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

The day after Thibodeau arrived in Oakland, at 10 a.m., the Warriors held a press conference in the Oracle Arena press conference room.

The auditorium wasn't large, but it was packed with reporters. Local Bay Area media were there, as were national media outlets like ESPN, TNT, and Sports Illustrated. Three rows of cameras and microphones were set up, and the flashbulbs illuminated the podium brightly.

Thibodeau sat behind the podium, dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie, his hair neatly combed. Two microphones sat before him, one from ESPN on the left, and the other from the Warriors' official partner radio station on the right. His expression was as usual, devoid of a smile, his lips pressed into a straight line, and the gleam of his glasses obscuring his eyes.

Don Nelson took the stage first and said a few opening remarks, the gist of which was, "I'm very happy that Tom has joined the Warriors; he will make our defense even better." He didn't say much, and after less than two minutes, he handed the microphone to Thibodeau.

Thibodeau stood up, adjusted the height of the microphone, and glanced at the reporters below the stage.

"Thank you, Coach Don Nelson." His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady, and he enunciated each word clearly. "And thank you to the Warriors management for their trust in me. I joined the Warriors with only one goal—to make this team the best defense in the entire league."

The audience was ablaze with flashes from the cameras.

A reporter raised their hand and asked, "Coach Thibodeau, the Warriors ranked fifth from the bottom in defensive efficiency last season. How long do you think it will take to improve this team's defense to the top of the league?"

Thibodeau looked at the reporter and said without hesitation, "Three months."

A murmur of discussion arose in the release hall. Three months, from fifth from the bottom to the top of the league? That's an exaggeration.

"Specifically," Thibodeau continued, "within three months, I want to get the Warriors' defensive efficiency into the top eight in the league. We want to keep the points allowed per 100 possessions below 95. Opponents should see their three-point shooting percentage drop by five percentage points and their inside shooting percentage drop by eight percentage points when facing the Warriors."

Another reporter raised their hand: "What do you think is the Warriors' biggest defensive problem right now?"

"The basics," Thibodeau said. "Glides, chair turns, hand-to-distract—these are the most basic things they're not doing well enough. It's not that they're not trying hard enough, it's that nobody's telling them how to do them. Starting today, I'll tell them."

The reporters quickly took notes.

"Do you and Coach Nelson have conflicting offensive philosophies? One emphasizes speed and run-and-gun offense, while the other emphasizes disciplined defense. What are your thoughts on this combination?"

Thibodeau's lips twitched slightly, not in a smile, but more like a confident affirmation: "Offense and defense are not opposites. The best defense is the best offensive engine. Steals, rebounds, blocks—all of these can be converted into fast breaks. My defense won't slow down the Warriors' pace; it will only create more opportunities for their run-and-gun offense."

The press conference lasted forty minutes, during which Thibodeau answered more than a dozen questions. Each answer was brief, concise, and without unnecessary embellishment. When a reporter pressed him for his opinion on Van Gundy, he simply said, "Coach Van Gundy taught me a lot," before steer the conversation back to the Warriors.

At the end of the press conference, Don Nelson put his arm around Thibodeau's shoulder and posed for several photos with reporters. The two white-haired men stood together, one grinning broadly with a cigar, the other with a stern face as if heading into battle. The photos went viral online that night, accompanied by the headline: "Can a madman and a fool build a championship?"

The internet exploded.

The Warriors fan forum was being updated at a rate of three posts per second. Some cheered, some questioned, and some were waiting to see the team fail.

"Thibodeau is here! The defense is saved!"

"Top eight in three months? That's just bragging."

"With Don Nelson and Tom Thibodeau, are they trying to create an 'all-around offense and defense' system? I believe it!"

"Waiting to see him proven wrong. Thibodeau's slow-paced defense is completely incompatible with run-and-gun offense."

"The person upstairs doesn't understand basketball. Thibodeau is sixth in the league in fast break scoring for the Rockets, who says he's slow?"

"Anyway, he's better than Musselman. When Musselman was playing, our defense was fifth from the bottom. Is there any room for it to drop any further?"

ESPN's comment section was even more lively. Someone photoshopped a picture of Thibodeau's release ceremony into an image of an emperor's coronation, with him wearing a crown and holding a clipboard, captioned: "The defensive emperor has arrived, why don't you kneel down?" This picture was shared tens of thousands of times, and that's how the nickname "defensive emperor" spread.

2 PM, training hall.

The players changed their clothes and stood on the field, waiting for Thibodeau's first training session.

Nobody knew how he would train. Some guessed it would be full-court defensive drills, others guessed it would be video analysis, and still others guessed it would be shuttle run tests. Richardson even bet Arenas that Thibodeau's first thing would be to have the whole team run ten 400-meter dashes.

At exactly two o'clock, Thibodeau came out of his office with a stack of papers and a whistle in his hand. He walked to the center of the field and blew the whistle.

"gather."

Everyone gathered around.

Thibodeau handed the stack of papers to the assistant coach and asked him to give one to each person.

Lin Hao looked down and saw a training plan. It only had three lines of text:

Glide along the ground: 30 sets x 20 repetitions, with a 30-second rest between sets.

Turn around the chair: 25 sets x 10 repetitions, with a 30-second rest between sets.

Hand-raising interference: 20 sets x 60 seconds, with a 30-second rest between sets.

Shooting practice: None.

Richardson was the first to explode: "Coach, no shots? Not a single shot in an entire practice session?"

"No shooting today." Thibodeau's tone left no room for negotiation. "We're only practicing the basics today."

"No, Coach," Richardson held up the paper, his face looking like someone had snatched his ice cream. "We're professional players, we've been playing for years, why would we need to practice sliding steps? I stopped practicing that in high school."

Arenas chimed in, "Yeah, coach, we can do those basic moves with our eyes closed. Can we jump right into physical contact?"

Payton didn't say anything, standing in the back row with a toothpick in his mouth, arms crossed, his eyes scanning Thibodeau.

Thibodeau wasn't angry. He waited until everyone quieted down before speaking.

"Those who think basic movements don't need to be practiced, step forward."

Richardson and Arenas exchanged a glance, hesitated for a moment, and then took a step forward.

Payton didn't move.

Dunleavy didn't move.

Murphy glanced at Lin Hao but didn't move.

Van Exel stood in the corner, his large gold chain swaying back and forth, chewing gum, with an expression of watching the show.

Thibodeau looked at Richardson and Arenas and nodded: "You two, come with me."

He walked to the center of the field, drew a line on the ground, and then stood on one side of the line. His legs were shoulder-width apart, his knees bent sharply, his hips lowered, and his weight was on the balls of his feet. His body was as still as a compressed spring.

"Glide along the ground, starting position." Thibodeau's voice came from a low center of gravity position. "Knee angle 90 degrees, torso and thigh angle 90 degrees, thigh and calf angle 90 degrees. Three 90 degrees, not one less. Center of gravity height must not exceed hip height, and vertical movement must not exceed three centimeters."

He glided to the left. His feet remained flat on the ground, with almost no gap between the soles of his shoes and the floor. The distance he glided was exactly shoulder-width apart; he pushed off with the inside of his foot and landed with the outside, the whole process as smooth as gliding on ice.

"The core of the sliding step is weight control." Thibodeau stood up, patted his knee, and said, "You think the sliding step is about keeping up with your opponent? No. The sliding step is about keeping your center of gravity in a defensive position at all times. If your center of gravity is stable, your opponent can't shake you off. If your center of gravity fluctuates, your opponent can easily get past you with a change of direction."

He turned to Richardson: "You give it a try."

Richardson tucked the hem of his training shirt into his waistband, walked to the line, and assumed the starting position for a slide step. His knees were bent, but the angle was clearly greater than ninety degrees, and his body was almost upright.

"Lower your center of gravity again." Thibodeau squatted down and patted Richardson's thigh. "Press your thigh down, yes, press it down again. Sit back on your butt, don't stick it forward. Raise your hands, palms facing forward, don't let them hang down."

Richardson adjusted as instructed, but after only two steps, his legs began to ache. On the third step, his center of gravity shifted, his left foot lifted more than five centimeters off the ground, and he lurched upwards.

"Stop," Thibodeau whistled. "Your feet are off the ground. Try again."

Richardson gritted his teeth and started again. This time he made it to the eighth step, his knees aching and trembling, and he lost his balance again.

"Stop. Your center of gravity is shifting. Let's try again."

The third and fifth steps failed.

Richardson straightened up, panting and supporting his knees. "Coach, this is too hard. My legs feel like they're going to break."

Thibodeau didn't answer him, but turned to look at Lin Hao.

"Lin Hao, come here."

Lin Hao took off his hoodie and threw it on the sidelines, then walked to the line and squatted down. His knees were bent very low, his thighs almost parallel to the ground. Thibodeau came over, pressed down on his back with his hand, then tugged at his shoulders, adjusting him twice, before taking a step back.

"slip."

Lin Hao pushed off with his left foot and slid a step to the right. His shoe remained flat on the ground, without lifting or undulating, stopping steadily at shoulder width. The second step, the third step, the fourth step—each step was measured with precision, the distance, the height, the speed all consistent.

After skating twenty steps, Lin Hao stopped and stood up.

Thibodeau glanced at him and said only one word: "Okay."

Then he turned to the whole team: "See that? This is the standard. Anyone who can't do it, keep practicing until they can."

No one complained anymore.

Richardson wiped the sweat from his face, walked back to his spot, and squatted down again.

For the next three hours, only three kinds of sounds remained in the training hall.

Thibodeau's whistle. The squeaking of cleats on the floor. The players' heavy breathing.

I practiced sliding on the ground for an hour. I practiced turning around a chair for an hour. I practiced raising my hand to interfere for an hour.

Thibodeau personally demonstrated every movement and corrected each one individually. He squatted down next to the players, adjusting their knee angles, center of gravity, and arm heights hand-in-hand. If anyone's movement was not standard, a whistle would immediately sound, and they would have to do it again. If anyone slacked off and missed two sets, the whistle would be even louder, and they would have to do extra practice.

Payton stopped exercising in the second hour of training.

He straightened up, took the toothpick out of his mouth, broke it in two, and looked at Thibodeau.

"Coach, come down here," Payton said. "You told me this slide move worked. Let's have a one-on-one, you guard me. If you can stop me from getting three shots off, I'll respect you. If you can't, this practice is over for today."

The entire arena fell silent. All eyes were on Payton and Thibodeau.

Payton, a future Hall of Fame guard, Defensive Player of the Year, and nine-time All-Defensive Team selection, is going to take on a coach one-on-one.

Thibodeau looked at Payton, paused for two seconds, then took the whistle off his neck and handed it to the assistant coach next to him.

"ball."

Arenas quickly tossed the ball over. Thibodeau caught it, bounced it twice on the ground, and handed it to Payton.

"You attack. I defend. Three attacks."

Payton took the ball, a slight smile on his lips. He dribbled it around his waist once, then suddenly started moving.

His first step is quick; even in his thirties, the explosiveness of his first step can still leave most defenders in the dust. But today he's not facing a defender, he's facing a coach who has meticulously studied defense to the bone.

Thibodeau didn't fall for his feint. The instant Payton broke to the left, Thibodeau's right foot blocked his path. At the moment of contact, Thibodeau's chest pressed against Payton's shoulder, his left hand raised in front of Payton's eyes, and his right hand pressed against his waist, preventing him from gaining speed.

Payton was forced to the sideline, his space shrinking. He tried a behind-the-back dribble to change direction, but Thibodeau was faster, blocking his right-side drive. Payton had no choice but to jump and shoot. Thibodeau's hand landed on his face—not a block, but a contest. His hand was less than five centimeters from Payton's eyes, his fingertips almost touching his eyelashes.

The ball hit the front edge of the rim and bounced out.

Payton landed, looked at Thibodeau, and his expression changed.