behind-the-back dribble—Lin Fei pulled back, so fast that Farmar lost his balance. Lin Fei caught the ball with his left hand, leapt high, cradled the ball at eye level, left hand steady, right hand unleashed—a flick—spinning up, a high arc—

Swish! The ball went in, nothing but net.

Farmar was stunned. Who was this kid?

On the Warriors’ bench, the main players leapt up, fists pumping. Brilliant! An absolutely spectacular three-pointer! The coach, too, was momentarily dumbfounded—“Kid, you can’t play like that even in garbage time!” Even though the shot went in, it was pure luck, no strategy at all. Then again, he thought, let it be—this is rookie training time.

Still 17 points behind. 2:50 to go.

Lakers inbounded, backcourt. Warriors retreated—three near midcourt, two guards, Lin Fei and Keynes, up front. Bynum, Lakers’ power forward, prepared to pass to Farmar, who was close by after just guarding Lin Fei. The moment the ball was out, Bynum sensed something wrong—Lin Fei had anticipated the pass, surged forward, intercepted. The ball was loose—Farmar tried to recover, and almost at the same time, both scrambled, sending it out of bounds.

Whistle. Warriors’ ball—home court, a close call, but normal.

The Warriors’ reserve forward Yoni inbounded. Farmar, possibly frustrated, stuck tight to Lin Fei—“You little punk!” A long pass went to Keynes, a swingman rookie—high draft pick, unlike Lin Fei, who was a low second-rounder.

Keynes caught the ball near the three-point line, attacked under pressure. The defender stayed close, disrupting his rhythm. Farmar stepped in to help, but Keynes, with great vision, made a behind-the-back pass to Lin Fei outside the arc. Lin Fei caught it, didn’t hesitate—wide open three-pointer, his specialty.

Beautiful curve—swish!

2:35 left, 14-point gap.

Two possessions—Lakers gave up six points in 25 seconds. Any other coach would call timeout and sub, but not Jackson—a coach with ten championship rings, whose confidence no one else could match, not even the legendary “Red Master.” Some say luck was on his side: six seasons with the Bulls and the godlike Jordan, then the dream duo of O’Neal and Kobe, and later, a seasoned Kobe with a superstar lineup.

The game continued. Lakers inbounded, Farmar brought it up, killed time—point guards are the brains, controlling rhythm and tempo. Lin Fei defended, tried to steal, but fouled. No free throws yet, play resumed. At 18 seconds, Farmar broke through, muscled past Lin Fei, who couldn’t physically keep up, but stayed close, forced Farmar near the foul line—mid-range shot missed, Warriors rebounded, passed to Lin Fei in transition. Lin Fei pushed the ball up—no gap in the transition, his speed almost unmatched in the league.

He quickly reached the three-point line. This time, Farmar stuck tightly after being caught earlier—just a small step behind. Lin Fei didn’t drive in—he knew it was a good chance, with his speed he could finish at the rim, but he hesitated. In this league, so many freak athletes, such a height disadvantage—he didn’t dare. Besides, he was a rookie.

But three-point shooting was his absolute strength.

He stopped abruptly, barely settled. Farmar leapt from behind, trying to block. Lin Fei saw him, paused, rose with Farmar’s hand in his face—at least a foul was likely, but the shot went up too strong, hit the backboard—

Bang—swish! The ball dropped in.

The arena erupted like a flash flood, hard to believe for a venue that wasn’t even full. Both benches exploded. Gorgeous! Many were awestruck by the shot. The commentator kept repeating, “Oh, my God!” The entire bench stood, yelling, pounding their chests. That shot ignited everyone in the arena, possibly the entire city.

Jackson hurried to call timeout—even he, usually so composed, was shaken. Farmar was a seasoned player; he shouldn’t have made such mistakes. Maybe the previous play rattled him. And this no-name, wild little guy—such irrational play could not be underestimated.

Jackson adjusted, subbing out Farmar for Kobe—the Lakers’ core, the league’s most potent scorer, a former Defensive Player of the Year, once hailed as the planet’s greatest basketball player. Only LeBron could rival his skill, but not his achievements. The coach’s intention was clear: Kobe as point guard, to contain Lin Fei, control the Warriors’ perimeter, and lessen defensive pressure through Kobe’s offense to secure victory.

2:08 left, score 99–110.

The Warriors went to the line. Nelson sent starters Jobs, X, and Curry back in, keeping Keynes and Lin Fei. A dual-point guard setup—he wanted to attack from outside. Nelson had hope again.

Free throw—good! Lin Fei had scored ten points in 52 seconds.

Score: 100–110, two minutes left.

Lakers inbounded. Kobe brought up the ball, Keynes on defense—coach’s strategy: full-court press.

Lin Fei finally had the chance to face Kobe, his idol. Long ago, he’d dreamed of a photo and autograph from Kobe, but now he stood with him on the same court. He wanted to guard Kobe, but knew he wasn’t up to it—and had to follow orders.

Kobe’s presence alone steadied the team. Keynes dared not relax—he knew who stood before him.

Kobe dribbled across half-court, slowed down, ran clock—20 seconds gone. He accelerated, spun, left Keynes behind, then faced Lin Fei help-side due to the zone. He forced his way in, bodying Lin Fei into the restricted area, leapt, squared to the rim, both hands on the ball—right side layup, ignoring Lin Fei. Jobs rotated over to contest, but Kobe, with his hang-time, pulled off a difficult reverse, switched to his left, and banked it in—so smooth, so beautiful. A highlight reel play, no doubt. Twenty-three seconds gone. The crowd gasped—no wonder he was a superstar. In a flash, Lin Fei’s 10 points seemed erased, the Warriors’ faint hopes dashed.

Lin Fei looked at Kobe—one of the planet’s greatest. Entered the league in ’96, three-time scoring champ, 81 points in a game, five championships, regular season MVP, All-Star MVP, Finals MVP—behind every honor, relentless effort. Few could rival him in today’s league; perhaps only LeBron, but his accolades fell short.

Suddenly, Lin Fei felt an overwhelming urge—to score, and do it before his idol.

Lin Fei received the ball.

1:46 left, score 100–112.

He sprinted downcourt—far from the rim, about 10 meters out—jump shot!

Maybe his mind short-circuited. All his teammates stood up.

“That’s not how you play basketball!” everyone knew, yet his teammates watched hopefully.

Swish—the ball dropped in.

Kobe stared blankly at the skinny kid, this rookie, this nobody.

1:38 left, score 103–112.

It had been so long since Kobe felt such a burning urge to score. Now, he pursued victory; personal scoring outbursts belonged to his younger days. Yet this kid’s scoring ability, his lust for points—it reminded him of his own youth. It had been a very long time since any player dared score so wildly in his presence.

Now, on this court, this kid rekindled his hunger to win.

Kobe brought the ball up. Passed to the big men—Lakers’ frontcourt was stacked: Gasol, Odom, Bynum. But now, mostly reserves—only Bynum remained, once heralded as the Lakers’ future. He posted up Jobs, spun, hooked—missed. X snagged the rebound. As X grabbed it, Lin Fei was already sprinting ahead. But Kobe followed, this time not to be caught off guard—their strides nearly matched. Lin Fei had no chance to receive the ball.

Keynes dribbled up. Lin Fei retreated to his own half, unguarded. Keynes passed to him; Lakers’ players hesitated, betting he couldn’t stay hot forever—unless…

Lin Fei caught the ball, sprinted ahead. Kobe turned, sensed trouble—Lin Fei, nearly two meters away, leapt—a deep three. Kobe instinctively leapt to challenge, but was too far, couldn’t touch the ball.

The arena held its breath.

The ball seemed to hang in the air.

Lin Fei landed, face alight with joy—he clenched his fist. Confidence, long and sorely missed, surged through him.

Swish—the crowd exploded.

Teammates rushed to tousle his hair, overjoyed.

The coach, players, fans—all overwhelmed, everyone on their feet, jumping, nearly forgetting they were still losing.

The camera caught Kobe—some helplessness, some awe, and a flash of anger.

In his long career, no one had ever scored like this in his face. No one. Now he was angry. Around the league, it was said: never anger Kobe. An angry Kobe was unstoppable.

1:02 left, score 106–112.

Jackson had to call timeout, bringing back his starters—all because of Lin Fei’s madness.

Still, it was Kobe. League GMs once voted: in a game’s final shot, who do you want taking it? Over seventy percent said Kobe. The bigger the moment, the more he delivered. Clutch shots, game-winners—he was the ultimate closer.

Now, tactics were as crucial as talent. Nelson gestured, laid out his plan. On camera, Lin Fei looked almost incredulous at his own position.

Kobe brought up the ball—full-court press, no fouls. Across half-court, Warriors switched to a zone—a strange choice at this moment, since everyone knew Kobe trusted himself most in clutch time. This shot, it was eighty percent certain, would be his. He drove right, faked, spun, Lin Fei rotated over, Kobe dribbled behind his back, right side, pulled up—so easy over Lin Fei. Swish—a clutch basket.

In a flash, Lin Fei’s 16 points seemed wiped away. One had to marvel—Kobe was Kobe.

114–106, 39 seconds left.

Now everyone knew who would get the next shot. Yet there was hesitation. He wasn’t a superstar, not even a star, but now he bore the weight of one. Opponents, teammates, coaches, fans, commentators—even those watching on TV—waited to see what he’d do. Again, he got the ball—he’d grown so familiar with the court in just two minutes.

“Double! Double!” Jackson shouted. Kobe stubbornly guarded Lin Fei, whose small frame looked even smaller beside him. Do you know Allen Iverson? Once Kobe’s peer, a four-time scoring champ, league MVP, two-time All-Star MVP. In his day, his drives were unguardable, his scoring rare even in the NBA. In Lin Fei’s speed you could glimpse Iverson; though all Lin Fei’s points came from deep, his skills could shake the league—small, fast, superb balance.

Lin Fei burst forward, crossing half-court, behind-the-back dribbles, spins—almost toying with Kobe. Not to show off, but to find a chance—even a sliver of open space near midcourt. Perhaps too selfish, but sometimes, that’s just how the game is played.

No chance—because facing him was Kobe: the league’s most aggressive scorer, one of its finest perimeter defenders. But “no chance” only means the odds are low. For most, impossible; for a star, not so.

Lin saw no opening, tried to shake his defender, but Kobe was glued to him. X stepped up to set a screen—whether by design or reading the play, in that instant, a sliver of space opened. Lin Fei rose, almost brushing past X, released the ball, clenched his fist before it even landed—another three!

The arena fell silent, just for a moment—the commentator, “Oh, no!” Nineteen points in 150 seconds—a monstrous feat.

Timeout. The camera focused on Kobe—helpless, but his desire to win undimmed. When was the last time he wanted to score like this? The year he won the scoring title? The championship runs? It had been so long since he’d felt such a fire—since his team became strong, he rarely needed to attack so relentlessly. Now, this kid had reignited his competitive spirit, his championship heart. At this point, tactics were meaningless. For the Lakers, the goal was to run out the clock—no turnovers. For the Warriors, go for the steal; if not, foul—anything to buy time.

Score: 109–114, 26 seconds left. Lakers’ ball.

This game had already produced miracles. Now, for the Warriors, winning hardly mattered—they had gained so much already. On and off the court, it showed. Since the season began, they’d never been so united, so determined, never fought so hard. Now, they could pursue a higher state—enjoying the game itself.

Bynum inbounded, Warriors locked onto every receiver, believing in miracles—hoping to make one. But Artest still caught it for the Lakers. Lin Fei immediately fouled.

Free throws—now every player’s nerves were taut as strings. Two crucial shots—a true test of a player’s mettle.

First shot—good. The Warriors’ hearts sank.

The second—everyone held their breath…