Chapter Thirty-Three: A Goal of Many Styles

"He's still not strong enough," Dunleavy observed with a hint of resignation as He Xinghui was knocked aside. "But he's improved a lot; in the past, he'd have been rolling on the ground by now."

Vincent, the assistant coach responsible for He Xinghui’s strength training, could clearly see his progress. "If he wants to become our core, it's still far from enough," Dunleavy said. He had already received instructions from management—Elgin Baylor wanted He Xinghui developed as the team's centerpiece. Dunleavy was not happy about this; in his eyes, He Xinghui needed more time to hone his skills, and elevating him to a central position too soon might do more harm than good. But he couldn’t convince Elgin Baylor—after all, the directive ultimately came from the owner.

On the court, He Xinghui, whose strength talent had now reached C-level, continued to be bullied by Mason’s muscle. It was a pitiful sight, but in reality, the Hornets weren’t gaining any real advantage from it. Mason couldn’t seem to turn his strength into actual points, much like a soccer team dominating possession but failing to score—it was pointless. In contrast, He Xinghui would occasionally sneak in a basket, which helped his team much more. After several minutes, Mason was substituted.

JR Smith took the court. At this time, Smith was only a sophomore, but his talent was already coming through. Last season, he averaged ten points per game, but this season, after butting heads with the coaching staff and refusing to comply, his playing time was cut and his scoring average dropped to just over seven. He Xinghui was familiar with Smith—he’d played with James and had stints in the CBA.

"Smith, your coaching staff is terrible. You were scoring in double digits just last season, and now they barely use you," He Xinghui said, feigning ignorance and picking at the sore spot.

"Mind your own business," Smith snapped, clearly annoyed. He had every reason to be frustrated: a player who scores in double digits in his first season is usually given priority development by the team. Yet, it wasn’t the case for him, which made Smith, who dreamed of becoming a star, infuriated.

Fueled by anger, Smith wanted to teach He Xinghui a lesson, to prove the coaches wrong by scoring. But He Xinghui stuck to him relentlessly beyond the three-point line. He knew Smith’s three-point percentage was about the same as his two-point, so he focused his defense outside and didn’t worry much about Smith driving inside.

Smith received the pass and feinted a drive, but He Xinghui was unmoved. For a moment, Smith felt as if his intentions had been seen through, leaving him frustrated. Among the league’s four or five hundred players, East and West teams only meet twice a year, with just ten players on the court at once, so there aren’t many chances to go head-to-head. Apart from the big names, most players aren’t that familiar with each other. Smith couldn’t understand how He Xinghui seemed to know his style and thoughts so well.

Failing to trick He Xinghui and seeing the shot clock winding down, Smith could only force up a shot. He Xinghui, anticipating the moment, jumped early and swatted the ball toward the frontcourt. Before anyone could react, He Xinghui chased after it and seized a clear path to the basket.

Before the game, He Xinghui had considered how he’d play and what his goals were for the season. With his current ability and the Clippers’ roster, winning the championship was little more than a pipe dream. So, his goal this season was to improve his skills and solidify his position. The results of the regular season weren’t his main concern.

For this game, instead of buying items to boost his strength, he purchased the "Fancy Finish" item. Simply put, it enabled flashy, spectacular scoring plays—a magnet for fans. At a cost of 50 rage points each, it was fairly affordable.

With a clear path to the basket, a dunk was the obvious choice. As soon as He Xinghui made the decision, the item activated, granting him temporary S-level jumping and hang-time abilities.

As the crowd gasped, He Xinghui dashed to the rim, leapt high, switched hands under his legs, and finished with a windmill slam. This move would earn a perfect score in a dunk contest, and had never been seen in actual gameplay.

"Oh my God, whoever said he’s just average physically, stand up—I want to smack you!" Barkley jumped from his seat, his mouth forming a perfect O.

"Under-the-leg windmill, unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable!" Kenny Smith was equally stunned by He Xinghui’s sudden, explosive dunk.

"He-He-He-He…"
"Sky Hero!"
"Miracle Boy!"

The crowd erupted in wild excitement—they’d come for He Xinghui’s dazzling performance, and now their wish was granted.

He Xinghui, after finishing, ran to the scorer’s table and said to the statistician, "This basket deserves three points."

Feather, the statistician, replied with a grin, "Kid, I’d love to give you three, but rules say shots made at the rim are worth two."

"So stingy! You’re killing the dunk—next time, I’ll only shoot threes. That’ll help the team more," He Xinghui said, shaking his head and leaving, amusing the staff and audience around him.

His basket was so spectacular that the game paused, replaying it for the fans’ enjoyment. On the screen, He Xinghui’s move was shown repeatedly, so elegant it was almost unreal.

"Show-off," Paul snorted inwardly. At this point in the game, he had two points and three assists, while He Xinghui had five points. By contribution and performance, Paul considered himself superior. Yet, no one cheered for him; his efforts went unnoticed. It was impossible not to feel a bit resentful.

The brief commotion faded, and play resumed.

"Smith, how about that dunk? Think I can beat Candace?" Back on the court, He Xinghui smiled at Smith.

"F—k you, say that again if you dare," Smith exploded, suddenly headbutting He Xinghui.

It wasn’t entirely Smith’s fault for losing his temper. The Candace mentioned by He Xinghui was Candace Parker. In 2004, Smith lost to the then seventeen-year-old Candace in the McDonald’s All-American dunk contest. In ten years, Candace would win the WNBA championship, so Smith wouldn’t need to be embarrassed. But at this point, Candace wasn’t yet in the WNBA—just an unknown college student.

For an aspiring NBA All-Star to lose a dunk contest to a female college student—such a black mark was bound to sting. Anyone would snap if it was brought up. The fact that Smith didn’t immediately throw a punch was already remarkably restrained.