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

At 5 a.m., before the sky was fully light, the lights in the Warriors' training facility already illuminated half the sky.

When Lin Hao parked his car in the underground garage, he yawned. He had just finished discussing tactics with Dell Curry yesterday afternoon, and his mind was still full of that "Northeast Sniper" sketch covered with red lines.

"Squeak—"

The training facility door opened, and Dell Curry was already there. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit and was squatting on the sidelines fixing the high-speed camera. Hearing the noise, he looked up, smiled, and greeted, "You're here pretty early, Lin."

"Absolutely, I have to come even if I'm tired." Lin Hao tossed his backpack on the ground, stretched his shoulders, and said, "We Northeasterners are all about speed. Lao Dai, what are we practicing today?"

As he spoke, he walked to the sidelines, picked up a ball, and casually tossed it into a three-pointer.

"Swish—" It went into the net without being caught.

The movement was fluid and the arc was beautiful; under normal circumstances, it would definitely be a textbook-level shot.

Dell Curry didn't praise him. Instead, he frowned, walked over, pulled up the video clip, and handed it to Lin Hao.

"Lin, look here." Dale pointed to the screen, slowing the image down to 0.5x speed. "When you made your move, did your left thumb unconsciously press inward?"

Lin Hao leaned closer to look, and on the screen, his left hand did indeed make a slight downward pressing motion, causing the ball to deviate slightly to the left in the air. Although it still went in in the end, the arc was not straight enough.

"And here," Dale pulled back a bit more, "when you jumped, your center of gravity shifted 3 centimeters to the right, and when you landed, your right foot hit the ground first, which means you didn't generate power evenly."

Lin Hao stared at the screen, a layer of cold sweat slowly forming on his forehead. He himself was completely unaware of these subtle movements, but in front of the high-speed camera, they were all flaws that had nowhere to hide.

"Uncle Dale, are your eyes rulers?" Lin Hao clicked his tongue in amazement. "You can even tell that?"

"That's how shooting is," Dell said seriously, turning off the screen. "A small mistake can lead to a huge error. You're making shots now because your physical attributes can compensate for these weaknesses. But in the playoffs, when the intensity increases, these small flaws will become big weaknesses."

He walked to the three-point line and personally demonstrated: "Come on, today we won't shoot three-pointers, we'll practice the most basic spot shooting. Starting from under the basket, all the way to the three-point line, shoot 50 shots from each spot until your hand shape is perfect."

"What? Not shooting threes?" Lin Hao's eyes widened. "Are we still going to practice our 'Northeast Sniper' tactic?"

"If the foundation isn't solid, the higher the building goes, the faster it'll collapse." Dell pushed a box of basketballs over. "Start with 500. Don't use your left hand, just support the ball; jump vertically, don't sway left or right; release the ball above your forehead, don't lean back."

Lin Hao looked at the box of balls and swallowed hard.

"What's wrong, chickening out already?" Dale chuckled and patted him on the back. "Don't worry, I'll train with you too. We'll make sure this foundation is solid today."

Training has begun.

At first, Lin Hao felt quite relaxed, after all, for him, throwing 500 balls was just a warm-up. But the further he went, the more something felt off.

Dell's requirements were almost demanding: if you used even a little force with your left hand, it would be considered a miss even if it went in; if you didn't land with both feet at the same time, it would be a foul; and if the arc wasn't high enough, you had to reshoot.

"Snapped!"

Another ball bounced off the back of the rim.

"The center of gravity is off." Dale's voice was as cold as ice.

Lin Hao gritted his teeth, picked up the ball, and shot it again.

"Snapped!"

"He pressed the ball down with his left hand."

"Snapped!"

"The jump went astray."

Lin Hao spent a full six hours shooting, from six in the morning to noon.

Sweat had already soaked through three vests, dripping down his trouser legs and pooling on the floor. His arms ached as if filled with lead, making it difficult to lift them, and his shooting motion began to distort.

"The 397th!" Dale counted from the side, his voice still steady. "Watch your hand shape, don't deform it just to score a goal."

Lin Hao was panting heavily, feeling like his lungs were on fire. He had never suffered like this before. In his rookie year, he played dunks, smashes, and coast-to-coast plays—it was exhilarating. Now, he was being forced to stand still and shoot stationary shots like a schoolboy, making him feel nauseous.

"Uncle Dale," Lin Hao wiped the sweat from his face, his voice tinged with the stubbornness of a Northeasterner, "can we take a break? My arm is about to break."

"No," Dale shook his head. "Muscle memory is formed when you're tired. You're tired now, so your movements are more likely to become distorted. Correcting these mistakes now will prevent you from making them in future competitions."

Lin Hao cursed inwardly, "This old man is ruthless," but still gritted his teeth and picked up the ball.

The 400th, the 401st, the 402nd...

His arm was completely numb, and he was only holding on by sheer willpower. He had only one thought in his mind: to execute the movement correctly and make the shot.

"Whoosh—"