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

Some things, you know, there's no way to reason with them.

Just like the fire axe in old Nelson's hand, when it comes down, no matter what you used to do, you have to give way to that crazy energy.

The Warriors are like a stagnant pool, and what they need is a crazy old man who can stir things up and smash the bathtub along the way.

There was something wrong with the smell in the training hall. It wasn't the smell of sweat, nor the smell of feet; it was a musty, moldy smell mixed with wood shavings and chalk dust.

That was the smell left by Musselman, a conservative, drowsy smell from the last century.

Lin Hao leaned against the wall without making a sound, watching the old man stand like a statue in the center of the space.

Old Nelson wasn't wearing a tracksuit, just a flashy Hawaiian shirt, collar open, a beat-up camera hanging around his neck, and what he was carrying in his hand was more substantial than anything else—a gleaming fire axe. Looking like this, you could easily believe he was there to demolish a building.

"What are you all looking at? What are you all looking at?" Old Nelson slammed his old tactical board, which had been used for who knows how many years, on the ground. The dust made the young players in the front row cough. "That old bullshit, all of it, to hell with it! 'Defense wins championships'? That's just a shroud for old men who can't run anymore! Look at yourselves, you run slower than donkeys, shoot softer than daughters, playing basketball like you're at a funeral, what's the point?"

The entire arena was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Payton nearly dropped the toothpick he was holding. In all his life, he'd never seen a coach yell at his players like that, much less start a game by undermining his own team. The old man knew all too well what this meant—it meant his prized defensive experience might be utterly worthless in the face of this madman's theories.

Lin Hao's counterintuitive insight surfaced at that moment. In this league, everyone worshipped "tradition," as if basketball wouldn't function without those clichés. Nonsense. True progress often begins with shattering those pedestals. Musselman was like an old Chinese medicine doctor clinging to a family secret formula, insisting on using it to treat a modern virus—the result was only that the patient died faster. Loyalty to error is itself a sin.

"From today onwards, the Warriors aren't playing basketball. We're conducting human experiments." Old Nelson pulled a cigar from his pocket, unlit it, just dangling it from his lips, spitting indistinctly. "Seven seconds on offense. The ball crosses half-court, and you have seven seconds to shoot. No matter where you are, no matter who's on the other end, if you think it's a shot, shoot it! We're going to use our speed to blow their lungs out and turn their playbooks into scrap paper!"

Just then, Lin Hao moved. Unlike the others who stood there dumbfounded, he slowly walked forward and took a hardcover notebook out of his backpack. The cover of the notebook was worn and tattered, clearly indicating that it had been carried in his bag for years and soaked with sweat countless times. He didn't say anything, just handed it over.

"Old man," Lin Hao began, his voice low but each word ringing with conviction, "you've broken this board cleanly. Truly clean. We Northeasterners are all about getting things done quickly and decisively—either we get on the road, or we get off—no dawdling." He gestured for a cigarette, his hands empty, but the sentiment was clear. This was the social code of Northeastern men, not about smoking, but about respect and acceptance.

Old Nelson squinted as he took the notebook. He opened the first page, his brow furrowing. It wasn't filled with fancy tactical maneuvers; instead, it was covered in dense data, coordinates, and handwritten annotations. The title, circled in red, read: "Northeast Sniper's Handbook: Hot Zones and Rhythm."

"What is this thing? Is it for fortune telling?" Old Nelson ran his finger over the charts.

"This is a killing guide." Lin Hao stood beside him, his tone as honest as a farmer who grew up in a village. "This is my control over my own body. It shows me which angles have a high hit rate, which positions I'm likely to be surrounded, and even how to fire at different stamina levels. It's all here. Old man, what you want is a seven-second attack; what I want is for every shot to hit the mark in those seven seconds."

Old Nelson flipped through the pages, his eyes growing brighter with each turn, his excitement like he was on drugs. This wasn't an athlete; this was a sophisticated killing machine! What he wanted wasn't a pawn to execute tactics, but a madman partner who could resonate with him on the same wavelength.

"Great! 'Northeast Sniper'!" Old Nelson slammed his notebook shut, his beard trembling with excitement. "This manual is a million times better than those damned experts! This is exactly what we need! Not rigid tactics, but this kind of instinct-based, data-driven logic of killing!"