123: The deathly silence of San Antonio!

Kobe's warning was like a red-hot brand, deeply etched into Lin Feng's heart.

It left him filled with vigilance toward the upcoming Game 5... The Lakers' private jet landed once again at the San Antonio airport.

The moment the cabin door opened, Howard subconsciously shrunk his neck, bracing himself for a deluge of boos.

But there was nothing.

Outside the exit tunnel, it was empty.

There were no angry fans, no provocative signs, and certainly no deafening curses.

Only a few local media reporters stood in the distance with their cameras, filming quietly.

The entire airport was eerily quiet.

“Hey guys, what's going on?”

Howard walked down the stairs, his face filled with unconcealed confusion.

“Where are their people? Did that shot in G4 make them all go into isolation?”

Nick Young also poked his head out to look around, his face equally full of disbelief.

“Something's not right.”

Lin Feng walked at the front of the team; his brow had not unfurrowed since the moment he stepped out of the cabin.

This kind of silence made him feel more uneasy than any clamor.

Just as Kobe had warned.

A silent Popovich was the most terrifying.

This calm before the storm cast a thick shadow over his heart.

The team bus drove smoothly to their hotel with almost no interference.

On the streets, everything seemed normal.

But that omnipresent, oppressive atmosphere was like an invisible net enveloping the entire city.

After checking into the hotel, Lin Feng immediately turned on the TV and tuned to the local sports channel.

On the screen, there was no overwhelming hype or incitement of conflict like there had been before G4.

The sports anchor's tone was as calm as if they were reporting the weather.

The program content was also just an objective analysis of the respective strengths and weaknesses of the Los Angeles Lakers and the San Antonio Spurs.

Everything seemed so normal, so professional.

And that was precisely the biggest abnormality... Inside the hotel's meeting room.

D'Antoni's coaching staff was holding an emergency meeting.

“What on earth is Popovich up to?”

D'Antoni paced irritably in front of the tactical board.

“No psychological warfare, no inciting the fans, and even the media is as quiet as a flock of sheep.”

“This doesn't fit his style at all.”

Assistant coach Bernie Bickerstaff also had a solemn expression.

“It's as if... they've given up on off-court distractions?”

“No, quite the opposite.”

D'Antoni stopped in his tracks and tapped the tactical board heavily with his finger.

“This is the most brilliant psychological warfare.”

“He's using this method to tell us that he's already found a way to deal with us and doesn't need any off-court factors at all.”

“He wants us to guess, to doubt, and to let us throw ourselves into disarray.”

The meeting room fell into silence.

No one could guess what that old fox Popovich was really up to.

“Spread the word!”

D'Antoni's voice broke the silence.

“Be prepared for any and all changes!”

“No matter what tricks they play in the next game, we must stick to our own rhythm!”

...In Lin Feng's room.

He didn't go to the coaching staff's meeting.

He was sitting on the carpet, playing the recording of G4 on the tablet in front of him.

Yoona walked up from behind carrying a glass of warm water and gently placed it on the table beside him.

She didn't speak, just quietly sat down with him.

Since arriving in San Antonio, she had keenly sensed the tension in Lin Feng.

She knew he was under immense pressure.

“Don't put too much pressure on yourself.”

Yoona's voice was light and soft, like a breeze blowing across a lake.

Lin Feng's gaze moved from the screen and landed on her face.

In the girl's eyes was pure worry and trust, without any impurities.

“I'm fine.”

Lin Feng managed a forced smile.

Yoona reached out and gently took his hand.

Her hand was a bit cool, yet it carried a reassuring strength.

“No matter what happens, I believe in you.”

The girl didn't ask a single question about basketball.

She simply expressed her support in the simplest and most direct way.

This unconditional trust allowed Lin Feng's nearly snapping nerves to relax slightly.

He squeezed her hand back and nodded... The next day.

The final training session before the game.

On the San Antonio Spurs' side, they broke tradition by opening the last ten minutes of training to the media.

When reporters rushed into the gym with their cameras, what they saw was a scene that left them dumbfounded.

The San Antonio Spurs players weren't running any tactical drills.

Duncan was practicing his signature 45-degree bank shot.

Parker was practicing floaters.

Danny Green and Leonard were doing basic three-point shooting practice.

The atmosphere in the entire training facility was as relaxed as a community event.

After training ended, Popovich unusually took the initiative to accept media interviews.

“Coach, do you have anything to say about G5?”

A reporter handed over a microphone.

Popovich even had a slight smile on his face.

“What do I want to say? I want to say that I hope God wears a Spurs jersey during the game tonight.”

He shrugged and cracked a joke.

“As for Lin's game-winning shot in G4...”

Popovich paused and looked at the camera.

“My view is that Lin didn't make that shot.”

“It was God wearing a number 24 jersey who threw it in.”

“What can you do about that?”

The old coach's words drew a burst of laughter from the crowd.

In an almost playful manner, he attributed that historic game-winner to luck and divine intervention.

These remarks quickly reached the Lakers' side via the internet.

Howard curled his lip upon seeing it.

“This old man really knows how to play dumb.”

But when Lin Feng saw the news, his heart sank even deeper.

He knew that Popovich's 'kill with praise' tactic had arrived... The night of Game 5.

AT&T Center.

When the Lakers players emerged from the tunnel, preparing to step onto the court.

The expected landslide of boos did not appear.

In its place was an unprecedented, hair-raising scene.

The entire arena was packed to capacity.

But not a single person made a sound.

All the fans had stood up from their seats.

They were all wearing uniform, solid black T-shirts.

Nearly twenty thousand people in black formed a silent, oppressive phalanx.

They just stood there quietly.

With cold, emotionless gazes, they watched every Lakers player who stepped onto the court.

It wasn't boos.

Yet it was more suffocating than any booing could ever be.