4: The final judgment, the intra-team elimination round

Lin Feng pushed open the heavy doors of the Lakers' practice facility.

A familiar yet strange scent hit him, a mix of sweat, disinfectant, and rubber.

Everything was the same as yesterday.

But the looks people gave him were completely different.

The security guard at the door looked at him as if he had seen a ghost.

“Lin? Aren't you...”

The guard didn't finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear: Aren't you already waived?

Lin Feng didn't explain and walked straight toward the locker room.

The staff members he encountered in the hallway all cast surprised glances at him, then looked away as if avoiding a plague.

In this place, those who are eliminated are synonymous with losers—walking bad luck.

When Lin Feng pushed open the locker room door, the noisy atmosphere inside came to a standstill.

Everyone's eyes focused on him.

There was surprise and confusion, but mostly blatant contempt and mockery.

A Black player wearing a yellow practice jersey walked over; he had iconic short curly hair and an exaggerated expression.

Nick Young, known as the “isolation king.”

“Hey, China boy.”

Nick Young sized Lin Feng up, his tone full of sarcasm.

“I thought you'd already packed your bags and were on a plane home.”

A low ripple of laughter echoed through the locker room.

Lin Feng's expression didn't change in the slightest.

He walked to his locker, where his name was still posted like a small tombstone.

Nick Young cocked his expressive eyebrows. He leaned in close to Lin Feng and lowered his voice to a level only the two of them could hear.

“Stop dreaming, kid. This place isn't for you. Your physicality can't even match my little nephew's.”

Lin Feng ignored him and silently changed into his practice gear.

That slightly faded number 1 jersey.

Seeing Lin Feng's silent demeanor, Nick Young felt bored, shrugged, and walked away.

“Alright, everyone shut up!”

A raspy voice rang out.

head coach Mike D'Antoni walked in, his face grim and his eyes sunken; he looked like he hadn't slept all night.

Behind him followed the assistant coach who had told Lin Feng to get lost yesterday.

When the assistant coach saw Lin Feng, his expression was a bit unnatural, but he quickly regained his businesslike indifference.

D'Antoni's gaze swept over everyone, finally pausing on Lin Feng for half a second, his brow furrowing even tighter.

But he said nothing.

“You all know how bad the situation is,”

D'Antoni's voice echoed in the quiet locker room.

“Steve Nash sprained his ankle, Jordan Hill is still on the observation list, and Blake's back is acting up.”

“The next game is against the Rockets. If we win, we're in the Playoffs. If we lose, all of us—including me—are going the fuck home to go fishing!”

There was a suppressed rage in the coach's tone.

“I don't want to hear any excuses.”

“Now, everyone to the court.”

“We're going to have an intra-team scrimmage.”

D'Antoni emphasized his words.

“5v5 full court, split into Groups A and B.”

“The rules are simple.”

His gaze turned cold.

“The worst-performing fringe player on the losing team won't have to wait until the end of the season—you'll get the hell out of here tomorrow!”

“This is your final judgment.”

The air seemed to freeze.

The hearts of all the role players and fringe players jumped into their throats.

This was the cruelty of the NBA: teammates one moment, life-or-death competitors the next.

The assistant coach began assigning groups using a tactical board.

Group A consisted of Nick Young, Pau Gasol's backup Earl Clark, and several key rotation players.

They were the primary backups in the team's current depleted lineup.

Group B's roster was much more pathetic.

A few perennial benchwarmers, plus some veterans who had just recovered from injury and hadn't found their rhythm yet, and... “Group B, guard, Lin Feng.”

When the assistant coach read out that name, no one was surprised.

Some even let out a snicker.

Putting someone who had already been waived into the elimination group—wasn't the result obvious?

Lin Feng remained expressionless.

He followed his dejected Group B teammates to the other side of the court.

The game was about to begin.

Lin Feng was stuck at the very end of the Group B bench, without even a chance to play.

The coach preferred to start Steve Blake, a veteran with potential back issues.

“Beep—!”

The whistle blew.

The game began.

Group A was clearly superior in strength.

Nick Young played however he wanted on the court, hitting all sorts of ill-advised isolation shots.

Every time he scored, he would look provocatively at the Group B bench, his gaze lingering specifically on Lin Feng.

Meanwhile, Group B was a total mess.

Their offense was disorganized, and their defense was non-existent.

Affected by his back injury, the veteran Blake moved slowly and was blown by the young Group A guards in a single step.

The paint was left at the mercy of Earl Clark.

The point gap widened rapidly.

5:0.

11:2.

23:7.

On the sidelines, D'Antoni's expression grew uglier and uglier; he kept roaring from the bench, but it was to no avail.

The Group B players' morale was low; everyone was playing selfishly and chaotically as if fighting for their own livelihoods.

Lin Feng sat on the bench, quietly watching everything on the court.

His eyes were as calm as water, but his brain was working at high speed.

Group A's defensive lapses, Group B's positioning errors—every detail was clearly captured by him.

“Damn it!”

A cry of pain suddenly came from the court.

Group B's point guard Steve Blake, while trying to avoid a defender during a drive, landed awkwardly and twisted his ankle.

He clutched his ankle, falling to the ground in pain.

The Team Doctor immediately rushed over.

The game was forced into a timeout.

The Group B players gathered around, their faces ashen.

Their only point guard was down; how were they supposed to play now?

D'Antoni frustratedly ran a hand through his hair.

He glanced at the Group B bench.

There were only two forwards left, and... Lin Feng.

The assistant coach leaned into his ear.

“Mike, why don't we stop here? Group B can't play anymore.”

D'Antoni shook his head.

“No, I need to see someone who can still fight in a desperate situation!”

His gaze swept over the stunned players on the bench one by one, finally landing on the East Asian man who had been exceptionally calm from beginning to end.

The kid who had already been given up on by management and was only called back temporarily because there was no one else available in the backcourt.

In his eyes, there was none of the panic or despair seen in the others.

Only a bottomless depth of serenity.

The Team Doctor made a gesture; Blake could not continue the game.

D'Antoni's brow furrowed into deep lines.

He had no other choice.

He reluctantly tilted his chin toward the end of the bench, that corner almost forgotten by everyone.

D'Antoni's voice carried obvious impatience and a hint of a desperate gamble.

“Kid, you're in!”

Every eye in the training facility instantly converged on Lin Feng.

Lin Feng slowly stood up and took off his heavy practice jacket.

Revealing that thin number 1 jersey.

He flexed his wrists, took a long stride, and walked step by step toward the center of the court.