Chapter Thirteen: Radiance

Returning to the court, He Xinghui found himself matched up against Ginobili.

At this moment, Ginobili was riding a wave of triumph: he had led his team to defeat the American Dream Team V at the World Championships, toppled Dream Team VI at the Olympics, recently claimed an NBA championship, and been selected as an All-Star—a true winner in life.

Even his hair remained lush and full, not yet ravaged by time or stress.

There was simply no obvious weakness to exploit in this Ginobili.

“Hello, third leader of the Spurs,” He Xinghui tried, unwilling to give up so easily.

By statistics and impact, Ginobili probably ranked second in the GDP trio at this point.

A more narrow-minded man might take offense at such a remark.

But Ginobili clearly couldn't care less.

Possession changed hands—the Spurs' turn to attack.

The ball found Ginobili, who instantly executed a serpentine drive, leaving He Xinghui in the dust and scoring at the rim.

“Hey, look! He’s as supple as a woman!” He Xinghui bounced and pointed at Ginobili, shouting excitedly to everyone.

The scene was reminiscent of Dennis Rodman theatrically complaining to the referee about a foul.

Ginobili’s face darkened at the words.

To a basketball player, being called soft hardly seemed fair—it was called agility.

“Focus, this is a game, not streetball,” the referee warned He Xinghui.

Facing Ginobili’s defense, He Xinghui called for the ball, then, without hesitation, launched into an utterly unreasonable, almost illogical, jump shot right where he stood.

Absurdly, the ball sailed in.

“You see that? That’s how a real man scores—a single word: hard,” He Xinghui declared, chin high, as if he truly looked down on Ginobili’s scoring style, igniting a quiet fury within Ginobili.

Back on offense, Ginobili prepared to break through with his signature Eurostep.

But this time, He Xinghui spoke up: “If you keep playing like a sissy, I won’t even bother defending you. I refuse to play against a diva.”

With that, he actually stepped aside, opening the way for Ginobili to the basket.

Coach Dunleavy’s smile grew strained—he was at a loss for how to evaluate this rookie, unpredictable as ever.

If only he had someone else to put in, He Xinghui’s blatant disregard for the game would have earned him a swift substitution.

On the court, Ginobili didn’t stand on ceremony—he exploited the opening and scored easily again.

Yet, this time, there was no trace of his usual excitement.

Every previous basket brought satisfaction—the reward for effort.

But now, for some reason, he could only feel that these points were gifts from the opposing rookie, utterly devoid of accomplishment.

A hollow victory.

What frustrated Ginobili most was that he didn’t need to be let off the hook; He Xinghui simply couldn’t guard him.

“Despicable fellow,” Ginobili muttered to himself, contributing a solid twenty points to He Xinghui’s “anger meter.”

Now it was the Clippers’ turn. He Xinghui called for the ball again.

He knew his defense was poor—if he wanted to stay on the court, he had to pile up points.

“Goodness, this guy thinks he’s the captain now?” Mobley grumbled internally but still passed the ball to He Xinghui.

Dribbling, He Xinghui pointed to the floor. “Manu, let me show you how a real man plays. In a second, I’ll score from this spot.”

Without further ado, he pulled up for the shot. Ginobili, at 1.98 meters, similar in height to He Xinghui, leaped but failed to block it.

He Xinghui ignored any other distractions.

Even as the ball arced through the air, he’d already turned around, arms raised in early celebration.

This was a classic NBA moment; in the original timeline, Arenas had created this scene in 2007.

But now, He Xinghui beat him to it.

He felt no worry about missing—if he wasn’t embarrassed, it was others who would be.

And even if he failed, it would still be memorable, like Nick Young’s infamous moments.

Those who never show off are destined to be forgotten.

Luckily, fortune smiled on He Xinghui—his sixty percent shooting touch sent the ball cleanly through the net.

The crisp swish was like a stone splashing into a calm lake, instantly sending ripples everywhere.

The arena, the broadcast studio, a family living room, a corner store—

All erupted in chaos.

“Oh my God! Before the shot, He pointed to the floor—he told Manu he’d shoot from that very spot, and he started celebrating before the ball even went in. His name is Xinghui He…”

“At this moment, I became his fan. That move was just too cool.”

The commentators howled with excitement. This was the sort of moment fans would remember for decades—such excitement was well justified.

“That’s what it means to be a real man.”

“He could well take the mantle.”

“If the heavens had not given us Xinghui He, the court would be shrouded in endless night.”

Such words came from fans, a still-young Steph Curry, and the already retired Larry Bird.

Of course, their original phrasing was different, but the sentiments were the same.

He Xinghui’s flamboyant move dazzled everyone, blinding them with its sheer brilliance.

Never before had anyone put on such a show.

On the court, the game had to pause as the Clippers rushed to surround He Xinghui, engulfing him in celebration.

On the bench and in the stands, madness reigned.

Cameras clicked furiously; one journalist even knelt to get a better angle, looking for all the world as if he were worshipping He Xinghui.

At that moment, Ginobili had to admit—he was jealous.

Though he had NBA titles, an Olympic gold, and All-Star nods, he’d never had a moment so dazzling.

He too longed to play with such audacity, but he knew the old coach would never allow it.

Ginobili, who once thought his life complete, now recognized this as a regret—damn it all, how vexing.

Play resumed, and the Spurs attacked.

To their credit, the Spurs were a battle-hardened team; even after such a shock, the players remained composed, seemingly unfazed.

Ginobili drove again, Mobley helped on defense, the ball swung to Parker, who floated in a shot—score.

Possession changed hands several times, both teams trading blows, the score difference holding steady at around ten points.

Throughout this stretch, He Xinghui continued his strong play.

By halftime, he had tallied 17 points, shooting 7-for-10 from the field and 3-for-5 from beyond the arc—a star’s numbers.

The outcome of the game was still uncertain, but Coach Popovich’s plan to teach He Xinghui a lesson had, without a doubt, failed.