Chapter Twelve: The Pitiful One

On the 10th, the Clippers hosted the Spurs at home.

After a two-game winning streak, the Clippers revealed their true colors, getting utterly dismantled by the Spurs' legendary trio, left in utter chaos.

By the time He Xinghui stepped onto the court, the Clippers were already trailing by fifteen points.

Anyone watching might have thought it was already the fourth quarter, but in reality, only eight minutes had passed in the first.

At this rate, by the end of the game, the Clippers would lose by seventy-five.

Fortunately, Popovich, seeing his team with a comfortable lead, sent in some substitutes for practice.

He Xinghui was not at all dejected by being underestimated; in fact, he felt relieved.

It would have been far too much to expect him to take on the legendary trio and rescue the team.

At this moment, the Spurs had Udrih at point guard, Brent Barry at shooting guard, and Devin Brown at small forward...

Among these, Brown was the only one with some notoriety.

Of course, his fame didn't come from his skills, but rather because he had been the backdrop during McGrady’s miraculous 35-second performance.

He Xinghui vaguely recalled that Devin Brown should have transferred to the Jazz this season, but for some reason he was still with the Spurs.

But that hardly mattered.

What mattered was that this guy had a past he’d rather not remember.

The game continued, and He Xinghui switched positions with his teammate Maggette, coming face to face with Brown.

“I know you, superstar,” He Xinghui said.

Brown was momentarily stunned, then secretly delighted, thinking he must be He Xinghui’s idol.

That was a rare thing—after all, he was a nobody in the league, so to be called a superstar by a rookie was cause for celebration.

Just as he was about to say a few words of encouragement to the young player, He Xinghui continued, “Can you teach me how to let an opponent score thirteen points in thirty-five seconds? I’d like to know what it feels like to become famous too.”

[Devin Brown’s anger: 100 points.]

From both the system message and the contorted expression on Brown’s face, He Xinghui could sense just how much that incident had haunted him.

Brown was not a man of words and did not know how to respond; he simply called for the ball, preparing to take He Xinghui on one-on-one.

However, he was a bit agitated, and as he drove to the basket, his elbow hit He Xinghui.

He Xinghui, of course, would not waste such an opportunity—he went down immediately, almost rolling on the floor.

Beep.

The referee blew the whistle, signaling an offensive foul on Brown.

“I didn’t do it,”

Brown protested, looking as aggrieved as a three-year-old, but the referee paid him no mind.

Popovich frowned on the sidelines. Before the game, he had told his players that this rookie, He Xinghui, was nothing special, and not to get drawn into meaningless talk.

He never expected that the moment He Xinghui set foot on the court, one of his own would already be thrown off balance.

He even considered calling a timeout to ask Brown what exactly He Xinghui had said to have such an impact.

“Am I seeing things, or is something wrong with the roster sheet? Looks like Devin Brown’s the rookie, and He’s a seasoned vet,” Barkley quipped.

The episode quickly ended, and He Xinghui had earned the Clippers an extra possession.

Mobley and Cassell ran a pick-and-roll, netting two points.

On the next possession, He Xinghui stuck close to Brown, muttering continuously.

Brown, though not clever, had been warned by his previous mistake and realized He Xinghui was deliberately trying to provoke him.

Once he understood this, his self-control soared.

A million-dollar salary was there for the taking if he just played properly; faced with such immense temptation, most people could rein in their emotions.

A million-dollar job—who wouldn’t put up with a bit of mockery for that? Even if it meant being spat on, there would be a line of people eager to do it.

Brown regained his composure, which left He Xinghui at a loss.

Now his trash talk had little effect, since his performance on the court was rather mediocre.

When a rookie taunts, the Spurs' players are unfazed.

Only a dazzling performance gives trash talk its sting.

But with He Xinghui’s real abilities, such a performance was out of reach.

“Still sixty short,”

He Xinghui thought, aiming to save up five hundred anger points to trade for a more powerful skill with a longer duration—his only hope for turning the game around.

Skills requiring only a hundred anger points either didn’t last long or weren’t sharp enough.

After some back-and-forth, the first quarter drew to a close, with the Spurs holding the ball for the last possession.

He Xinghui stayed glued to Brown, chattering away.

This time, he wasn’t just talking; he mimicked a classic facial expression—Brown’s dumbfounded look after being stripped and watching McGrady hit the game-winner.

“Brown, do you know? That look of yours is all over social media back home. It’s the perfect embodiment of stupidity.”

Quantity turns into quality. At these words, Brown lost his composure again.

Already simmering with anger, He Xinghui had just ripped the scab off his old wound.

Even recalling that cringe-worthy expression made Brown feel unbearably awkward.

Hearing someone else mention it only deepened his shame.

“F*** you!”

Brown suddenly shoved He Xinghui.

He honestly just wanted to put some distance between them, meaning no real harm.

But the referee didn’t care about intentions. Seeing He Xinghui topple to the floor, he blew his whistle without hesitation and gave Brown a technical.

Brown leapt and shouted in protest, trying to explain.

At the same time, he contributed more than two hundred anger points to He Xinghui—clearly, he was fuming.

Not just him—Popovich was also roaring at the referees from the sideline.

“This game’s outcome doesn’t matter anymore. Teach that kid a lesson—make sure he remembers it!”

After being ignored by the officials, Popovich issued a bounty to his vaunted trio.

They all grinned—Duncan, not yet the victim of the bald ref’s wrath, looked especially smug.

On the other side, He Xinghui was basking in his teammates’ and coach’s praise.

Though he hadn’t scored much in these few minutes—two points from two attempts—his value was clear: he’d drawn an offensive foul and a technical, making a real impact.

During his time on the floor, the Clippers had even clawed back four points.

For a rookie, that was more than respectable.

But it still wasn’t enough; the gap between the two teams remained at eleven points.

And with the legendary trio sure to return, the Clippers’ situation was still dire.

“If only He were a bit stronger,” Dunleavy thought to himself.

Meanwhile, He Xinghui had already picked out his next skill within the system:

McGrady’s step-back jumper—sixty percent chance of making shots regardless of defensive pressure, lasting thirty minutes of game time.

“If I repeat Brown’s 35-second, 13-point nightmare right in front of him, will he be so mad he coughs up blood? Would that be too much?”

Thinking about it, He Xinghui couldn’t help but grin mischievously.