002: You Call This the Softest Player on the Entire Team!?

Looking at the text floating before his eyes, Lynch was a bit baffled.

Reclaim the courage of your youth?

But I am already very young right now.

Even before his transmigration, Lynch had only been eighteen years old.

"Does this system assume I'm thirty? And already retired?"

Sure enough, in this world, nothing was one hundred percent certain except for Ben Simmons never developing a jumper. Even systems could log into the wrong account sometimes.

But there was an upside to the system's mix-up: the quest was incredibly easy for Lynch.

For a thirty-year-old man burdened with decades of mortgage payments, picking his dream back up would indeed require immense courage.

But for the sixteen-year-old Lynch, this quest was practically a freebie.

Today, even if he had to throw all shame to the wind, he would badger that balding coach into putting him on the court.

Still... while the quest was simple, the reward was incredibly stingy.

What kind of system gives out an "NBA Role Player Skill Bundle"? Shouldn't it be an "NBA Superstar Skill Bundle"?

The reward was so pitiful it resembled a "Veteran's Minimum Contract Player Card" given away for a cheap first-purchase bonus in some mobile basketball game.

Lynch felt utterly helpless. A glass body, trash skill bundles... looking at these "perks" he had received...

He would have been better off reincarnating as the husband of some formidable viral influencer.

But beggars couldn't be choosers. Beggars' crumbs were still food, and anything was better than nothing.

On the training court, Milos Teodosic, sporting his signature messy hair, was dominating the game.

As a man who would be hailed years later by the media as the "King of Europe" and the "Greatest Player Outside the NBA," his talent was more than enough to tear through youth team games.

Even if his physical measurements weren't as eye-catching as Lynch's, he proved with actions that basketball was a game of movement. Pure size had never been the sole deciding factor of a player's strength.

Teo could orchestrate the entire team with his brilliant playmaking while tearing apart defenses with his superb shooting. On offense alone, he was undoubtedly the best on the team.

Bosko was completely absorbed in the basketball artistry Teo was creating when he suddenly felt a warm breath near his ear.

"Haven't you noticed a problem? There's not a single player on the court who can run a proper pick-and-roll with Teo. Their rolls are too slow, and their screens are too soft. Coach, how about you let me set the screens?"

The speaker was indeed Lynch, whose relentless pestering was starting to irritate Bosko.

"Milos is highly capable on his own; he doesn't need you. And what gave you the illusion that your screens are tough? I still remember you dodging defenders during a screen just to avoid contact. Lord, that was the most ridiculous pick-and-roll I've ever seen."

"That was the old me. I thought a lot while recovering from my injury. I'm different now."

Bosko could see that Lynch was indeed different. The old Lynch was a well-behaved boy who wouldn't yell at the coach, let alone make snide remarks about the coach's "handsome" hair.

But Bosko did not believe a coward could transform into a warrior so easily.

Yet, if he didn't put Lynch in the game, the boy would likely keep badgering him.

So Bosko waved his hand. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lynch. Go back to your seat. Even if I put you in, it won't be until the second half of the scrimmage. You know you can't just walk back in and steal minutes from the boys who have been training hard every day."

"Do you promise to put me in during the second half?"

"Of course! Damn it, stop bothering me!"

"Haha, I wish your scalp a youthful resurgence then."

Bosko: ...

Twenty minutes later, the scrimmage went into halftime. Teodosic had already led his team to a fifteen-point lead.

Bosko was right; in an intrasquad scrimmage, Teodosic didn't need a pick-and-roll at all.

The dark-skinned head coach of the first team, Vlade Djurovic, adjusted the thick glasses on his nose and offered a warm smile. "Good, very good. The boys are full of energy. Milos has improved again. It looks like youth games no longer pose any challenge to him."

"Do you think he is ready for the senior team?" Bosko asked excitedly. Since becoming the head coach of the FMP youth academy, the club had successively developed Vladimir Radmanovic and Mladen Sekularac, two talents drafted into the NBA.

If he could produce another Teo, he would likely get a promotion and a raise, moving up to the first-team coaching staff.

He was sick of his wife's vicious insults whenever they argued: "Who do you think you are? Just a useless, balding youth basketball coach."

He was going to show that vulgar, fat woman what he was capable of!

Djurovic thought for a moment and shook his head. "Let's wait and see. Teo's ability already makes some of the first-team guards look like fools, but he is still too thin. The physical intensity of the first team is on a completely different level. Sub in a few more players in the second half. I want to see how the others perform."

Receiving his instructions, Bosko scanned the bench, seemingly deciding who to start in the second half. Then, he walked over to Lynch and pressed his thick palm against Lynch's shoulder. "Son, stand up!"

At that moment, Lynch felt as if he could hear the opening bars of the Rocky theme song. The blood in his veins began to boil.

He hadn't expected this balding coach to sub him in right at the start of the second half.

Lynch grabbed the coach's wrist like a drowning man clutching a lifebuoy. "I think I might have misunderstood you before, sir. I won't let you down!"

Bosko looked utterly confused. "What letting me down? I meant stand up so I can sit! Can't you see all the seats are taken?"

Lynch: ...

No wonder you're bald!

Mumbling curses under his breath, Lynch stood up. This caught the attention of the first-team head coach, Vlade Djurovic, who turned to ask Bosko.

"How is that kid doing? Why isn't he playing?"

"Lynch? A beautiful piece of Eastern porcelain. Perfect physical proportions, but shatters at the slightest touch. I'll put him in when there are two minutes left in the game."

"Did he get injured again?"

"Mm-hmm. Just recovered from an ankle injury. Today is his first day back."

"Has his athleticism been affected by the injury? Six months ago, I heard his vertical reach was the best on the team. He's 203 centimeters tall but as fast as a guard."

Djurovic's assessment of Lynch was spot on. Aside from his outstanding height and wingspan, Lynch's most talked-about trait had been his superb athleticism. Though he couldn't match NBA-level players, he was exceptional within the FMP youth academy.

"I don't know if the injuries have sapped his athleticism," Bosko replied. "But it doesn't matter anymore. Even if the constant injuries haven't eaten away at his physical gifts, they have stripped him of his courage. He's afraid of contact on the court, hesitates to make moves, and is even timid during screens. When attacking the basket, he practically closes his eyes, as if someone is going to gouge them out on the court."

Bosko cast a pitying glance at Lynch and continued, "I once had high hopes for him, but now he is the softest player on the team. He has great raw talent but lacks the heart to match it. Going pro is no longer a realistic goal for him. You know professional basketball is a man's game, not a coward's. He's not worth your attention."

Vlade Djurovic hadn't expected Bosko, as the youth team's head coach, to write off the team's most athletic player so completely.

But Djurovic never believed in hearsay. The reason he frequently attended youth team practices was that he only trusted his own eyes and the truth he saw firsthand.

"Bosko, put the kid in. I still want to see him play." Djurovic took off his glasses and wiped them.

"Suit yourself. You won't get anything but disappointment."

With that, Bosko waved to Lynch. "Lynch!"

Because his name sounded like "Lynch," everyone called him that directly instead of "Lin."

"I'm not buying you water!" Lynch retorted, still annoyed.

"You, get on the court!"

Lynch froze for a second. Once he realized what was happening, he quickly shed his warm-up shirt and stepped onto the court.

The moment Lynch stepped onto the court, the text only he could see materialized before his eyes once more.

[You have finally summoned the courage to take the first step toward reversing your basketball career. Opening the skill bundle...]

[Congratulations! You have received the following rewards: A.C. Green's Iron Body (No Celibacy Required Version), Mac McClung's Explosive Legs, and Reggie Evans' Rebounding Instincts.]

Lynch had initially thought a role player skill bundle would only grant a single skill. He hadn't expected the bundle to package three skills together.

Looking at it this way, the reward wasn't nearly as bad as he had anticipated.

Indeed, A.C. Green, Mac McClung, and Reggie Evans—three players from three different eras—were all undeniable role players.

Yet, by the same token, anyone capable of playing in the NBA was bound to possess extraordinary traits.

No one could question A.C. Green's terrifying durability. While players twenty years later babied their bodies with strict load management, this Iron Man looked down upon all with his record of 1,192 consecutive games played.

Being only 188 centimeters tall did not stop Mac McClung from taking flight. His body seemed filled with NASA rocket fuel. In the Slam Dunk Contests of 2023, 2024, and 2025, this undrafted guard exposed the flaws in the law of gravity with one mind-boggling dunk after another.

Meanwhile, Reggie Evans, with his exceptional rebounding tenacity and a career earnings total of 32 million dollars, completely redefined basketball economics. It turned out you could become a multi-millionaire without scoring a single point—as long as you ensured the opponent couldn't get their hands on the damn ball either.

Each of them carried a superpower dismantled by God, yet they were forever trapped in the shells of role players due to their lack of other talents.

But what if the most prominent talents of these role players were concentrated in a single person?

The fragments of divine power dismantled by God were now assembling inside Lynch.

After receiving the bundle, the text before his eyes changed once more.

[At thirty, you have finally decided to step onto the court and play, bravely chasing the self you once were. But this is only the beginning.]

[Objective: Do not fear, do not be nervous, and do not drag a beer gut around while gasping like a dog. Shed the decay of middle age and stay on the court for at least five minutes.]

[Reward: Obtain a player template based on your game performance.]

Lynch's brain worked furiously to process the information that had suddenly appeared, a rush of irrepressible joy surging straight to his head.

With the blow of the referee's whistle, the game resumed. The moment Lynch saw Teodosic bring the ball across half-court and gesture for a screen, he could feel his body trembling.

He couldn't tell if it was from excitement or pure cowardice.

But Lynch preferred to believe it was the former.

First-team coach Vlade Djurovic stared at the boy with the distinct complexion. His shadow stretched across the hardwood floor, resembling a giant question mark.

It would be a terrible waste to give up so easily on a player with such outstanding physical and athletic tools.

Let's see what he can actually do.

Teodosic dribbled toward the three-point line, and Lynch set a screen with perfect chemistry.

The screen was rock solid. The defender crashed into him as if hitting a brick wall, while Lynch stood firm, completely unyielding.

Bosko let out a soft grunt. It seemed Lynch had indeed changed a bit.

But this level of change was not enough.

Setting a screen was the bare minimum for a frontcourt player.

After the screen, the opposing forward was forced to switch. Allowing Teo to get an open shot would be an unforgivable mistake.

Facing the contest, Teodosic, who had already jumped to shoot, instantly aborted and whipped the ball out with one hand.

The pass looked forced, but the difference between genius and mediocrity was that ordinary players could study a genius's play style until dawn—not because they had mastered it, but because the sun had come up.

Despite the sheer difficulty of the pass, Teo still pinpointed Lynch, who had rolled quickly to the basket after the screen.

He kept his word; even if Lynch was only on the court for thirty seconds, he would find him.

This guy was a real teammate.

But a player couldn't succeed on camaraderie alone.

Teo's pass gave Lynch an opportunity to attack the rim, but the tallest player on the youth team, the 210-centimeter center Luka Modric, had already retreated to protect the paint.

Neither the old Lynch nor the current one possessed much of a jumper; his scoring relied almost entirely on attacking the rim.

So when Luka Modric anchored himself under the basket, Lynch's offensive opportunity was practically dead in the water.

No one believed the soft Lynch would dare challenge that 210-centimeter European fortress.

Bosko spread his hands and made a prediction to first-team coach Djurovic. "Watch. He won't dare attack the rim; he might even throw the ball away. He'll likely fumble it out of fear under Luka's presence. He is just that soft. This isn't something speed or vertical leap can fix. I swear on my hair he will turn it over!"

Lynch, of course, had no intention of passing as Bosko predicted. Now that he possessed McClung's vertical leap and A.C. Green's indestructible body, what the hell was there to fear?

Why should he fear a towering European giant?

This was perhaps the bravest moment of Lynch's life, for he knew this was his chance to turn his life around, and opportunities did not wait forever.

The 210-centimeter Luka Modric clearly hadn't expected Lynch to drive directly at the rim. He hurriedly raised his arms, forgetting to even jump.

Modric's reflexive attempt to contest was completely futile. Lynch's body, which had been as fragile as glass just three days ago, now erupted with endless power, launching him effortlessly into the air.

BOOM!

The rim rattled violently from the thunderous dunk as sweat suspended in the air.

As Lynch's feet planted back onto the hardwood, he felt as if he could hear the sharp crack of time itself fracturing. His mediocre past life, his worn-down mindset, and his decaying basketball dreams all turned to ash in a parallel universe at this very moment.

The hoop continued to sway, creaking under the strain, and Lynch's new life was born from the metal's groans.

For the first time, Lynch tasted the sweetness of courage.

First-team head coach Vlade Djurovic stared at the shaking rim, his mouth agape.

He turned his head, staring at Bosko—who had just sworn on his hair—with the look of a judge sentencing a criminal.

"I believe you were just saying... he is the softest player on the team, correct?"