006: The Colossal Beast Has Fallen (Please Continue Reading!)

“That bastard said... he can guard one more person besides us? Damn it!”

Alexander Gajic could hardly believe his ears; he thought he must have misheard.

As members of the U18 national team, both he and Sekulic were players capable of turning the tide of any youth-level game through sheer individual skill.

This was the biggest difference between basketball stars and those from other sports.

They were unlike star quarterbacks who relied on a powerful offense or excellent wide receivers.

Nor were they like ace pitchers in baseball who depended on their outfielders for support.

Basketball stars were self-sufficient; by themselves, they could change the fate of a team.

And there were two such players on the Guerrillas’ side.

Yet now, that damned number 10 casually claimed he could guard Gajic, Sekulic, and still cover one more player!

Sekulic glanced angrily at Lynch. “Don’t mind that idiot. He’s just bluffing.”

In the stands, a mustachioed scout began rifling through a thick stack of files, trying to find information on the mysterious number 10.

In these days without tablets or smartphones, every scout carried extensive paper dossiers for quick reference.

But after leafing through all his materials, the scout was astonished to find no information on this number 10.

According to his records, the FMP youth team’s number 10 should have been Luka Modric, yet the player on the court bore no resemblance to that name.

The game was about to resume, so the scout had no choice but to set aside his notes and focus back on the court.

The Guerrillas inbounded from the baseline directly to Alexander Gajic beyond the three-point line.

Gajic did not isolate Teo this time; instead, he called for a pick-and-roll.

He wasn’t a fool—he knew the number 10 was assigned to guard Teo today, so a one-on-one against him was no longer a free point.

Teo was helpless against Sekulic’s screen and was easily shaken off.

Luka Modric was forced to switch and defend Gajic.

Gajic lightly flicked the ball with his fingertips, feeding it to Sekulic, who had seized the opportunity to cut to the basket.

But the number 10 reappeared like a ghost. Having just witnessed his leap, Sekulic chose not to challenge head-on.

He slowed down, turned, and prepared to post up, using his body weight to overpower Lynch.

With Bosko’s help, Lynch had begun a planned weight gain, but it was a long process, and he still lacked the physique to match a heavy center.

Lynch braced himself firmly against Sekulic—resolute but still pushed aside.

“Did I do something to you? What were you raised on?!”

Sekulic ignored Lynch’s incoherent mutterings. As a dominant inside force used to roughness at this level, he would never silently accept being blocked.

“Ah!”

Sekulic couldn’t hold back a shout and exploded into a one-handed dunk. He loved dunking more than most European big men, which was why he was so intimidating.

Yet, this towering center hungry for redemption was disappointed again.

After Lynch was pushed aside, he immediately lunged forward, meeting Sekulic’s dunk arc mid-air.

The clash reverberated with a muted thud, as if the entire arena shook.

What greeted Sekulic was not a satisfying dunk but another powerful block from number 10!

Lynch had just shut down the U18 national champion center twice in a row!

In the stands, fans and scouts buzzed with whispers.

“Hell!”

“Who can measure how high he’s jumping? Over a meter?!”

“Is he fearless? No one dares to clash head-on with Blagota like that!”

“Who the hell is this number 10?”

“Is he Chinese? Are you kidding me?”

“Why has he played so little before?”

Questions, endless questions.

Lynch’s raw talent had captured everyone’s attention. In basketball, talent cannot be concealed. People might not understand if a player is making the right moves, but everyone can see how high they jump and how fast they run.

It’s like a passerby who can’t judge a model’s walk but can tell if her figure is impressive, if her legs are long.

And what terrifies a scout most is knowing nothing about a player with such obvious talent.

The mustachioed scout turned to a familiar colleague. “Nikola, do you know anything about number 10?”

Nikola shook his head.

The scout’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Hey, don’t keep secrets. I was the one who gave you the initial intel on Teo, and all you did was buy me a drink!”

Nikola shrugged innocently. “I really don’t have info on number 10. Ask Vladimir.”

“Vladimir, what about you?” The scout changed targets.

But Vladimir also shook his head.

The scout kept asking others, circling through the group.

In the end, he received the most shocking answer of all: among all these professionals, no one recognized the visibly gifted number 10!

Normally, a player at this level—one step from the first team—would be well known to scouts.

Yet this number 10 seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

Not a single person who looked like a family member had stood to cheer him on.

The battle on the court raged on. After being blocked, Teodosic quickly pushed forward on a fast break, delivering a long-distance bounce pass through the crowd, allowing his teammate an easy layup.

Every one of his assists was a masterpiece of spatial deconstruction. While his defense had flaws, his offensive talent earned the admiration of every basketball lover present.

But at this moment, no one cared about Teo’s passes anymore.

What had started as a duel between Teodosic and Gajic had become a showdown between Lynch and Sekulic.

Everyone was curious: when would Sekulic finally score, and how many times could Lynch stop him?

On this night, Teodosic’s brilliance was completely overshadowed by Lynch.

Seeing Lynch block Sekulic again, Luka—having lost his number to Lynch—had already become Lynch’s little fanboy.

“How did you do that?!”

“That guy is strong, but don’t fear him. Remember three words when defending someone bigger than you: contact, neutralize, explode again.

In Chinese, we call it ‘jie hua fa.’ Master ‘jie hua fa,’ and you can fear nothing anywhere.”

Luka didn’t quite understand but was deeply impressed.

Sekulic, humiliated, nearly lost his mind. Not just in Serbia but throughout European youth basketball, few could match him.

If it weren’t for the damned Darko Milicic, he would have been Serbia’s most celebrated young inside talent.

Yet now, an unknown number 10 had put him to shame.

In the following minutes, Sekulic fought harder for position, hoping to regain dominance in the post.

But minutes later, the commentators were recounting the beast’s disgrace.

“Seven post-ups, five blocks, two forced turnovers under tight double-teams by Lynch. I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it—Blagota has been completely frozen out. This has never happened before!”

With Lynch’s outstanding defense and Sekulic’s mounting frustration, the gap began to widen.

FMP was grinding the traditional powerhouse Guerrillas into the ground.

Bosko, in high spirits, took out a comb and flicked at the few hairs atop his head.

If I can develop both Teo and Lynch, is a promotion and raise far behind?

But most scouts noticed a problem as the game wore on—Lynch displayed almost no technical skills.

He rarely handled the ball, didn’t play post moves, and never took shots outside the paint.

He resembled a wild beast, relying purely on physical instincts. Aside from driving to the rim, he had no other offensive moves.

In Europe, this was unusual.

Big men trained in European academies all knew post footwork and had delicate hand skills.

Look at Toni Kukoc, look at Vlade Divac—this was what Europeans envisioned as a “top-tier big man.”

Scouts, long accustomed to elegant low-post moves, were now stunned by Lynch’s unparalleled raw power.

Did he have any other skills?

Finally, with three minutes left, curious scouts got a chance to see if Lynch could do more.

In this possession, after Teodosic’s pick-and-roll, his jump shot missed. Lynch, as usual, used his elbows and hip to shove aside a well-set Sekulic and grabbed the offensive rebound.

This was Lynch’s sixth offensive board of the game. The previous five times, he immediately passed back to Teodosic upon securing the rebound. But this time, Gajic tightly guarded Teodosic, cutting off the passing lane.

The rest of the Guerrillas mirrored this, blocking all passing options, forcing Lynch into a one-on-one with Sekulic in the post.

As the Balkans awaited the passing of the torch to the new point guard god, the spotlight of history obsessively focused on the Eastern phantom who toyed with the 213-centimeter giant on the paint line.

What would he do?

Could he go one-on-one against Sekulic?

Sekulic raised both arms as high as possible; Lynch held the ball back-to-the-basket, turned, and attempted a hook shot.

At that moment, scouts in the stands widened their eyes.

They simply couldn’t believe it... Was that a hand grenade he just threw?

Was there really such a wildly off-kilter hook shot in the world?!

Bosko even took the comb down from his head. Damn it, I never taught you that!

Forget the promotion and raise—when you get interviewed later, don’t say I taught you that move!

Sekulic laughed in disbelief. This guy didn’t know hook shots at all, had no real technique, yet had suppressed him the entire night!

Everyone assumed this was Lynch’s “Waterloo moment,” but as the ball bounced off the backboard, Lynch outpaced Sekulic from behind to grab it first and slammed it back into the rim!

That shove-back feeling—Sekulic would probably only find that in Chengdu from now on.

From the start, this wasn’t a hook shot. Lynch simply wanted to smash the ball off the backboard and finish with a dunk.

This was a move once commonly used by Moses Malone—now it belonged to Lynch.

Lynch hung from the rim with one arm; beneath him lay Serbia’s former pride.

After this put-back dunk, Lynch had tallied 21 points, 18 rebounds, and 8 blocks, while Sekulic managed only 6 points and 5 rebounds.

Of course, you couldn’t say Sekulic was useless.

At least tonight, in the “being blocked” department, he performed at Tim Duncan-level excellence.

The game was no longer in doubt. The mysterious number 10 had dismantled everything. The beast was dead.

The mustachioed scout grabbed his phone, typed a message, and sent it immediately.

“There’s a kid here who looks rough but incredibly enticing. I don’t know whether I want to embrace him or beat him up. He has the best physical attributes, can single-handedly form a defensive barrier, but his offensive skills are a mess. I think you need to watch his game tape. He’s the only player whose future I cannot judge.”

The message was sent to a man named Misko Raznatovic—the most influential professional agent in European basketball.

Lynch’s goal was achieved; his name was about to echo across the Balkans and then cross oceans.

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