Los Angeles, Staples Center.
That summer was scorching hot, the whole city like a giant furnace. And right at the blazing core of it stood the Staples Center.
Twenty thousand seats—packed to the brim.
A sea of Lakers fans in matching gold T-shirts roared, cheered, and screamed, their frenzy threatening to melt the roof right off the arena.
There's only one thing in the world that could whip up this much madness:
The NBA Finals.
And not just any Finals—Game 7.
Purple-and-gold Lakers vs. the green-clad Celtics.
The rivalry of rivalries.
These two historic franchises were the NBA's mightiest giants, both with shelves full of championship trophies and generations of legendary players. For decades, they had been locked in a grudge that could only be described as fire and ice.
No need to mention the distant past—just two years ago, in the 2008 Finals, the Lakers had led by 24 points in Game 4… only to suffer one of the most humiliating collapses in history. Paul Pierce left the court "injured," returned dramatically, and led the Celtics to a miracle comeback that sealed the Lakers' fate.
Now, two years later, the enemies met again.
The Lakers carried the sting of that defeat, and their fans were brimming with vengeance.
This Game 7 was a brutal war—defense fierce, bodies colliding, every possession a battle. With 3 minutes and 17 seconds left, the Lakers led 62–61.
On the bench, Zhou Yuan sat wrapped in a towel, eyes cold as he watched.
He had once been a standout at Arizona State, playing two seasons before declaring for the draft after his sophomore year. At 210 cm tall with a 238 cm wingspan, Zhou Yuan looked every bit the perfect big man. He had a smooth shooting touch, nimble footwork… but his body was thin, lacking strength. His bounce and explosiveness were a far cry from the freakish athletes who dominated the NBA.
In college, his height and shooting had kept him afloat. But in the NBA, those tools made him little more than a fringe player. Undrafted, he bounced around on non-guaranteed contracts, only to be cut each time.
Late in the season, when Lakers center Andrew Bynum went down with injury, Zhou Yuan finally got a spot—a non-guaranteed deal to fill out the bench.
But through the entire playoffs, he hadn't played a single second.
A water boy. A towel waver. A mascot.
"Beautiful shot!"
As Kobe Bryant drained a fadeaway jumper, teammate DJ Mbenga leapt up beside Zhou Yuan, towel whipping through the air, voice hoarse with a desperate cheer.
Mbenga had at least gotten some minutes after Bynum went down. Zhou Yuan? He hadn't even touched the floor.
And he hated it.
He wasn't here to wave towels.
If the Lakers won the championship tonight, he'd get a ring… but to him, it would only feel like an insult. A reminder of his uselessness.
Mbenga, on the other hand, was grinning. "We're up three now! Looking good. A ring will boost my value, even if I get cut next season."
He was right—role players who contributed in the Finals often rode that wave into better contracts. But Zhou Yuan, who hadn't played a single minute, couldn't expect the same.
As the clock ticked down, the arena shifted from fever pitch to dead silence. With 10.4 seconds left, the Lakers trailed 72–74. Down two.
The Finals were already the NBA's highest stage. Add in Game 7, and this was the definition of do-or-die.
One shot could crown a champion.
One miss would leave only heartbreak and humiliation.
And now, the Lakers' versatile forward Lamar Odom had just fouled out. With their interior weakened, the Celtics swarmed Kobe mercilessly, determined to snuff out his final shot.
Zhou Yuan drifted lazily toward Coach Phil Jackson's huddle. He didn't bother listening to the tactics—what did they have to do with him?
Then—
[Ding! Basketball Sign-In System binding with host…]
[Binding complete. System activation successful.]
[Host has signed in at Staples Center. Scanning host's physical data…]
[Ding! Closest player template detected: Giannis Antetokounmpo. Preparing to fuse template…]
"…System?" Zhou Yuan's eyes widened.
As a transmigrator, he knew exactly what this meant. His golden finger had finally arrived. He had been waiting for years, and it appeared at the most critical moment imaginable.
"Wait… Antetokounmpo?" Zhou Yuan frowned.
In this world, Giannis was still just an 18-year-old kid, a scrawny no-name prospect overseas. But the system wasn't pulling from the present—it carried the data of future peak Giannis.
[Beginning fusion with Peak Giannis Antetokounmpo template. Progress: 1%… 5%… 30%…]