NBA: Northeast China's spectacular dunks sweep the entire league.

The three-game winning streak had the entire Golden State Warriors team basking in a honey pot, but hidden within this honey was the increasingly sour face of Eric Dampier.

Lin Hao knew perfectly well that this big guy was bound to explode sooner or later, if not today, then tomorrow. Winning could cover up all the problems, but it was only a cover-up; the longer the boil was kept hidden, the more thoroughly it would rot in the future.

The plane had barely landed in Auckland when the salty smell from the sea hadn't even dissipated, and the locker room was already warm enough to start a fire.

Dampier's two-meter-tall bulge was like a giant roadblock blocking the doorway, forcing anyone to squeeze past him. He had just finished showering and hadn't even changed his clothes properly; he was shirtless, revealing his shiny black muscles, and slammed the cabinet with "Left-handed Duncan" printed on it with a deafening crash.

"Damn it!" he roared, his voice like thunder, startling Richardson who had just entered the room.

Dampier clutched the statistics sheet in his hand, the paper trembling in his grip—not out of fear, but out of anger. Three games, averaging 3 points and 4 rebounds. What the hell was this? He, Eric Dampier, used to be a one-man show with the Warriors, averaging 12 points and 12 rebounds per game. Even if he won an All-Star game on a bad team, he was still an All-Star! Now, in Lin Hao's "seven-seconds-or-leaves offense," he'd become a superfluous decoration, an expensive utility pole used to take up space.

"Is this a ball game or a track and field competition?" Dampier suddenly turned around, his bull-like eyes fixed on Lin Hao. Lin Hao was slowly untying his shoelaces, not even raising his head, as if the big guy was throwing a tantrum at thin air.

"I was boxing out inside, practically punching my guts out, making that white center look like a woman. I just reached out, I wanted the ball! And what did I get?" Dampier slammed the stat sheet on the ground, pointing to the assist numbers. "Lin Hao, why didn't you pass it to me?! Even just a thin ball? Do you even see the paint anymore, besides the three-point line?"

The locker room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Zhao Dabao huddled in a corner, munching on a bag of potato chips, not daring to make a sound. Richardson tried to break up the fight, but Dampier shoved him away: "Jason, don't try to persuade me! This isn't fair! He's the boss, what he says goes! This tactic is 'Northeast Independence,' not 'Northeast Sniper'!"

That's a really hurtful thing to say.

Lin Hao paused for a moment while untying his shoelaces, then resumed. He looked up, his eyes calm as a deep pool, devoid of anger, instead carrying a cold indifference as if scrutinizing livestock. He didn't speak, but simply took out a bag of canned yellow peaches from his bag, which Zhang Qingying had specially sent him; the glass jars reflected the light.

With a "smack," Lin Hao slammed the can into Dampier's cabinet, right on top of the messy pile of protective gear.

"Eat if you want, or get lost." Lin Hao's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the straightforwardness typical of Northeasterners, along with a hint of impatience. "Stop nagging behind my back. If you're so capable, use your skills to take the ball back. Who do you think you are? Shaq or Duncan? You're just a telephone pole that can't outrun a dog or jump as fast as a cat."

That's worse than slapping him across the face.

Dampier's face instantly turned from black to red, then from red to purple. His chest heaved violently, his muscles tense as if they were about to explode. But he didn't dare to make a move. The image of Lin Hao's defense making it difficult for him to even catch the ball during yesterday's intra-team practice match was still vivid in his mind. That kid was ruthless; if it really came down to it, his muscles might not be enough.

"Fine, Lin Hao, you've got guts." Dampier gritted his teeth, squeezing out these words. "You wait and see how long you can keep up this act. When you face a physical team like the Spurs or Timberwolves, let's see what you do then! Don't come begging me for a putback then!"

He slammed the door and left, the loud noise causing the plaster to crumble.

Just then, Payton strolled over with a toothpick in his mouth, patted Lin Hao on the shoulder, and said with a hint of schadenfreude, "Kid, you've really messed him up. This big black guy is really petty. Just you wait, it won't be long before this gets all over the league. You've really stirred up the pot in the locker room."

Lin Hao took off his other shoe and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, finding it surprisingly comfortable. "So what if he's a bit of a jerk?" he said nonchalantly. "As long as we win, what's wrong with being a little jerk? If he were capable, like you, Uncle Payton, back in the day, making the other team question their existence, then of course I'd feed him the ball. But what about him now? He gets out of breath after just a few steps, and he leaves his man open on defense. If I were to give him the ball, it would be a crime, a desecration of winning."

This is Lin Hao's basketball philosophy: ruthless, pragmatic, and even somewhat cold-blooded. In his view, there is no seniority on the basketball court, only the ability to play. Dampier lived in the dream of the 1990s post-up game, while Lin Hao wanted the ultimate space in the 21st century. These two things are inherently contradictory.