Chapter Twenty-Six: The Spirit of a True Hero

“Oh my god, what are they doing, what are they doing? Please, this is the moment of a game-winner, can’t they just play seriously?” Smith was ranting furiously; this was the most harmonious game-winner moment he’d ever witnessed.

“Isn’t this great? One-on-one showdown, fair and square. I’m already looking forward to it,” Barkley admired this kind of duel. Both He Xinghui and Hamilton were real men.

Meanwhile, nearly twenty thousand spectators in the arena held their breath, their eyes locked on He Xinghui and Hamilton. Tens of millions watching the live broadcast were equally enthralled, hearts pounding in their chests.

On the court, only four seconds remained. He Xinghui moved, beginning his drive. But he wasn’t truly attempting to break through—he simply wanted to confuse Hamilton and burn a bit more time. If he took the shot now, there’d be time left for the Pistons to counter with their own game-winner. That was absolutely unacceptable.

He Xinghui feigned a drive, but the system’s skill didn’t know his intentions and instantly determined he was going for the game-winner. With the skill’s hundred percent accuracy, it granted He Xinghui S-level breakthrough ability to prevent him from being blocked.

With S-level breakthrough, Hamilton was caught off guard and was shaken to the ground, landing on his backside in a rather comical fashion.

“Oh my god, Richard’s been shaken down!” Smith leapt to his feet. To be toppled at such a crucial moment was simply fatal.

Coach Saunders had already jumped up from the sidelines, seemingly ready to abandon sportsmanship and call other players to help defend.

But the next scene left him utterly stunned.

After shaking Hamilton to the floor, He Xinghui didn’t drive to the basket for an easy layup. He wanted to shoot a three-pointer—and there was still time left.

So, He Xinghui stepped back beyond the three-point line, dribbling with his left hand, right palm facing upward, motioning Hamilton to get up with a beckoning gesture.

‘Arrogant’ was far too mild to describe this. If this were a football pitch, He Xinghui wouldn’t survive a single season.

“F—, what’s he doing, what’s he doing, what’s he doing?” Smith howled, instantly riling up the crowd.

To shake down your opponent and not take the game-winner, instead giving them another chance… this was simply too cool.

There was a hint of the Chinese knight-errant in his actions; disdain for sneak attacks, disdain for taking advantage.

To the fans, it was pure swagger.

But Dunleavy only wanted to grab a bench and smack He Xinghui. Winning was what mattered most.

Hamilton felt both ashamed and furious, but he couldn’t care about that now. He scrambled up, lunging at He Xinghui.

Time was now under half a second. He Xinghui, facing Hamilton’s defense, released the ball with just 0.1 seconds left, sending it flying toward the basket.

Hamilton, unable to stop his momentum, crashed into He Xinghui, who staggered back toward the spectator seats and fell into the embrace of a voluptuous beauty.

After a tiring game, nothing was more comfortable than lying on a sofa. But this beauty’s curves were far softer than any sofa.

Moreover, thanks to certain physiological features, he could smell a hint of fragrance.

The beauty with the lollipop was a little dazed. He Xinghui smiled and said, “I just hit the game-winner—how about rewarding me with your lollipop?”

He opened his mouth. Cindy, the beauty, wouldn’t refuse such a memorable moment, nor would she spoil the mood.

She took the lollipop from her mouth and placed it in He Xinghui’s.

The girl sitting next to Cindy nearly teared up at the sight, inwardly blaming Hamilton for not pushing hard enough—if only He Xinghui had fallen a little further, he would have landed in her arms.

This was a nationwide broadcast. This moment would be seen by countless people—a perfect chance to become famous overnight.

“Holy sh—, He didn’t shoot, he’s letting Richard stand up, he’s going to duel Richard. He checked the timer, he shoots—a three-pointer—it's good, good, good, good, good…!” Smith shouted.

“Incredible, absolutely outrageous, so cool. Damn, why didn’t I think of this move when I played?” Barkley exclaimed.

As the ball swished through the net, time seemed to freeze.

In that moment, Dunleavy’s mind raced; it was like an anime flashback montage. He went from wanting to kill He Xinghui to absolutely loving him.

Pistons fans were filled with a thousand emotions. He Xinghui was their opponent, provoking their players and themselves; they had originally hated him.

But after He Xinghui hit that game-winner, some felt a pang of regret. They couldn’t help but wish: if only He Xinghui were a Pistons player, how amazing would that be?

Then they could celebrate recklessly and wildly, and in the future, reminisce about this shot countless times with other Pistons fans, sharing the joy.

The Pistons’ record was good, but their games were often dull and uninspiring. He Xinghui’s style, regardless of practicality, was unrivaled in entertainment. McGrady, White Chocolate, Carter—none could match his flair.

“Where’s our hero? Camera, camera! Sh—, he’s flirting, he’s flirting. After hitting the game-winner, this bastard isn’t celebrating—instead, he’s flirting…” Smith noticed He Xinghui, lying in Cindy’s arms with a lollipop, and couldn’t help but rant.

Damn, he hit the game-winner! At such an exhilarating moment, shouldn’t he be jumping onto the scorer’s table, roaring, or at least hopping and skipping around the court?

Yet Smith had to admit: the more He Xinghui acted indifferent about the game-winner, the cooler he seemed.

“That damned bastard—I’m jealous. Why isn’t it me lying in a beauty’s arms? Why, why?” Barkley pounded the table.

With the replay, viewers started to pay attention to He Xinghui, just as Smith did.

In that instant, whether male fans or female viewers, they all felt envy.

The men envied He Xinghui, the women envied Cindy.

Before tens of millions, this moment was unbearably romantic.

Kaman, who was about to celebrate, couldn’t help but complain, “Why don’t I feel the thrill of beating the opponent with a game-winner this time?”

“Me neither,” said Brand.

“Maybe we should go pull him up—can’t let him keep taking advantage of the girl,” Cassell suggested.

“Agreed.”

Though they said so, no one actually ruined the mood.

Even the Pistons players restrained themselves.

He Xinghui had scored the game-winner in a nearly humiliating fashion. They’d originally wanted to go beat him up.

But to drag He Xinghui off a beautiful woman just to hit him seemed wrong—it might break the girl’s heart.

Helpless, Ben Wallace and the others could only stew in frustration, unable to do anything to He Xinghui.

As for Hamilton, he was still lying on the court when the ball went in, unwilling to get up.

If only time could freeze. The thought that this moment would be watched by countless people in the future made him want to cry.