Chapter 213: 35 Points in a Single Quarter, Completely Defeating Cuban!
The NBA single-quarter scoring record was 33 points, set by George "Iceman" Gervin back in 1978. For thirty years, no one had touched it.
But tonight, Chen Yan was on the brink of making history.
The Suns knew it. The fans knew it. Even the Mavericks knew it. From the halfway mark of the third quarter, Phoenix had only one play: get Chen the ball. Every possession, every pass, every screen—everything ran through him.
It looked less like basketball and more like an open bakery. Every teammate was feeding him shots like fresh bread from the oven.
But this wasn't selfishness. This was what made the Suns special. Team basketball didn't always mean equal touches—it meant collective purpose. When one man had the fire, everyone fanned the flame.
Chen was lucky to be surrounded by teammates like that. He felt it with every pass, every glance of trust. And he paid it back with one impossible bucket after another.
As the clock ticked down and the record loomed closer, his hunger sharpened. He wanted the win—and the record.
The Suns led 92–84. Chen glanced at the scoreboard, clenched his fist, and muttered under his breath, "Win and record. I'm taking both."
Dallas had possession. Kidd stood at the top of the arc, surveying the floor like a general. Dirk came up to set the pick. The Suns' defense tightened, shadowing Nowitzki hard. Kidd, reading the coverage, whipped a no-look pass to Ray Allen in the corner.
"Swish!"
Ray Allen drilled the three despite Raja Bell's hand in his face. That left corner was his sanctuary—the spot where he hit over fifty percent of his attempts.
92–87.
The Suns came back down. With fifty-one seconds left in the quarter, Dallas tightened up their defense. Josh Howard blanketed Chen like glue, while Kidd shadowed Nash to cut off the passing lane. Nobody wanted to be immortalized as the backdrop to Chen Yan's record.
Nash kept his composure, working the dribble, waiting for an opening. Finally, he handed the ball off to Chen beyond the arc.
D'Antoni stood up from the sideline, motioning for the court to clear out. He wanted his star to have space—this was history in the making.
Chen crouched low, bouncing the ball between his legs, rocking side to side. The sound echoed through the arena—bang, bang, bang—each bounce sharper than the last. His rhythm wasn't random; he was pulling Howard's balance one way, then the other, baiting him.
Howard stayed in front but was losing control of his footing. Chen feinted right, then exploded left, crossing him with a sudden burst.
Howard managed to stay attached, step for step, but Chen abruptly slowed his pace—then spun into a perfect 180-degree fadeaway.
"Swish!"
Nothing but net.
Chen's Mamba-style movement sent the crowd into chaos.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Barkley shouted, hands on his bald head. "Chen is dancing on them in the American Airlines Center!"
"Thirty-two points!" Kenny Smith yelled. "He's one point away from tying Gervin's 33-point record! One more shot!"
Barkley could only shake his head, laughing. "He's not just breaking it—he's performing while he does it!"
From the stands, it looked effortless. Chen was gliding, floating, dominating in rhythm. But inside, his lungs burned. The Suns only had six healthy players tonight; he'd played every second of the quarter. Out of twenty-two Suns field goals, seventeen had come from him.
Every jump, every pivot, every pull-up—each one drained more of his energy. But he didn't care. He was chasing history.
Dallas tried to answer. With thirty-five seconds left, Kidd controlled the ball, calling for movement. He saw Ray Allen cutting along the baseline and decided to thread the pass.
But he didn't see Chen.
"Snap!"
Chen burst from the weak side, intercepting the pass cleanly. The crowd gasped as he sprinted the other way.
Josh Howard turned and chased, desperate to stop him. He wasn't going to let Chen have this one easily—not the record-breaking play.
Near the free-throw line, Howard wrapped his arms around Chen's waist, trying to commit the foul before the shot. His strength was considerable, and for a split second, it looked like he'd succeeded.
But Chen didn't stop.
As the whistle blew, he flung the ball toward the rim on instinct.
The ball arced high, kissed the glass, and dropped through the net.
And-one.
Galloping like thunder, zipping like lightning.
Chen kept running through the corner, pumping his fists, screaming at the camera, the veins in his arms visible under the arena lights.
The entire stadium froze for a moment before erupting.
"An unstoppable, divine shot!" someone screamed from the stands.
"Bow down! That's unreal!"
"No one can stop him tonight—not even the gods!"
"Every time he shoots, the ball just obeys!"
"Chen Yan is on another level!"
(Bro is in the zone)
It was chaos—pure basketball ecstasy.
Even Mark Cuban, who had spent the past quarter shouting himself hoarse, went quiet. Then, unbelievably, he stood and began to clap.
For all his pride, even he knew greatness when he saw it.
Chen stepped to the line, still catching his breath.
"Swish!"
The free throw was good. 35 points. The record broken.
As the final seconds of the quarter wound down and both sides missed their last attempts, the numbers stood still on the scoreboard: Chen Yan—35 points in one quarter.
Barkley practically shouted into his mic. "It's not Kobe! It's not Magic! It's not LeBron! And it's not Michael Jordan!" He paused dramatically, grinning wide. "It's Chen Yan!"
When he said Jordan's name, Barkley emphasized it just a little louder—taking one of his trademark digs at his old rival.
Kenny Smith was laughing in disbelief. "I've been covering this league for years, and I don't know how many moments like this I'll ever see again. But tonight, we just witnessed history."
On the Suns bench, players mobbed Chen, shouting and hugging him. D'Antoni clapped from the sideline, smiling like a proud father.
In the crowd, thousands of Dallas fans stood and applauded. Rivalry didn't matter anymore—not when you were watching something immortal.
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