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

If that nice guy Musselman is still around, he'll eventually drown in the Warriors' mess.

Lin Hao knew perfectly well that this coach was like thermal underwear in winter; it kept you warm, but if you wanted to go all out on the field, wearing that thing would just be a burden.

Ever since Dampier's big tree was pruned, Musselman's chair leg has been hanging by a thread. Everyone can see it, but he himself is still in the dark, spending his days studying his "defense wins championships" theory, like an old scholar living by an outdated calendar.

In the early morning in Oakland, before the fog had completely lifted, General Manager Mullin took off silently. Destination? Dallas. The operation was incredibly discreet; even Lin Hao only realized what was going on when he woke up and checked his phone, seeing a seemingly insignificant tweet saying the Warriors' general manager had appeared in Texas.

"Hey, this guy's pretty quick." Lin Hao muttered, toothbrush in hand, looking at his reflection in the mirror with his mouth full of foam. He wasn't surprised; in fact, he felt this should have been done a long time ago. Musselman's system, like the current Warriors team, was like gluing a cracked jar back together—it looked okay, but adding water would ruin it all.

Meanwhile, in the training hall, Coach Musselman was holding a tactics board, patiently explaining the importance of zone defense to several young players. His face was scrunched up like a walnut, and he was talking with great enthusiasm, spitting as he spoke.

"Remember, defense! Defense is fundamental!" Musselman pounded the blackboard, chalk dust falling everywhere. "As long as we limit our opponent's shooting percentage, even if we only score 70 points, we can still win! That's my philosophy!"

Peyton leaned against the wall, rolling his eyes as he listened. He took the toothpick from his hand, brought it close to Lin Hao's ear, and spoke in a low, mocking voice:

"Is this old man out of his mind? The whole league is running and shooting threes, and he's still going on about winning by 70 points? Does he think this is the 1970s? Lin, look at his whiteboard, all those circles and lines are more complicated than my grandma's knitting patterns. What's the point?"

Lin Hao didn't speak, he just looked at Musselman.

There was no malice in his eyes, but rather a hint of pity.

This is the cruelty of competitive sports. Sometimes it's not that you didn't try hard enough, but that you lived in the wrong era.

Musselman was like a knight with a lance who insisted on charging into the machine gun position and then complained that the other side lacked martial ethics.

This is Lin Hao's counterintuitive insight: sometimes, loyalty to tradition is not a virtue, but a disease. Musselman's loyalty to "defense wins championships" has become an obsession, blinding him to the abyss ahead. He thinks he's upholding principles, but he's actually committing slow suicide.

"Uncle Payton," Lin Hao rinsed his mouth and spat it out, "Don't say anything more. He's an old man, let him talk. Anyway, this is the last time he'll give us a lecture."

Payton paused for a moment, then chuckled and put the toothpick back in his mouth: "Yeah, this old relic should retire."

In the afternoon, Musselman called Lin Hao to his office. The room was dimly lit, and on the wall hung the famous slogan – "Defense Wins Championships".

Musselman sat there, looking extremely tired, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.

"Lin," Musselman pushed up his glasses, the lenses as thick as the bottom of a bottle, "I know there's been some... instability in the team lately. I haven't handled the Dampier situation well either. But I hope you understand that I'm doing this for the team's good. We need balance, we need defense, we can't just focus on offense."

Lin Hao didn't sit down; he just leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He looked at Musselman as if he were looking at a lost child.

"Coach," Lin Hao spoke, his tone calm, yet unsettling, "your defense can't stop anyone in today's NBA. Really."

Musselman's face twitched, as if he had been whipped.

"Look at the Spurs, look at the Lakers, are their defenses good? Yes. But how do they defend? They use quick rotations and aggressive steals, not forcing your guys to cower in the paint like turtles."

Lin Hao took two steps forward, getting closer to Musselman. The oppressive aura he exuded caused Musselman to involuntarily lean back. "You tell us to run and shoot, but you don't give us the tactics. You tell us to be fast, but you don't let us shoot threes. You're asking for the horse to run but not to feed it. There's no such thing as a free lunch!"

"I'm doing this to play it safe!" Musselman raised his voice, sounding a bit anxious. "Young man, being too reckless will only lead to a fall! The playoffs are a physical battle; your fancy moves won't work!"

"Playing it safe?" Lin Hao laughed, a laugh devoid of any warmth. "Coach, your so-called 'playing it safe' means making us young people conform to your outdated basketball philosophy? It means making us play that boring, ugly, and doomed style of basketball just to save face for you?"

Lin Hao shook his head, his gesture filled with disappointment. "Coach, you can't manage this team. You can't control Payton, and you certainly can't control me. You can't even handle Dampier's little schemes. What good are you if you just sit around in the locker room chanting scriptures every day?"

Those words were too harsh; every sentence was like a knife to the heart.

Musselman opened his mouth, wanting to retort, but found himself unable to utter a single word. Looking at the young man in his early twenties before him, he felt a profound sense of powerlessness for the first time. His pride and joy in his qualifications and experience were utterly shattered before this young man named Lin Hao.

"Alright, Coach." Lin Hao turned around, his hand on the doorknob, without looking back. "Don't be too sad. The world changes fast, and no one can stop it. If you really care about the team, pack up and go home to be with your grandchildren. This place is too noisy; it's not suitable for you to retire."

The door clicked shut.

After a long silence, he gave a bitter laugh, stretched out his trembling hand, and tore the paper off.

"Defense wins championships..." he murmured, his voice echoing in the empty room. "Yes, defense wins championships... but who wins the future?"

Meanwhile, in Dallas.

Old Nelson had just finished nine holes and was sitting on the club's terrace drinking iced water. The old man was tanned dark and full of energy; you couldn't tell he was over seventy at all.

Mullin sat opposite him and got straight to the point: "Tang, we need to make changes. Musselman won't do; he can't keep up with Lin Hao's pace."

Old Nelson took a big gulp of ice water, smacked his lips, and a sly glint in his eyes: "That Chinese kid? I watched the tape. Interesting, very interesting. A two-meter-tall point guard who plays like a madman and has a bit of a gangster vibe."

"We need a coach who can handle his crazy tactics," Mullin said sincerely. "In the entire league, no one but you can do it."

"You want me to coach that kid?" Old Nelson laughed heartily, his laughter startling the birds in the trees. "Sure! But I need absolute control. I want to play run-and-gun, the kind of run-and-gun that can shoot the hoop way off track! I want those old guys to know that basketball isn't about sitting on the ground grinding out positions, it's about shooting arrows in the air!"

"As long as you come, the Warriors will be your testing ground." Mullin smiled, knowing that the deal had been struck.

Old Nelson toyed with the golf ball in his hand, his eyes deepening: "That Lin Hao, he's a monster. But he lacks a good helmsman. My 'run-and-gun offense' is perfect for containing his ambition. Mullin, get ready, we're going to rip the NBA apart."

The message reached Auckland in the evening.

Lin Hao had just finished a phone call with Zhang Qingying and was lying on his bed, lost in thought. His phone vibrated; it was a text message from Mu Lin, very simple: "Kid, find you a crazy coach who can pull off your tactics. Don't call him an old fogey later."

Lin Hao looked at the text message, a wide grin spreading across his face. He got out of bed and walked to the window. The Golden Gate Bridge outside was brightly lit in the night, like a giant dragon leading to the future.

"Madmen with madmen," Lin Hao muttered to himself, "that's what playing ball is all about."