On January 16 and 18, the Knicks took care of business, beating both the Pacers and the Bucks. That three-game winning streak had Madison Square Garden buzzing, but for Lin Yi, there was an even sweeter victory: his much-cherished Limitless Range badge finally got its long-awaited upgrade.
Of course, reality isn't a video game. No one but Lin himself knew the countless hours, the grinding repetition, and the absurd distances he'd pushed himself to shoot from, all for this upgrade.
Lin was still the league's king of deep threes—no one had attempted or hit more shots from way beyond the arc. And if he had trimmed out some of his more reckless heaves, maybe his percentage could've flirted with the 50% mark.
But the point wasn't just accuracy. The psychological effect of dropping one or two bombs from nine or ten feet behind the line was devastating. Defenses panicked. Coaches barked at players to pick him up closer, disrupting their whole system. Lin thrived on that ripple effect.
By now, several of his trademark skills—Dream footwork, Rebounding maniac, Tough shot-making, Ankle breaker, and of course, his Limitless range—had all reached the "gold" tier in the system. And now came the hard part: pushing them to amethyst level.
Each one had its own ridiculous requirement. His Dream footwork demanded 200 successful fakes; his rebounding badge required 1,200 boards; tough shots, 200 makes under heavy contest. The Limitless Range challenge? A staggering 120 ultra-deep threes.
But the one Lin had his eyes on most was the ankle terminator badge. To upgrade, he needed either to break down opponents 75 times in NBA games or rack up 1,500 one-on-one victories against a defender of Defensive Player of the Year caliber.
Naturally, Lin wasn't crazy enough to try and humiliate elite defenders 75 times under the lights of live NBA games.
"Hmm… does Tyson Chandler count as a DPOY-level defender?" Lin asked the system half-jokingly.
[Confirmation: Tyson Chandler qualifies.]
That was all he needed to hear. Lin grinned, picked up his phone, and called his teammate.
"Tyson, you free? I need some work one-on-one."
Chandler, ever the professional, didn't hesitate. "Sure thing. Always down to get some reps."
What Tyson didn't realize was that Lin wasn't talking about a casual 10-minute run. Lin was planning a marathon.
From that point on, Chandler became Lin's sparring partner. To the casual fan, Tyson's numbers sometimes looked modest, but the system's recognition of him as DPOY-caliber said everything. His screens, his rim protection, his defensive IQ—intangibles that didn't show up in the box score—were the exact things Lin needed to battle against.
And Chandler found the matchups oddly fascinating. Lin refused to rely on easy shots. He wasn't just jacking jumpers to win; he insisted on grinding through the toughest possessions, as if chasing some invisible perfection. Chandler couldn't quite understand it, but he sensed that this was how geniuses worked: obsessive, stubborn, and maybe just a little bit insane.
The sessions stretched from daylight to night. It reminded Lin of his Davidson days, when he used to spar endlessly with Curry, even when Steph lit him up. Back then, Lin always believed that the only way to learn was to take your lumps head-on.
To make sure Chandler didn't back out, Lin set a target: 500 one-on-one battles.
At first, Tyson laughed. By the hundredth game, he wasn't laughing anymore. By the two-hundredth, he was groaning in disbelief at Lin's endurance. By the three-hundredth, he started joking that Lin might secretly be built like Shaq. His body ached so much that even his wife started raising eyebrows.
From that night on, Tyson dragged himself home drenched in sweat. His wife, suspicious, finally asked him, "What on earth are you doing every night? Don't tell me you're sneaking off somewhere."
"If only," Tyson muttered under his breath. "I've got a lunatic sophomore killing me with fadeaways."
…
January 20th rolled around, and the Knicks knocked off the 76ers at the Garden. Lin's form in the game wasn't spectacular—probably from all that midnight sparring—but the Sixers still couldn't handle New York's schemes.
After the final buzzer, Lin jogged over to Chandler with that familiar grin.
"Tyson, let's keep it rolling. One-on-one tonight?"
Chandler looked like a man on the edge. "Lin… I just played thirty-plus minutes. I can barely stand."
Lin tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. "Alright, fair. Tomorrow then. Day off."
Tyson exhaled in relief—until Lin added, dead serious:
"I'll swing by at four in the morning."
"…Bro," Chandler muttered. "It's the middle of winter. You trying to kill me?"
That night, Tyson dreamed of Lin banging on his door in the freezing predawn dark. The dream turned out to be only half wrong. At six a.m., his phone buzzed.
"Tyson," Lin's voice came through, cheerful as ever. "I'm downstairs."
Tyson groaned, peeled himself from the duvet, and whispered to his wife, "I swear, I'm not cheating. I just need to survive this kid."
Half an hour later, the two pulled up to the Knicks' training facility. The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. Tyson almost cheered—maybe the delay meant no training today. Maybe they could turn back, go home, and sleep.
But then Lin casually pulled a key from his pocket.
"Old Levy gave this to me," Lin explained, referring to the longtime gatekeeper. "I come here so often, he figured it was easier this way."
Chandler just stared, speechless.
This wasn't training anymore. This was prison, and Lin Yi was the warden.
Chandler might grumble day after day, but deep down, he couldn't help admiring Lin Yi. It wasn't just about his talent or his numbers. Most stars barely remembered the names of the backroom staff, but Lin Yi knew everyone—from the trainers to Old Levy at the training hall. For Chandler, that said a lot about why this young star was rising so fast.
He's growing at this pace for a reason, Chandler thought to himself. That was also why he quickly dismissed the idea of going easy on Lin in their one-on-one sessions. Taking it lightly would've felt like disrespect. If Lin Yi was putting in this much effort, then the least Chandler could do was match it.
During a midday break, when the sweat was still dripping from their jerseys, Chandler leaned on his knees and asked with a curious smile,
"Lin, why me? Why are you so set on running these drills one-on-one with me every day?"
Lin Yi wiped his face with a towel, then answered with a seriousness that caught Chandler off guard.
"Because you're the best inside defender I've ever gone against, Tyson. I said it in the summer, and I'll say it again—you've got the best defense in the league. If I can beat you, I'll be ready for anyone."
Chandler chuckled, but Lin wasn't finished. His tone grew firmer.
"The Knicks want to push further this season. For that to happen, I need to expand my offensive game—especially in isolation. Look back at that Lakers loss. Odom and Artest gave me all kinds of trouble. When I struggled, the whole offense stalled. I can't let that happen again. I can't get shut down like that:"
Chandler looked into Lin's eyes. There was no hint of arrogance, only determination. It struck him hard.
Originally, Tyson had planned to grab a long lunch and save his legs. Instead, he stood tall, stretched his arms, and clapped his hands.
"Alright then. Forget lunch. Let's keep going, Lin. If this is what it takes, then let's grind it out together."
In that moment, Chandler's chest swelled with pride.
That's right, he thought. I am the best defensive player. And if Lin trusts me this much, I can't let him down. I'll push him, and I'll push myself. For him, for the Knicks, and for that championship.
It was like Lin had fed him a stack of pancakes for the soul. The fatigue faded, and suddenly Chandler felt like he could battle through another 500 possessions.
Lin Yi, meanwhile, quietly flashed a tiny fist pump behind Chandler's back.
Perfect, he thought.
Of course, Lin hadn't just been flattering. The words came from the heart. He knew that the Knicks' chemistry was clicking like never before. But how far could they truly go? That all depended on him.
He'd see it in his teammates' eyes, moving to him every time a game reached its breaking point. He'd feel it in the way D'Antoni trusted him with the ball in the final minutes. Lin knew there was no time to waste. Tired or not, his love for the game pushed him to keep going—even if his body begged for rest after endless hours.
…
The following morning, at four sharp, Lin's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Half-asleep, he groaned and reached for it.
"Lin! Let's go! Special training!" came Chandler's booming voice through the receiver.
Lin rubbed his eyes. "…Tyson? Are you serious right now?"
On the other end, Chandler's tone was fiery.
"You're right, Lin—the championship isn't something you stumble into. It takes sacrifice. I want to help you become the best offensive player in this league, and I'm not letting up!"
Before Lin could even protest, Chandler hung up.
Turning to his wife, Tyson placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Dear, this is the most important season of my career. I need you to back me on this."
She looked at him, moved by the conviction in his voice.
"Then go for it, Tyson. I believe in you. I believe you'll bring that championship home."
Chandler puffed out his chest and smiled.
"Of course. I'm Tyson Chandler. This is what I do."
…
An hour later, the two men stood inside the Knicks' training hall. Lin was still bleary-eyed, yawning between stretches, while Chandler bounced on his feet, adrenaline pumping.
"Ready?" Tyson grinned.
Lin gave a tired nod. "As ready as I'll ever be."
And so, they squared off again—possession after possession, duel after duel. The repetition was monotonous, almost punishing, but both knew it was forging something stronger than just footwork or shot-making.
Finally, as Lin drained another contested jumper and felt that subtle shift in his body, the system's prompt chimed in his head:
[Ankle Terminator: upgraded to Amethyst.]
Lin Yi smiled faintly. Progress, at last.
...
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