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

On the day the training camp officially opened, the sun hadn't yet risen in Auckland.

At 5:30 a.m., Lin Hao's car was parked in front of the training hall. He turned off the engine, but didn't get out immediately. Instead, he sat in the driver's seat, staring blankly at the thin layer of fog on the car window. On the back seat were three pairs of new basketball shoes, two rolls of muscle tape, a box of protein powder, and a thermos that Zhao Dabao had insisted on giving him, filled with goji berries.

"He looks like a retired senior official," Lin Hao muttered, picked up his things, and got out of the car.

The morning breeze blew into his collar, chilly. He paused for a moment as he pulled out his keys to open the door—the lights in the training hall were already on.

Looking through the glass door, a figure wearing a gray hoodie was standing in the center of the field, holding a stopwatch in his hand, with a whole box of training cones stacked at his feet.

Old Nelson.

The old man clearly hadn't slept. His eyes were drooping, his stubble was a patch of white, his shirt was rolled up at the hem, and one trouser leg was tucked into his shoe while the other dangled down, making him look like he'd been lounging around in the training hall all night.

"Grandpa, you haven't left all night?" Lin Hao pushed open the door and his voice echoed twice in the empty hall.

Old Nelson didn't even look up, his stopwatch clicking away: "I'm getting old, can't sleep. Instead of lying at home counting sheep, I'd rather come here and draw on the tactical board. Look, this is what I drew last night."

He kicked the tactical board beside his feet. The board was covered with lines, arrows, and running routes, marked with red, blue, and black markers in alternating colors. Some parts were erased and rewritten, leaving a faint layer of ink on the surface.

Lin Hao leaned over and took a look. On the whiteboard next to him was a line of large characters: "Seven-Second Offense – Core Concept: You are always one step ahead of your opponent."

Here are some ironclad rules:

1. The ball must be served from the backcourt to the frontcourt within 4 seconds.

2. The shot must be taken within 3 seconds of being released from the frontcourt.

3. If no shot is taken within 7 seconds, it is automatically counted as a mistake (Old Nelson drew two lines under "mistake" in red pen).

4. The rhythm cannot be stopped voluntarily—unless someone is injured.

5. No delays in data return are allowed—unless you want to be benched.

Lin Hao looked around and pointed to the third rule, asking, "Grandpa, what does 'automatically recorded as a mistake' mean? The referee doesn't care about that."

"I'll take care of it." Old Nelson finally raised his head, his eyes wide open. "During practice, I time it myself with a stopwatch. If you don't shoot within 7 seconds, whether the ball goes in or not, the whole team has to run back and forth. If you dare to dawdle in an official game, I'll substitute you out on the spot."

Lin Hao grinned: "Alright, that's ruthless enough."

"Can you win without being ruthless?" Old Nelson scoffed, pulled a cigar from his pocket, put it in his mouth without lighting it, and said, "Musselman's approach is just treating players like wooden stakes. I'm different. I'm going to treat you like wolves—wolves that haven't eaten for three days. The ball is the meat, and the basket is the prey. If you see it, you have to pounce. If you hesitate for a second, the meat is gone."

That was a really good point. Lin Hao was itching to get on the field right then and there and run a couple of rounds.

Just after six o'clock, the team members arrived one after another.

Payton strolled in, a toothpick dangling from his lips, a Starbucks in his hand, his eyes half-closed. Richardson, wearing large headphones and bobbing his head to the rhythm, was startled by Old Nelson's "I slept in the gym all night" look as soon as he entered, and immediately took off his headphones.

"Coach, you... haven't gone home?"

"Going back to what home?" Old Nelson shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Training camp has started, this is my home. Everyone change your clothes, assemble in fifteen minutes. Anyone late will have to do ten sets of shuttle runs."

The group exchanged glances, and none of them dared to linger. They quickly slipped into the changing room.

The locker room erupted in chaos.

"My god, is the old man on steroids?" Richardson muttered as he changed his shoes. "He was already at the training gym at 5 a.m., doesn't he get any sleep?"

"Whether he sleeps or not is irrelevant," Payton spat the toothpick into the trash can. "The important thing is that none of us will be sleeping from now on."

Murphy grimaced, his knees wrapped in thick braces. "Can my old legs hold up?"

"We have to hold on, even if we can't." Lin Hao pulled his training clothes over his head, his voice muffled as he said, "The old man said we're wolves, not wooden stakes. If wolves can't run, they'll starve to death."

"That sounds nice." Van Exel popped his head out from the corner, wearing a bright orange training vest and a huge gold chain around his neck that made people dizzy. "Even wolves need to eat meat. Running around without passing the ball isn't a wolf, it's a silly roe deer."

Everyone laughed.

Lin Hao glanced at Van Exel. This guy had only been with the team for a few days and didn't know anyone, but he never stopped talking.

During yesterday's training, he was matched up against Payton and got so frustrated that he blurted out, "Old man, are your legs made of lead? Why are you running so slowly?"

Payton wasn't angry; instead, he laughed and said, "You've got a temper, kid. I like that."

This is Fan Fengzi. He's foul-mouthed, ruthless, and has a big heart.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone was standing neatly at the edge of the field.

Old Nelson stood in front of the tactical board, a cigar dangling from his lips, hands on his hips, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces. When he wasn't speaking, his old face was as taut as a piece of dried-out bacon, sending chills down one's spine.

"Everyone's here." Old Nelson finally spoke, his voice not loud, but every word like a nail driven into the ground. "From today onwards, I'm in charge of this training camp. What I say we train, you train. How I say we fight, you fight. Anyone have a problem with that?"

No one spoke.

"Okay." Old Nelson flipped the tactical board over, revealing the lines and arrows he had drawn overnight. "Then let me start with today's training content—just one word: run."

He held up the stopwatch, pressed the button, and the second hand began to tick.

"Seven-second offense. Anyone who gets the ball must shoot within seven seconds. The ball must be inbounded from the backcourt to the frontcourt within four seconds, and the shot must be taken within three seconds. If it takes more than one second, the entire team must make a sprint back and forth."

Richardson raised his hand: "Coach, what if our teammates don't have open looks? Should we force a shot?"

"Take the shot," Don Nelson said decisively. "If you don't have an open shot, create one. If you're fast, the opponent can't keep up. If they can't keep up, that's an open shot. Basketball isn't that complicated."

"What about the rebounds?" Dampier asked in a deep voice, standing in the paint. He was the only true center on the team, solidly built but rather slow. His face hardened at the mention of "seven seconds or less offense."

"Rebound?" Old Nelson glanced at him. "You grab it. Once you get it, pass it to the guard immediately. No dribbling, no looking, no hesitation. If you hold the ball for even a second longer, the whole team will have to run back and forth with you."

Dampier's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything more.

"Alright, enough chit-chat." Old Nelson hung the stopwatch around his neck. "First training session: five-on-five full-court scrimmage, offense has a seven-second shot clock, defense can do whatever they want. Lin, Jason, Nick, Troy, Eric, you five starters. Gary, Mike, Gilbert, Adona, Clifford, you're the reserves."

Lin Hao stood up and stretched his wrists. Peyton patted him on the shoulder and said in a low voice, "Kid, run. Let the old man see we're not wooden stakes."

Lin Hao nodded and walked onto the stage.

The whistle blows, and it's time for the jump ball.

Dampier, taking advantage of his height, passed the ball to Lin Hao. The moment Lin Hao caught the ball, Don Nelson had already pressed the stopwatch.

Without hesitation, he turned and charged forward.

Payton closed in on the defense, his veteran experience allowing him to immediately block Lin Hao's path to the basket. But Lin Hao didn't slow down; instead, he changed direction and cut in from the left. Payton couldn't keep up and could only tug at Lin Hao's jersey.

"Foul!" Old Nelson yelled from the sidelines. "Keep going!"

Lin Hao stumbled slightly, regained his balance, and dribbled to the three-point line. Richardson cut in from the right corner, and Van Exel raised his hand for the ball at the left 45-degree angle. Murphy moved to the free-throw line, blocking Payton's path.

Lin Hao did not pass the message.

He pulled it up and threw it.

The ball flew from my fingertips, its arc both high and flat.

"Whoosh!"

Hollow-core netting.

The timer shows: 5.8 seconds.

Old Nelson's lips curled up slightly, but he quickly composed himself.

"Alright! That's the rhythm!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Next! Don't stop! Serve!"

Dampier inbounds the ball from the baseline, Lin Hao receives it and starts moving again. The substitutes' retreat is noticeably faster than before, with Arenas and Dunleavy positioning themselves in advance, completely blocking the penalty area.

Lin Hao crossed half-court and found no fast break opportunity. Instead of slowing down, he passed the ball to Murphy at the top of the arc, then moved to the weak side and cut out with the help of assistant coach Chasson's screen.

Murphy received the ball and immediately passed it; the ball arrived just as Murphy arrived.

Lin Hao received the ball, made no adjustments, and immediately pulled up for a jump shot.

Payton lunged at him, his hand nearly hitting his face.

"Whoosh!"

Another swirl.

The timer shows: 6.3 seconds.

The substitutes were stunned. In less than seven seconds, two three-pointers, six points in hand. They hadn't even settled into their defensive formation before the ball was in.

"See that?" Old Nelson pointed at the reserves, his voice booming like thunder. "Where's your defense? The ball's already in the basket, and you're still strolling around midcourt! That's seven-second offense! If you're even a step slower, I'll shoot! If you're two steps slower, I'll score!"

The substitutes didn't look too good. Arenas bit his lip, Dunleavy scratched his head, and Payton, on the other hand, didn't show much expression, but simply took a toothpick out of his mouth and broke it in two.

For the next twenty minutes, the starting lineup's attack was like a flood that had been released, unstoppable.

Lin Hao hit four consecutive three-pointers, leaving Payton, who was defending him, helpless. Richardson made three alley-oop dunks, each one like a blow to the bench players' hearts. Van Exel was even more outrageous, taking a step past the center line and shooting two super long-range three-pointers, then shrugging at the bench with a "what's so hard about that?" expression.

The first quarter ended with a staggering score of 28-12.

The starting lineup scored 28 points in less than four minutes.

Old Nelson stopped the practice and called everyone to the sidelines.

"Offense, that's it." He said, a cigar dangling from his lips, his voice brimming with barely suppressed smugness. "You guys run fast enough, shoot accurately enough, and the opponents can't catch you. That's the kind of basketball we're going to play."

Then he changed the subject and looked at the substitutes.

"But—what about defense?"

The substitute players lowered their heads.

"You let the starting lineup score 28 points in four minutes! Are you here to train, or to be targets?" Old Nelson slammed his clipboard. "Payton, you were guarding Lin, and he beat you in one step. Arenas, you were guarding the Knick, where were you when he shot those long threes? Dunleavy, you were guarding Richardson, he drove to the basket three times, how many times did you keep up?"

No one dared to speak.

Payton was silent for a few seconds, then looked up, his eyes changing.

He was the Defensive Player of the Year for over a decade, won a championship, and was inducted into the Hall of Fame—though he hasn't been officially inducted yet, everyone knows it's only a matter of time. The thing he can't stand most in his life is being told he's a bad defender.

"Coach," Payton spoke, his voice not loud, but with the toughness characteristic of a veteran, "give us another chance. This time, I won't let him shoot so comfortably."

Old Nelson stared at Payton for a few seconds, then nodded: "Okay. For the second scrimmage, the defensive team has no limit on shooting time, but I need to see the intensity. Anyone who gets caught out again will have to do 100 extra sets of sliding steps after practice today."