128: Fuel of rage!

Outside the door.

The loud crash of shattering glass was like a slap across Anthony Edwards' face.

He jumped up completely.

Yoona's body trembled violently.

Her already pale face was now as white as paper.

“Lin...”

The girl's voice was tearful; she couldn't hold back any longer and reached out to push the door open.

Jeff grabbed her wrist.

“Don't go in!”

His voice was low but filled with unyielding resolve.

“He needs to be alone right now.”

“But he...”

Large tears rolled down Yoona's cheeks. She looked back at Jeff, her eyes full of pleading.

“He's going to hurt himself!”

Jeff's lips were pressed into a rigid line.

Of course he was worried.

But he knew better: for a man proud to his core, especially one who had just fallen from the clouds, any sympathy or comfort would be a humiliation.

“Trust me, Miss Yoona.”

Jeff's voice softened slightly.

“At a time like this, letting him vent is better than anything.”

“We'll wait right here.”

Inside the room, the unnerving silence returned.

Yoona leaned against the cold wall, slowly sliding down until she was squatting on the floor.

She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders silently shaking.

Inside the room.

It was a complete mess.

The screen of the huge LCD television in the hotel room had been shattered into a spiderweb pattern.

Lin Feng had used a heavy chair to smash it.

Now, he was leaning in the corner of the room, his back against the wall, slowly sitting down on the carpet covered in glass shards.

His breathing was heavy, like an old bellows.

His chest rose and fell violently.

On the back of his right hand, a cut from the glass was slowly oozing blood.

Drops of blood ran down his knuckles, falling onto the white carpet and spreading into small patches of glaring red.

But he felt no pain.

He just stared ahead, his eyes hollow.

In his mind, the scenes from tonight played out over and over again, like a film.

That suffocating cage formed by three men.

Leonard's expressionless face.

Danny Green's mocking trash talk whispered in his ear.

And finally, the aloof number 21, like the stone buddha.

As well as that block that forcefully swatted away his pride along with the basketball.

Humiliation.

Anger.

And a massive, unprecedented sense of powerlessness.

It was like an invisible giant hand gripping his heart, slowly squeezing out all his strength and all his belief.

Why?

Why did this happen?

Didn't that shot in Game 4 prove everything?

Why, after just one game, did he go from an omnipotent savior to a ridiculous clown being toyed with inside a cage?

He didn't understand.

Leaning against the wall, he slowly reached out and picked up the phone he had thrown aside.

There were dozens of missed calls on the screen.

From Jeff, from D'Antoni, and from Howard.

He ignored every single one.

He just used his bleeding, slightly trembling hand to open a sports news app.

Row after row of glaring headlines rushed into his sight.

[God takes off the No. 24 jersey! Popovich uses the most classic method to bring Lin Feng back to earth!]

[A Massacre! The San Antonio Spurs use the cage to strangle the Purple and Gold's New King; the Pivotal Game 5 has no suspense!]

[From Hero to Sinner in Just 48 Hours? Lin Feng loses his composure and suffers the worst defeat of his career!]

[Expert Commentary: Lin's shooting talent is undeniable, but his arsenal is too singular!]

[San Antonio Spurs Fans Rejoice: We found the instruction manual for killing that beast!]

Each line.

Each sentence.

Like sharp, poisoned daggers.

Ruthlessly stabbing into his already battered heart.

Lin Feng's breathing grew more rapid.

He felt his blood rushing to his head.

He wanted to smash the phone again.

To smash every voice in the world that was mocking him.

Just as he raised his arm.

The phone suddenly vibrated.

A new text message notification popped up at the top of the screen.

The sender's name stopped Lin Feng's raised hand mid-air.

Kobe.

His finger, as if guided by a ghost, tapped open the message.

There was only a short line of text on the screen.

There were no unnecessary greetings or consolations.

“Anger is the fuel of the strong, not the excuse of the weak. Figure out how to win back Game 6.”

...This sentence was like a bolt of lightning.

It fiercely tore through the chaotic fog in Lin Feng's mind, a fog filled with self-doubt and rage.

He looked at the line of text on the screen, once.

Then again.

Anger is the fuel of the strong... not the excuse of the weak... figure out how to win back Game 6... Slowly, he lowered his arm.

His gaze shifted from the phone screen to his own bleeding hand.

Then, he looked up again, toward the shattered, spiderweb-like television screen opposite him.

His current appearance was reflected in the screen.

Messy hair, hollow eyes, his face marked by the dejection of a loser.

Is this... what a weak person looks like?

Lin Feng's chest was still heaving violently.

But his heavy gasping was gradually calming down.

Something deeper and harder than anger was reforming within his body.

Kobe was right.

Anger shouldn't be used to smash TVs or hurt himself.

Anger should be taken onto the court.

And then returned to the opponent tenfold, a hundredfold.

He slowly stood up from the floor.

He didn't bother with the wound on his hand or the mess on the floor.

He walked to the window and pulled open the heavy curtains.

The night view of San Antonio appeared before him.

He closed his eyes.

In his mind, the images of failure and humiliation were gone.

Instead, he focused on every detail of the “Cage Tactic.”

Leonard's top defense.

Green's wing harassment.

Splitter's small moves from behind.

He began calmly dissecting the reasons for his failure, like a surgeon.

[Shintaro Midorima's All-court Three-pointer].

The core of this skill is absolute precision and unsolvable range.

But it has one fatal, unavoidable prerequisite.

That is shot space and shooting rhythm.

Even a gap of just 0.1 seconds, even the adjustment of a single breath.

Give him that, and he can make the shot.

But Popovich saw through this.

That old fox wasn't even thinking about how to defend his shot.

From the very beginning, he intended to completely destroy the prerequisite for his shot at the root!

Don't allow any space.

Don't allow any rhythm.

Use the most savage, most primitive physical confrontation to turn his super cannon, which requires precise calibration, into scrap metal.

A precise artillery platform cannot destroy a moving steel fortress that is constantly pressing in on you.

Lin Feng opened his eyes.

The confusion and dejection in his eyes had vanished.

They were replaced by an icy flame, cold to the extreme.

He understood now.

To break this cage, he didn't need a more precise shot.

But a... more unreasonable power.

A more savage strength that requires no space, ignores rhythm, and can even directly convert anger and collision into points!

He needed a method that would allow him to become the fortress itself and then smash it to pieces with greater destructive force!

Aomine Daiki.

The wildest, most unpredictable scorer in kurokos basketball.

His [Formless Shot].

But... how could he acquire that skill?

According to the system's rules, he needed to complete the most intimate contact with a new woman who possessed great social influence.

Where was he supposed to find someone now?

Lin Feng's brow furrowed again.

Just then.

The phone in his hand vibrated again.

Another text message.

It was from an unfamiliar, local number.

Lin Feng raised an eyebrow.

He tapped open the message with a hint of confusion.

The message was provocative and direct.

“The St. Regis Hotel San Antonio, Room 1808. Your cage looks ugly, come over, and I'll teach you how to break it. —T.S.”