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

ESPN reporters blocked the corridor, almost shoving their microphones into Lin Hao's mouth.

"Lin Hao, people are saying the Warriors can make the playoffs this season, what's your opinion?"

Lin Hao switched his backpack to the other shoulder: "Playoffs? If you've set a goal, set it high. What kind of goal is it if you don't make the playoffs?"

The reporter paused for a moment, then asked, "What do you mean?"

"Championship".

The corridor was silent for half a second, then the sound of camera shutters exploded.

Zhao Dabao squeezed in from behind, blocking the camera while shouting, "Alright, alright, it's the preseason debut tomorrow. Ask us any questions on the court."

Lin Hao squeezed through the crowd and headed towards the parking lot. His phone vibrated; it was a message from Zhang Qingying: "You didn't even blink when you talked about the championship."

Lin Hao typed a few words: "Why are you blinking? I'm not bragging."

After handing out the packages, he opened the car door. There was only one can of peaches left in the box on the back seat. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip of the syrup.

Sweet.

---

The next day, Oracle Arena.

In their first preseason game, their opponent was the Clippers. A young, fast-paced team, but lacking in experience. In Don Nelson's words—"an appetizer."

Lin Hao changed his clothes and sat in front of the locker, wrapping his ankle with a brace. Richardson was wearing headphones and bobbing his head next to him, Van Exel took off his big gold chain and stuffed it into his pocket, Murphy tied an ice pack to his knee, and Dampier adjusted his headband in front of the mirror.

Payton walked over, toothpick in his mouth, and leaned against the cabinet next to Lin Hao.

"Kid, don't push yourself too hard in the preseason. It's not worth getting injured."

Lin Hao tightened the ankle brace one last time: "Got it, Lao Pei. Preseason games are games too. If you're on the court, you have to win."

Peyton glanced at him, took the toothpick out of his mouth, broke it in two, and threw it into the trash can.

"Okay, then you go up and run. I'll rest down here."

Old Nelson pushed open the door and came in, not carrying a tactical board, but with a cigar in his mouth.

"Starting lineup: Lin Hao, Richardson, Van Exel, Murphy, Dampier. Play two quarters, then call it a day."

He glanced at everyone: "Don't get hurt. But don't fight like you're still half asleep."

---

In the player tunnel, Lin Hao heard cheers outside. Oracle Arena was about 70% full for the preseason game. Not many, but the noise was considerable.

The Clippers' starting lineup stood on the other side. The point guard was Quinton Rose, a second-round pick, aggressive on defense but rough on offense. He glanced at Lin Hao, his eyes filled with a fierce "I want to prove myself" kind of determination.

Lin Hao didn't look at him. He was looking at the Clippers' center—Chris Wilcox, who had good jumping ability but terrible defensive positioning.

The referee whistle blows.

Dampier won the jump ball and flicked it towards Lin Hao.

Rose didn't wait for him in the frontcourt; he started guarding him from the backcourt. He put his hand on Lin Hao's waist and kept kneeing his leg. This was a preseason game, but Rose was playing like it was Game 7 of the playoffs.

Lin Hao didn't dodge. He used his body to lean against Rose, dribbled twice, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Richardson had already run to the frontcourt.

Four seconds.

Lin Hao flicked his wrist, and the ball sailed over Rose's head, across the center line, and landed precisely in Richardson's hands. Richardson caught the ball, and the Clippers' wing defense was a fraction of a second too late; Richardson had already jumped.

"Clang!"

Two-handed dunk.

2:0.

Lin Hao retreated on defense, and Rose dribbled towards him. Rose's dribbling rhythm was strange; it wasn't fast, but he changed direction a lot. Lin Hao wasn't fooled by the fake, and Rose drove to the left, but Lin Hao blocked him in time. Rose jumped forcefully, but Lin Hao's hand blocked his face.

"Bang!"

Missed the shot. Murphy grabbed the rebound and passed it to Lin Hao.

Lin Hao received the ball and accelerated before Rose could close in. Rose took two steps but realized he couldn't catch up—Lin Hao was too fast. He rushed to the three-point line before the Clippers' help defense arrived.

Lin Hao caught the ball, his knees bent, his wrists buckled, and he jumped.

"Whoosh."

5:0.

The Oracle Arena erupted in cheers. It wasn't the frenzy of a playoff game, but a "I knew it" kind of excitement.

The Clippers coach yelled from the sidelines, "Double-team! Double-team!"

Rose and the wing player rushed in, and Lin Hao passed the ball through the gap between them to Richardson, who was cutting to the basket. Richardson received the ball, Dunleavy covered for him, and Richardson, without stopping the ball, passed it directly to Van Exel in the corner.

Van Exel received the ball, Arenas rushed over, but Van Exel didn't stop and passed the ball back to Lin Hao who was following up in the middle.

Rose hadn't even had time to get back into position. Lin Hao caught the ball, his knee bent, his wrist snapped, and he jumped.

"Whoosh."

8:0.

The Clippers called a timeout.

Don Nelson stood on the sidelines, a cigar dangling from his lips, saying nothing. Thibodeau squatted by the baseline, writing a line on his whiteboard. Dell Curry sat behind the scorer's table, jotting something down in his notebook.

Payton stood up from the bench, walked over to Lin Hao, and handed him a bottle of water.

"You little rascal, taking the preseason this seriously?"

Lin Hao took a sip: "Uncle Gary, once you're on the court, there's no difference between the preseason and the regular season. It's just wins and losses."

Payton glanced at him, said nothing, and sat back down on the bench.

After the timeout, the Clippers changed their defensive strategy. Rose stopped guarding Lin Hao closely and retreated to the vicinity of the three-point line, giving Lin Hao a step of space.

Thibodeau shouted from the sidelines, "Let them shoot, but don't let them drive!"

Lin Hao glanced at the basket, then at Rose. Rose had his center of gravity low, arms outstretched, ready to pounce and drive.

Lin Hao took a step and pulled up for a shot.

Rose lunged forward, but he was too slow.

"Whoosh."

11:0.

Rose took another step back. Lin Hao took another step and pulled up for a jump shot.

"Whoosh."

14:0.

Rose took another step back, and Lin Hao, two steps outside the three-point line, received the ball, jumped, and shot.

"Whoosh."

17:0.

Oracle Arena erupted. Not the kind of frenzy that follows a game-winning shot, but a gasp of "That guy's fucking accurate!"

The Clippers coach called another timeout. As Rose walked off the court, he kept his head down, a towel draped over his head.

Payton stood up from the bench, walked over to Lin Hao, and patted him on the back of the head.

"Alright, take a break. Let the substitutes go up and play."

Lin Hao glanced at the scoreboard, then at Old Nelson. Old Nelson nodded.

As Lin Hao walked off the field, Zhao Dabao handed him a can of yellow peaches.

"Haozi, have some sugar water."

Lin Hao took it and took a sip. It was sweet.

At the end of the first quarter, the Warriors led 35-12.

In the second quarter, Don Nelson substituted his entire bench. Lin Hao sat on the bench, a towel draped around his neck, watching Arenas sprint around the court. Arenas' dribbling was flashy, but his shot selection was poor—he missed two consecutive three-pointers.

Payton shook his head beside him: "This kid is too hasty."

Lin Hao remained silent, his eyes fixed on the court. Arenas took his third shot and finally made it. He glanced back at the bench, where Lin Hao gave him a thumbs-up.

At halftime, the Warriors led 58-30.

Old Nelson called over the starters: "In the second half, Lin Hao, Richardson, and Van Exel, you three don't need to play. Murphy and Dampier don't need to play either. The substitutes will finish the game."

Lin Hao took off his jersey and changed into a dry training uniform. He sat on the bench, watching the substitutes run around on the court. The Clippers narrowed the gap a few points, but the difference remained above 25 points.

The final buzzer sounded. 98-72. The Warriors won by 26 points.

林昊全场只打了14分钟，12投8中，三分5中4，罚球2中2，22分4助攻。

In the locker room after the game, Richardson held up the stats and read out Lin Hao's shooting percentage: "80% from three-point range? Hao, are you even shooting like a human?"

Lin Hao took off his ankle brace and threw it into his backpack: "The basket is big, it can fit anything."

Van Exel chimed in from the sidelines, "It's not that the basket is big, it's that your 'Northeast sniper' shot is too abnormal. You catch the ball and shoot immediately, without even a proper preparation."

Payton, toothpick in his mouth, leaned against the cabinet: "I've played in the league for over a decade, and I've never seen anyone shoot so fast."

Lin Hao zipped up his backpack: "Now you've seen it."

The locker room erupted in laughter.

Lin Hao's phone vibrated as he walked out of the stadium.

Zhang Qingying sent a message: "22 points, 4 out of 5 from three-point range. You played well."

Lin Hao typed a few words: "You read it?"

The other end displayed "typing..." several times before finally replying, "I saw it. ESPN is streaming it."

Lin Hao stared at the message, wanting to type "Are you looking at me?", but deleted it halfway through. He then typed "What time is it where you are?", and deleted that too. Finally, he replied with just one word: "The minute."

After sending the message, he put his phone in his pocket and opened the car door.

In the back seat, the canned yellow peaches were empty. The tin can lay askew, and the syrup had seeped into the mat, leaving a small, dark stain.

He started the car and stepped on the gas.

The car sped forward and disappeared into the Auckland night.

[Ding! First preseason game complete!]

[“Northeast Sniper” Game Data – 14 minutes, 22 points, 80% three-point shooting percentage!]

[Three-Dimensional System Proficiency - Offense: 38%! Defense: 30%! Shooting: 45%!]

Next game, against the Spurs. Time to test our defense.

The bay bridge outside the car window was brightly lit.

Lin Hao gripped the steering wheel, his mind still replaying the day's game. Rose's tight defense, the Clippers' double-teaming, those moments of release—the ball flying from his fingertips, the "swish" of it swishing through the net, was more beautiful than anything else.

Yes. If the body remembers, the brain doesn't need to think.

The car pulled into the apartment parking lot, and Lin Hao turned off the engine, remaining seated in the driver's seat. He looked at the flickering streetlight outside the windshield, recalling Zhang Qingying's message—"Well done."

Three words. Not many, but enough.

He picked up his phone, read the message again, then locked the screen and got out of the car.

There's training tomorrow.

The day after tomorrow, the second preseason game, against the Spurs.

That old man Popovich is definitely figuring out how to defend against his "Northeast Sniper".

As Lin Hao walked into the apartment, he grinned at the mirror in the elevator as the elevator doors closed.

"Just get it done."