NBA: GIANT KILLING

With a graceful leap, Gorin rose into the air, his fingertips brushing the ball ever so slightly. It soared toward Klint, a delicate arc slicing through the gym's charged air.

Klint caught it mid-stride, his movements fluid as he surged past half-court.

Facing him was a towering figure—number 31, a player whose presence alone seemed to shrink the space around him. Klint lowered his center of gravity, shifting the ball in a sharp, sweeping crossover.

And just like that, he was past him.

'Too easy,' he thought, the thrill of victory bubbling in his chest.

But before he could even savor the moment—

A hand, swift as a shadow, reached back and plucked the ball from his grasp.

Quick. Effortless. Clinical.

The ball bounced twice before being scooped up by his opponent, who wasted no time launching a counterattack.

A blur of motion and then...a thunderous slam.

"WOAHHHHH!"

The crowd roared!

And just like that, the first two points belonged to the other side.

And the unraveling had only just begun.

Despite all his talk, Klint was very difficult to watch on the court.

Possession after possession, Klint faltered, unable to crack the impenetrable wall that was number 31. With every fumble, every lost duel, Aina University's confidence crumbled.

After all the talk, Klint didn't showcase anything worthwhile.

He was just that.

All talk.

The score gap widened—five points, then seven, then ten.

Six minutes. That was all it took.

On the sidelines, Oliver sat in silence, his sharp eyes tracking every movement.

Number 31—Mo Williams. The name on his jersey sent a flicker of recognition through Oliver's mind.

Williams moved with a rare elegance, each step laced with an ease that made Klint look sluggish in comparison. His game was pure calculation—never reckless, never hurried.

His passes curled through the air at impossible angles, landing perfectly in his teammates' hands, as if he could see the court from above, like a God observing the game.

'Mo Williams...'

The name echoed in Oliver's thoughts, stirring something deep in his memory. And then, like a lightning strike, it hit him.

—McDonald's All-American, Mississippi Player of the Year.

—National Freshman of the Year in 2001-2002.

—Declared for the NBA Draft in 2003.

—An All-Star reserve in 2009.

—And in 2016, alongside LeBron James, he orchestrated one of the greatest comebacks in basketball history, toppling the Golden State Warriors to claim an NBA championship.

Oliver's fingers curled into a fist.

'It's him. No wonder.'

He looked up at the court. Despite his boyish face, Williams played with the poise of a seasoned veteran, his control over the game absolute.

'A future NBA All-Star.'

A sharp whistle cut through the air—Coach Boheim had called a timeout.

Klint collapsed onto the bench, his breath ragged, his body slumped in exhaustion.

The few minutes in the court had drained him completely.

Across from him, Williams merely dabbed the sweat from his forehead. He was still steady, unshaken.

"Oliver, you're in."

Boheim's voice carried finality, his finger pointing toward the court.

Klint's head jerked up in disbelief.

"What? Why? Coach, I can still play! Why put this damn shortie in for me?"

Boheim silenced him with a single serious glare. Klint had no choice but to swallow his outrage, throwing his towel to the floor in frustration, muttering curses under his breath.

Unfazed, Boheim gave Oliver a few quick instructions.

'This is it. I can't remember the last time I stepped on a court for an official game.'

Oliver could now hear his heart beating.

Was it from excitement? Fear?

No matter what it was, he knew he needed to calm down.

'There's no room for errors.'

And then, with the referee's whistle, the substitution was made.

As Oliver stepped onto the court, he caught a look from Gorin—a glance heavy with expectation.

The ball was inbounded.

The instant it touched his fingers, Oliver felt it—power, precision, control. His dribble was steadier, sharper, the rhythm shifting seamlessly between slow and fast, dictated by his will alone.

The ball clung to his palm like it was tethered by an invisible thread.

Against taller defenders, speed was a weapon, but rhythm—rhythm was an art.

'So this is peak Harden... This is addicting. Looks like those training sessions weren't in vain.'

Williams, seeing the new challenger, didn't relax for a second.

He closed in.

Oliver advanced cautiously, leading the ball toward the three-point line. Williams mirrored him with near-perfect lateral movement, his stance unwavering.

Then, in a blink, Oliver struck.

A sudden drive to the right—explosive, quick.

Williams reacted instantly, backpedaling to cut him off—

But Oliver had already stopped.

Every eye in the arena widened in anticipation.

With a swift pull-back, he gathered the ball, took a step behind the arc—

And released.

The ball soared, cutting through the air in a flawless arc.

Not a single player moved.

The crowd held its breath.

Then—

"Swish!"

A perfect, nothing but net three-pointer.

The gym exploded.

"Nice shot!"

The commentator's voice cracked with excitement.

The stands shook with thunderous cheers.

"Woah! That guy has moves!!"

Spectators leapt to their feet, some rubbing their eyes as if they'd witnessed an illusion.

"Was that a travel?" one fan gasped, searching the court for a referee's whistle.

"No, no, if you looked closely—he gathered the ball before taking a single step. That was completely legal!" a basketball fanatic eagerly replied.

Another, arms crossed, eyes wide with unprecedented wonder.

"If he developed that move on his own, he's not just talented—he's a basketball savant."

Oliver flexed his left hand, a smirk flickering across his lips.

'Peak Harden's step-back three—it's damn near unstoppable.'

'A small spark, but enough to reignite the fire.'

But he knew—this was only the beginning.

On the sidelines, Boeheim exhaled slowly, his brows still knit in concentration.

He had seen Oliver's one-on-one skills before. But this—this was something else.

Still, a single shot wasn't enough.

A great point guard wasn't just a scorer; he was the heartbeat of a team, the axis around which the game revolved.

And so, as he watched Oliver stride back down the court, Boheim's expectations rose higher than ever before.