No matter the year, you must secure a top-five spot for this child’s enrollment! (Please keep reading!)

Over the past six months, FMP fans had lost count of how many soaring, blood-pumping dunks Lynch had delivered, or how many times he had ridden the opposing center between his legs.

But tonight, the thrill Lynch brought to the fans was unlike anything before.

It was the same scenario—stuck in a room with the female boss after a rainstorm on a business trip—but the excitement that a captivating heroine brings is completely different from that of an unremarkable one.

Darko Miličić was undoubtedly the perfect “leading lady.”

He was a prodigy plucking stars from the sky, a sci-fi weapon capable of soaring from the free-throw line for a thunderous dunk.

National sports magazines published glowing articles about him; analysts ranked him high in mock drafts. His dreams were cherished and encouraged by all.

He was a rare gem, one in a hundred thousand.

Yet, at this moment, this man had lost all dignity in front of Lynch.

That alone was reason enough to exhilarate the FMP fans.

Europe’s basketball scene, teeming with emerging superstars, had witnessed countless new kings rise—but everyone sensed this would be the bloodiest coronation yet.

Lynch had made his stance clear: he would never let Darko Miličić have an easy time, nor would he allow him to stand as an equal.

Number 10 had already reached an agreement with Teo: they were going to utterly crush Darko Miličić into pieces!

Nemanja Jokić was recovering from his shock. He rushed forward, still unable to believe that the seemingly invincible Darko had just been posterized by Lynch.

“Are you... alright?!” Nemanja’s voice trembled.

His shaky question ignited a fuse. Darko Miličić violently shoved his teammate aside, his eyes burning with rage:

“What are you nervous about, brother? Damn that Chinese bastard, I’m gonna kill him!”

The demon within this young man had been awakened; his temper flared, and he began to gnash his teeth.

Though these boys on the court were towering beyond their years, they were still only sixteen or seventeen.

This was the age when youth thrived on fierce rivalry and aggression.

These towering teenagers, draped in bodies over two meters tall, were the most susceptible to becoming beasts fueled by hormones and the hunger to win.

The battle reignited. Lynch continued shadowing Miličić, sticking to him like a shadow.

Lynch’s defensive skills still needed refinement, but his physical prowess compensated for these flaws.

When your technique isn’t advanced, piling up raw stats can still get the job done.

The blond prodigy held the ball beyond the three-point line, ready to isolate, but Lynch’s relentless defense made it difficult for him to dribble.

After all, Lynch wasn’t a magical playmaker; he could keep his center of gravity low, match the speed, and threaten steals.

No matter how good Darko’s ball handling was, he was still a 213-centimeter giant. Under such tight defense, it was nearly impossible for him to break through smoothly like a guard—unless he was a historical-level superstar like Kevin Durant.

But Darko stubbornly defied the odds, forcing his way through. His mindset now was to devour Lynch alive, to prove he remained the unchallenged ruler.

Yet barely two steps in, Darko lost control of the ball during a tussle—it bounced off his foot and went out of bounds.

“Another one! Lynch shut down Darko Miličić again! Where’s that miraculous talent? Lynch just fed it to the shredder!”

“You’re no better than the wild dog you raised,” Lynch said, picking up the ball out of bounds and casting a glance at Nemanja Jokić, who dared not even bark now.

Nemanja clenched his fists at Lynch’s taunt, but the elbow Lynch had delivered earlier convinced him to keep silent.

There was no shame in that; Luka Modrić knew all too well how Nemanja felt in that moment.

On the sidelines, a heavily tattooed man, seemingly stronger than all the players on the court, shouted in a rough voice:

“Damn it, are you scared, Nemanja? Hey, Chinese kid, don’t run after the game! I’ll find you! Nemanja, don’t back down, don’t be afraid! Don’t fucking disgrace yourself!”

Strahinja Jokić, the eldest of the three brothers, was the most hot-headed among them. Years later, he would even be famously sued for punching Lakers fans in the stands.

But Lynch was unafraid. He turned to confront the intimidating older brother:

“Go back to Sombor, fatty. This is Belgrade—my turf!”

After Lynch’s roar, nearby fans quickly chimed in:

“Shut up, you black bear freak!”

“Worry about whether you can get out of here alive first!”

“If you talk to Lynch like that again, I won’t be polite to you!”

Beside Strahinja Jokić, a chubby boy stared absentmindedly at a giant bottle of cola, as if the fierce game and heated shouting had nothing to do with him.

Honestly, he didn’t understand what was fun about this boring game, nor why his brothers were so angry.

He just missed horse racing.

Luckily, he had no basketball talent, so he’d never have to step onto the court like his second brother.

After Lynch regained possession for FMP, Teo ran off a screen and took a three-pointer.

Miličić battled for position under the basket, but Lynch fiercely contested him, fighting for space.

Lynch was aggressive, elbowing Darko’s waist hard each time they jostled, as if trying to crush his shin with every rebound battle. Though the Serbian prodigy eventually grabbed the board, it was as if he had snatched food from a beast’s mouth.

Even securing a single rebound demanded Darko’s utmost effort.

Since facing Lynch, not a single moment had been easy for Darko Miličić.

Forsatz regained the ball and chose what he thought was the safest offensive option—posting up.

If he couldn’t beat number 10 face-to-face, backing down should work; after all, he had the physical advantage.

Yet, just like in the rebound battle, Lynch persistently contested Darko, circling halfway around him, constantly bumping his calves and wildly swinging his elbows.

Anyone who had seen Dennis Rodman’s relentless defense on Shaquille O’Neal with the Chicago Bulls wouldn’t find this unfamiliar—at this moment, Lynch seemed possessed by that seven-colored-haired madman.

But the problem was, only a madman would play defense like this.

You can’t treat every possession like it’s the last ten seconds of a game.

Basketball is like a long-distance run—you can’t sprint full speed from the start.

If you exert maximum effort every possession, you’ll run out of energy in twenty minutes.

Darko Miličić didn’t understand Lynch’s intention. Didn’t he care about the rest of the game?

At least for this possession, Lynch’s defense worked. Under his pressure, Darko couldn’t even receive the ball.

In this primal battle of muscle, the bulky Miličić held no advantage.

Forsatz’s team was forced to let Nemanja Jokić take the shot, but the ball missed the mark.

And the struggle resumed.

Darko hadn’t even caught his breath before Lynch was back on him, fighting for rebound position and ultimately securing the board.

Perhaps influenced by Dirk Nowitzki, Don Nelson favored Darko Miličić and held great affection for the Serbian prodigy.

But he had to admit that, for now, Darko was completely outmatched by Lynch.

Old Nelson was certain: if not for the NBA rule requiring international players to be at least 18 in their draft year, Lynch could already enter the draft—and wouldn’t fall out of the lottery!

On the court, Darko brushed the sweat-soaked blond hair from his forehead, deciding to be patient.

When Lynch’s energy faded, that would be his moment to finish the game!

But every second thereafter shattered his fantasy.

Throughout the rest of the game, Lynch never eased up on the intensity for even half a minute.

Imagine a prison basketball game where the warden declares: “Anyone who can hold Darko Miličić under 20 points and grab 20 rebounds over his head in a single game will be pardoned. I swear.”

Everyone would go mad, fighting desperately against Miličić.

Lynch was like one of these “inmates,” fiercely competing and violently overpowering all challengers. He thirsted to annihilate his opponent, leaving no hope behind.

A beast’s instinct, agile footsteps, super toughness, brutal roughness, extraordinary leaping ability, fierce elbows—and seemingly an uncanny sense of where the ball would bounce. Tonight, this was the adversary Darko Miličić faced.

He possessed Dennis Rodman’s madness, but also the endurance and offense Rodman lacked.

Old Nelson watched Lynch’s rising stats on the scoreboard, briefly seeing shadows of Moses Malone and Rodman overlap on Lynch.

Darko Miličić never waited for Lynch to tire—he simply couldn’t.

Over the past six months, Lynch had been gaining weight and striving to develop his stamina, strength, and speed.

Now, he could unleash about 80% of Moses Malone’s talent.

At this level, Lynch fought relentlessly like a prophet refusing to die.

Gradually, Lynch’s defense became a kind of psychological terror for Darko.

Whenever Darko held the ball, Lynch’s bloodshot eyes locked onto his pupils, as if saying, “Not even your breathing rhythm can escape my control.”

The mere sight of Lynch meant Darko was in for a brutal battle, filling him with resistance and anxiety.

Thus, Darko Miličić became lost.

At first, under such savage, beast-like defense, Darko could still score with turnaround jump shots.

He had far more offensive moves than Lynch, and his skills were impeccable.

But as time wore on, the fierce confrontation robbed Darko of his touch; it felt as if Lynch’s ferocious defense had forcibly stripped away the feel from his fingertips.

All his diverse offensive weapons lost effectiveness against Lynch.

He was like a beast trapped in an iron cage, his proud claws bleeding from scraping the steel, yet useless.

Two minutes into the fourth quarter, after another missed jump shot, Lynch grabbed the rebound and sprinted downcourt with the same speed as in the first quarter.

Teo effortlessly fed the ball to Lynch, who soared for a powerful dunk, scoring his 26th point of the game.

Darko Miličić was a genuine loser now, finishing with 11 points and 3 rebounds, overshadowed by Lynch’s 26 points, 21 rebounds, and 6 blocks.

After that dunk, Forsatz called a timeout.

The camera lingered on Darko, clutching his knee and gasping fiercely, sweat dripping from his nose and splattering on the floor—a shattered pride of this “prodigy of tomorrow.”

The Serbian genius was extinguished under the watchful eyes of the world, leaving countless North American scouts scrambling.

Suddenly, nobody knew where to place Darko in the 2003 draft order.

This guy had undeniable talent but was thoroughly outplayed by a Serbian youth league player a year younger—was he really worth drafting?

And where should Lynch, who had utterly destroyed Darko, be placed in the draft?

Antonio Marselas knew exactly where Lynch belonged. He scribbled a final note in his notebook, clearly telling Mitch Kupchak:

“Forget about low picks. Don’t even think about the late first round. No matter the year, if you want Lynch, be ready to pick top five!”

Lynch’s value had never been so concretely realized.

His fame had finally crossed oceans to reach the shores he had long desired.

(Thanks to the great moderator 404, the alliance leader—ten bows!

Thanks also to Confirmed Receipt, Little Cake Not Aloof, Sitting Alone by the Sea Watching the Sunrise, Red Horned Triple Meow, Calm Waters, Winter You, Boss Mei Not Mining Coal, and other generous donors—deep gratitude!)

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