Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Battle for the Throne of Gods

With only five seconds remaining, Dunleavy chose not to call a timeout.

Yet the crowd felt no dissatisfaction with his decision. This game had transcended the ordinary; it was no longer just a match. Whether a timeout was called or not, everyone knew the Clippers' final shot would come from He Xinghui. Nor did the Clippers have to worry about the Lakers double-teaming him. Kobe’s pride ensured he would defend one-on-one to the very end.

Cassell inbounded from the baseline. He Xinghui caught the ball and advanced leisurely, as if he were out for a stroll, perfectly at ease. Such calm, such poise—qualities few possess.

The Clippers fans in the stands, by contrast, were so tense they wished they could rush onto the court themselves, kick He Xinghui aside, and take the shot. His own fans fretted, worried he might run out of time.

With less than two seconds left, Kobe pressed up to challenge him. Kobe believed that if he could force He Xinghui to take a few more dribbles, time would expire.

But as Kobe closed in, He Xinghui did something no one expected: he bounced the ball, slipped it between Kobe’s legs, and broke past him, then pulled up for a mid-range jumper.

The shot went in.

It wasn’t a particularly flashy basket—but it was a game-winner, a buzzer-beating victory over Kobe, a shot that determined the outcome.

As the ball fell through the net, He Xinghui closed his eyes, stretched out his arms with palms down, motionless.

Cries of “MVP,” “Big Brother,” “I love you,” and more rained down on him like a gentle spring shower, seeping into his skin, thrilling his very soul.

It felt wonderful—intensely satisfying. The psychological fulfillment surpassed even the pleasures of the flesh. The roar of tens of thousands, the attention of millions, the pride of hundreds of millions.

What more could one ask of life?

To borrow a line from a Stephen Chow film: “Having achieved so much at such a young age, perhaps there is nothing left but to die.”

The crowd erupted. The arena was in chaos. This was the most spectacular game they’d seen all season—bar none.

Journalists’ cameras snapped frenetically, eager to capture He Xinghui basking in the cheers, fearing a Clippers teammate might rush over to embrace him and spoil the iconic moment.

Fortunately, the Clippers players were used to He Xinghui’s solitary celebrations and knew better than to intrude.

For all his elaborate celebrations, they simply lamented their own lack of imagination—every time they excelled, all they could manage was a primal roar, which felt woefully inadequate.

He Xinghui soaked in the applause, while Kobe left without a word, making his way to the locker room, his silhouette tinged with isolation.

Kobe had shot 22 for 42, 5 for 13 from three, 15 for 18 from the line, scoring 64 points—a performance that could not be called anything but excellent and relentless.

Yet as the loser, these numbers and this effort meant nothing; if anything, they only highlighted the strength of his opponent.

Kobe still refused to accept defeat in his heart, but he had to admit: He Xinghui had become his greatest rival, the person he most wanted to conquer.

Only Vanessa and Kobe’s diehard fans noticed his disappointment. As for He Xinghui’s fans and the neutral spectators, all their attention was on him.

“Charlize, your man is too cool.”

Diaz moved closer to Charlize, offering praise.

“No, he and I are just friends,” Theron explained.

She admitted He Xinghui’s performance had exceeded her imagination, but to say it would spark romance seemed hasty.

“Are you sure? If you say so, I’ll make my move—I won’t hold back,” Diaz said, licking her lips alluringly.

“Do as you please,” Theron shrugged, speaking with apparent ease.

Yet after she spoke, a strange sense of reluctance lingered in her heart—a feeling reminiscent of childhood, when one gave away a favorite toy with apparent generosity, yet inwardly wished it had never left.

TNT.

After He Xinghui’s game-winning shot, Barkley was wreaking havoc in the studio to express his frustration.

Only Smith remained composed, continuing his commentary: “Congratulations to Big Brother for clinching victory against the Lakers and besting Kobe. His performance tonight was simply outstanding…”

Defeating the Lakers, defeating Kobe, the youngest player to score fifty, then sixty, breaking the single-game three-point record, entering the top ten for single-game scoring in history.

Any single one of these feats could make front-page news.

And tonight, He Xinghui had accomplished all of them in one game.

How astonishing was this?

Viewers glued to their screens paid no mind to Barkley’s clownish antics, nor to whether he’d again don a dress. They were utterly transfixed by He Xinghui’s performance.

The youngest to score sixty, a new single-game three-point record, a rookie scoring record…

With these dazzling achievements, Barkley could streak across the stage and still not divert the fans’ attention.

“He’s incredible—better than LeBron.”

“No doubt, he’ll be the next superstar of the league.”

“I feel he can dominate the NBA.”

Fans grew more and more extravagant in their praise, nearly claiming he’d surpass Jordan. In that moment, He Xinghui gained fans far beyond California. Even those not rooting for the Clippers were won over, becoming fans of He Xinghui himself.

Meanwhile, in China.

CCTV.

After He Xinghui’s game-winner against Kobe, the two commentators were speechless.

Their voices had already been hoarse when He Xinghui reached fifty and sixty points; they’d exhausted all words of praise they could summon.

Sixty points—for a Chinese player, it was simply astonishing.

Previously, Yao Ming’s highest was forty-one, and that was after three overtimes. He never broke through again.

Compared to Yao Ming, He Xinghui’s sixty-five in four quarters was explosive.

His streak of baskets drove fans wild.

“Amazing—truly amazing,” Sun Zhengping and Zhang He could only repeat, unable to find any other words.

But they didn’t need to say more; the fans at home could feel it themselves.

“Incredible, incredible—this is beyond incredible.”

“He’s demolished Kobe, plain and simple—so strong.”

“The undisputed number one in Chinese basketball.”

“Uh-oh, I’m afraid Yao’s status might be threatened.”

Some fans even worried for the coexistence of He Xinghui and Yao Ming’s legacies.

Yet these were happy problems.

If possible, Chinese fans wished for dozens of players like Yao Ming and He Xinghui.

Then, in basketball, they’d create an invincible myth: “Winning domestic medals is harder than winning international ones.”