"Zhelin, did you not sleep well last night? Why did you get up so late?"
His mother, Lin Huiqing, came over with a steaming bowl of noodle paste just as he sat down at the table.
Since he was ten, Wang Zhelin had lived under his father's strict eye—early mornings, early nights, a rhythm drilled into him like clockwork. To see him lazing in bed past sunrise was unusual enough to raise suspicion.
"Ah… oh, a little," Zhelin muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of her gaze.
Lin Huiqing's long black hair was tied back neatly, her eyes still bright despite the years, her smile carrying the warmth of home. And yet, looking at her now, Zhelin felt a strange pang in his chest. He couldn't possibly tell her the truth—that the soul of her son had been swapped out just days ago.
As an orphan in his previous life, the sight of her gentle worry stirred something unfamiliar in him. Warmth. Real warmth. And he wanted to protect it.
"Is it the competition? Too much pressure? Or something wrong with training?" she asked quickly, pulling a chair closer, her expression clouding over with worry.
"It's fine, Mom. I've just been… too excited. Don't worry so much."
The word slipped from his lips—Mom—with a sincerity he hadn't felt in years.
She blinked. "Excited? Excited about what?"
He grinned, feigning casualness. "I was just thinking about those charity All-Star games earlier this month. First time I faced opponents my age that strong, but… your son didn't disappoint, right? Scored plenty, made a name for myself."
The memory of that tournament still echoed in his mind. Facing the Olympic team's main center, he'd gone toe-to-toe, pouring in 20+ points game after game. The NBL Gansu charity All-Star event had made him more than just a rising name in Fujian—his performance had even caught the eye of foreign reporters.
Lin Huiqing's smile returned. "Alright, alright. Zhelin in our family is the best. Now eat before it gets cold. Your father and I will be out most of the day."
When she left, the room felt quieter than before.
Zhelin let out a breath and turned his attention to the breakfast spread. A bowl of flour paste—famous in Quanzhou, even showcased once on A Bite of China. Beside it, a boiled egg, a glass of milk, and his favorite: beef.
His stomach growled. Rumors said he could eat two catties of beef in one sitting, that he'd devoured more than a dozen cows before his eighteenth birthday. Looking at the plate now, he believed it.
By the time he finished eating, the house was empty. A note sat on the table:
"Zhelin, we may not come until evening. There's food in the refrigerator. If you don't want to cook, go out to eat. Take care of yourself — Mom."
A folded 200 yuan bill was tucked beneath.
He pocketed it and sprawled on the sofa, reaching for his flip phone out of habit. Only then did it hit him again—this was 2011. No mobile games. No endless scrolling. Just a clunky device and a house too quiet for comfort.
His gaze drifted. By the shoe rack, a basketball leaned against the wall.
Basketball.
He froze, eyes locked on the orange sphere.
Lin Bei is gone. You are Wang Zhelin now. And basketball is your only path forward.
He grabbed the ball. It felt small in his hand—almost fragile. Palming it easily, he squeezed it tight. The weight, the texture, the faint squeak of leather against his skin. It anchored him more firmly than anything else since he'd arrived.
This was his first true contact with basketball since crossing over. The difference was night and day. The body he now inhabited was born for this.
He bounced it against the floor. Once. Twice. The sound echoed sharp and steady.
Even if I have no system, no cheats, I can still carve my own path.
He thought of the NBA, of the millions waiting at the other end if he succeeded. The CBA's salaries couldn't compare. If he wanted to live beyond survival, if he wanted glory, it would have to be there.
Three things became clear in his mind:
His defense must reach NBA level—at least average.
He needed to develop passing.
Above all, he needed a three-point shot.
In the small-ball era, without a jumper, even giants faded into irrelevance.
The fire in his chest roared louder.
He changed into his training uniform, tucked the ball under his arm, and stepped onto the half-court behind his house. Though small, it was built to international standards, polished and ready. He stared at the rim.
He'd never dunked before. Not properly. Not in his old body. Not even once.
Gan is gan.
Dribbling hard, he accelerated, his steps falling into rhythm with muscle memory not his own.
One, two—he took off, the rim rushing toward him.
This dunk would mark the end of his past, the start of something new.
Then—
Ding!
"Host has obtained key items. Clothing, venue, and emotional state detected. Veteran Inheritance System binding in progress…"
"What the—?!"
Startled mid-air, his grip loosened. The ball slipped free, crashing into the backboard with a hollow thud.