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

To put it bluntly, this was an execution.

It wasn't a competition or a training session; it was just dragging that self-important "big tree" under the chainsaw and pulling it back and forth until it couldn't even shake its leaves anymore.

Lin Hao felt no guilt whatsoever, really, not at all. Some people, if you don't beat them up, they'll always think they're just ornamental trees in a garden, forgetting they're actually woodcutters.

The training hall's overhead lights were blindingly bright, reflecting off the floor. The air was thick with the pungent smells of sweat, magnesium powder from anti-slip powder, and Dampier's own resentful, sour odor, all mingling together to give one a headache.

Lin Hao pulled his wristband up a bit, revealing a wide grin without his braces, showing off a set of white teeth that gleamed coldly under the light. Across from him, Dampier, that two-meter-tall, dark-skinned giant, was stiffening his neck like a wild bull being hunted, his eyes fierce yet revealing a hint of barely perceptible panic. When he was spouting those tough words earlier, this guy was pretty imposing, but now that he was actually standing here, his legs were probably starting to cramp.

"Watch closely, everyone," Lin Hao said, not looking at Dampier, but scanning his teammates sitting on the sidelines. They were all craning their necks, watching like it was a monkey show. Even Payton had taken a toothpick out of his mouth, ready to properly appreciate how this "Northeast Big Spray" was pruning branches. "Today I won't teach anything else, just teach this big guy what a 'moving Great Wall' is, and what a 'living target' is."

"Damn it!" Dampier couldn't stand the contempt. He roared and slammed the ball onto the floor with a thud like a ramming hammer.

The scrimmage began. Coach Musselman gave a symbolic whistle, his voice slightly weak. He knew this was serious and things were getting out of control.

Dampier got the ball and backed down his opponent. This was his comfort zone, his pride and joy. Taking advantage of his weight, he started to push his way in. Once, twice, three times. He thought he could easily push Lin Hao aside, like pushing open a broken door.

As a result, he crashed into a wall. Not one of those heavy, lifeless concrete walls, but a steel plate wall with springs.

Lin Hao's lower body was ridiculously stable, his core muscles taut like an iron plate. Every time Dampier exerted force, he would only take a slight half step back, then immediately push back. It felt like punching a sack full of sand, the recoil making your hands go numb.

"Is that all the effort you've got?" Lin Hao whispered in his ear, his voice low but like a mosquito buzzing into his brain, "This isn't a back-to-back one-on-one game, it's like a young woman getting married—putting all her strength into it for the first time! Did you get that All-Star trophy by slashing prices on Pinduoduo?"

Dampier panicked and tried to turn around. He'd used this move for ten years, and it always worked. But just as his pivot foot was about to turn, Lin Hao moved. The speed was too fast; it was something a two-meter-tall guard couldn't do. Lin Hao was like a slippery snake, instantly cutting in from the side, not to steal the ball, but to cut directly between Dampier's wrist and the basketball.

"Snapped!"

With a crisp sound, the ball flew away.

The entire room fell into a deathly silence.

Dampier stood frozen, staring at his empty hands. In that brief struggle, he felt as if his wrist had been clamped by iron pincers; it still burned with pain.

"What are you standing there for? Pick up the ball!" Lin Hao shouted from the other end of the line, already running to the frontcourt.

This is Lin Hao's counterintuitive logic. When others defend against a back-to-the-basket shot, they simply hold their ground and prevent the ball from going in. Lin Hao doesn't do that; he wants to make you suffer, to make you question your existence every second you have the ball. He's not defending; he's performing a kind of performance art called "humiliation." He wants Dampier to understand that in this fast-paced era, Dampier's slow, deliberate finishing move is a joke.

The next few minutes became a nightmare for Dampier.

On offense, Lin Hao gave Dampier no chance to breathe. He crossed half-court, barely even running plays, simply raising his hand for the ball a meter beyond the three-point line. Dell Curry reluctantly passed the ball to him.

Lin Hao received the ball, didn't even look at Dampier, and pulled up for a jump shot.

"Swish!" The object went into the net without being hit.

Dampier was still slowly retreating when the ball went in. He glanced back, his expression as if he were looking at an alien.

"Big Tree, hurry up!" Lin Hao shouted from the other end, with a hint of teasing. "Your retreat speed is so slow, I'm starting to wonder if you're sleepwalking on the court! Did you sneak off to practice your Toad Kung Fu under the Golden Gate Bridge last night?"

His teammates couldn't hold it in any longer, and someone burst out laughing. This was absolutely devastating. This wasn't playing basketball anymore; it was a relentless assault on Dampier's dignity.

Dampier, his eyes red, rushed forward to block the shot. Lin Hao didn't shoot this time; he moved. With a wide crossover, the ball spun like a plate glued to his hand. Dampier's center of gravity was thrown off balance, and he crashed heavily to the floor like a refrigerator that had lost its balance, making a loud "bang."

"Ouch!" Dampier winced in pain.

Lin Hao dribbled into the penalty area, easily making his way up, and glanced at Dampier on the ground, adding, "This floor's pretty slippery, Big Tree, how come you have a built-in wrestling skill set?"

That's the difference. It's not just about technique, it's about basketball IQ. Dampier lives in a two-dimensional plane, only knowing straight-line sprints and back-to-the-basket moves. Lin Hao lives in three-dimensional space, calculating angles, speeds, and gravity.

At halftime, the score was an absurd 65-30.

Dampier's group, the so-called "starters," were completely overwhelmed by Lin Hao's group of substitutes. Dampier himself had a dismal stat line of 2 points, 1 rebound, 5 turnovers, and 3 fouls.

He sat on the ground, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his chin onto the floor, forming a small puddle. He looked at Lin Hao, who was leisurely juggling a ball beyond the three-point line, not even breaking a sweat. That nonchalant demeanor was more despairing than any mockery.

"I...I'm not playing anymore!" Dampier slammed his wristband to the ground like a spoiled child. "I can't play like this! He fouled! He kept pulling on my clothes!"

"Foul?" Lin Hao walked over, bent down to pick up the wristband, weighed it in his hand, and said in a flat tone, as if he were talking about the weather, "Big Tree, Big Tree. How come you've learned to tattle? Who said they were going to get 10 points? This is nothing! And you're already down?"

Lin Hao crouched down, looking Dampier straight in the eye. His eyes held no victor's smugness, only a cold indifference born of worldly wisdom. "Do you know why you can't get the ball? It's not that I don't pass it, it's that you can't catch it. Even if I shoved the ball in your mouth, with your reaction speed, it'd probably get stuck in your throat."

Those words were so harsh; it was like stabbing Dampier in the heart.

"You...you're bullying me!" Dampier managed to choke out these words after a long pause, his eyes even turning a little red. Not from being moved, but from feeling aggrieved.

"Yes, I was bullying you." Lin Hao stood up, dusted off his hands, and said, "In the NBA, this is called survival of the fittest. If you think I'm bullying you, then go find the media and file a complaint. Let's see if anyone still believes your old 'I'm an All-Star' myth."

At this moment, everyone on the sidelines held their breath. Peyton walked over, not with his usual toothpick in his mouth, but unusually serious. He patted Dampier on the shoulder with considerable force, making Dampier flinch.