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墨書 Inktalez
117:111, with only 10 seconds left on the clock.
Kyrie's incredible corner three-pointer seemed to signal the end of the game. The Trick Team's bench erupted in cheers, with Poole even ready to rush onto the court to celebrate. Tatum and Curry bumped shoulders in joy, and even Mother Zhang was poised to post, "Spiritual reconstruction successful✨."
But one person remained silent, head held high.
He stood beyond the three-point line, eyes half-closed, breathing slowly as if entering a state of extreme calm contemplation.
Kevin Durant.
In those familiar eyes, there was no trace of joy or anger—only an infinite indifference and a quiet murderous intent that whispered, "I will take you down."
Beside him, Harden glanced over and said, "Hey, KD, you look a bit like... that."
KD slowly opened his eyes and replied flatly:
"Death."
The ball came in—only 10 seconds left.
The Heavenly Kings Team opted for a quick play, directly handing the ball to KD.
Facing Tatum's defense, KD executed a simple crossover. With the ball in his right hand, he stepped into the three-point line, feigning a sudden stop—
Tatum leaned forward! KD immediately jumped—Tatum couldn't recover in time, committing a foul!
The whistle blew!
KD stepped up to the free-throw line, and the atmosphere was tense.
First shot—good.
Second shot—good.
117:113. Only 8.2 seconds left on the clock.
The referee signaled to continue, and the Trick Team inbounded the ball. The Heavenly Kings Team immediately double-teamed! Harden’s eyes flickered—he successfully stole the ball!
The ball was knocked out of bounds, but it was still the Heavenly Kings Team's possession!
Inbounding! Bill passed it to KD!
Curry rushed in, but KD faked him out, jumped, and took a three-pointer—fouled again!
The whistle blew, and the crowd gasped!
Another free throw, with just 5.6 seconds remaining!
Poole looked pale: "Is this guy scripted or what? It feels like the referees are taking orders from him!"
—
KD approached the free-throw line, no unnecessary movements, his expression as calm as if he were doing homework.
First shot—good.
The second penalty—score.
The third penalty—score.
117:117!
The crowd erupted.
Mother Zhang's face turned pale in an instant, her hands trembling as she stared at the scoreboard.
Tatum shouted, "How could this happen? Didn't we already finish?!"
Poole nervously said, "I just finished writing the post... Should I delete it now?"
Jay Chou widened his eyes, "He... he’s not KD, he’s Kevin Deity..."
117:117, with 5.6 seconds left on the clock.
This was a narrative structure that had been written countless times in basketball history: a tie, the final shot, who would be the hero.
But this night was different.
It wasn’t about who would become the hero; it was about which deity would personally bring this twilight of the gods to an end.
Both sides took their positions as the referee handed the ball to Bill. The Heavenly Kings Team prepared to execute their final strike.
On the sidelines, Jay Chou remained silent, softly humming the melody of "Night Chapter Seven"; it wasn’t a rallying cry but a premonition in the stillness.
Poole trembled as he clutched the towel, muttering, "No way... that six points just now was a plot twist... I clearly saw the look in Death's eyes, like the fear of a saved game file about to be deleted..."
Mother Zhang pressed herself against the VIP glass, as if watching whether a natural disaster could be averted. The Trick Team players spread out, fully focused. Kyrie's hands were clenched tight, Curry remained silent with his head down, Tatum gritted his teeth, and LeBron prepared to intercept every passing line.
But they all knew that the ball would ultimately land in those hands.
Kevin Durant.
---
Bill initiated the play, with Kyrie closely guarding Harden. Wembanyama created space while Luka Doncic set a screen, but it was merely a decoy.
The real route lay behind the shadow of Death.
KD weaved through the crowd like a silent blade.
Bill's gaze swept across—pass!
The ball flew out and landed perfectly in KD's hands.
Seven meters from the basket. Only 4.3 seconds left on the clock.
Curry lunged forward immediately, with Kyrie providing backup.
KD faked with his right foot, dribbled with his left hand, and stepped back—his familiar retreat!
Kyrie didn’t get faked out, but—he was too close.
He knew this wasn't just to shake you off; it was to "make you watch as I bring this all to an end."
There were 2.6 seconds left on the clock.
KD jumped.
In the air, time seemed to freeze, even the beads of sweat appeared to hang suspended.
His elbow formed a perfect arc, and with a flick of his wrist, the ball shot off like a meteor.
Kyrie’s eyes were locked onto the ball's trajectory, but there was nothing he could do. Tatum had already lunged for it, and Wembanyama stretched out his long arms to block it, but—
It was all too late.
This shot wasn’t just a release; it was a verdict.
There were 0.8 seconds remaining.
The ball sliced through the air like a cold bullet—straight, pure, silent.
Bang—swish!
The ball went in.
120:117.
The Grim Reaper ended the game.
The entire arena fell into silence.
It was not shock, but rather a profound stillness that came from witnessing the irreversible nature of fate.
Mother Zhang's knees buckled, and she sank into her VIP seat, murmuring, "How... how could he...?"
Poole stood up, his eyes vacant. "Wait... wasn't it supposed to go into overtime? Aren't we supposed to have a dramatic finish?"
Kyrie remained rooted in place, unmoving. It wasn't that he didn't want to react; he understood.
From the moment the ball left his hands, he knew—this was a true god making his move.
Tatum removed his headband and knelt at the three-point line.
Curry lowered his head, took a deep breath, and softly said, "...Respect."
Jay Chou stood on the sidelines, watching the electronic scoreboard with a slight smile. "This song, he has finished singing."
Meanwhile, KD turned and walked back to half court.
There were no shouts, no high-fives, no celebrations.
He simply walked towards the bench, waving his hand as if sheathing a sword.
Behind him, amidst the silence of the crowd, the first shout erupted:
"Death God!!!"
Then, like a tsunami, the crowd erupted:
"Kevin! Kevin! Kevin!"
—
Final score: 120:117. The Heavenly Kings Team secured a last-second victory.
That was not just a shot; it was a seal.
The Death God descended, closing the window of opportunity for the Trick Team in the final second of the night.
After the game.
In that moment when the final whistle blew, time seemed to shatter into countless tiny specks of light, slowly drifting across the court. The audience erupted in thunderous cheers and applause, but on the Trick Team's bench, it was as quiet as a graveyard.
The camera panned to the VIP Box, where Mother Zhang sat with vacant eyes, her eyelids twitching, her body slumped against the chair like a withered butterfly drained of life.
Her wine glass had long since tipped over, deep red liquid flowing down the table like a river of retreating blood.
"How could this happen..." she murmured, her voice hoarse. "I had everything arranged... We were ahead..."
Her trembling hand reached for her phone on the table, shakily opening the messaging app to send a message to all members of the Zhang family internal group:
[Emergency Announcement]
The competition had ended, the plan had failed, and it was time to execute Plan Z.
——Mother Zhang
Next door, Zhang Jianing clutched her Spiritual Notebook, tears streaming down her face as she muttered,
"We shouldn't rely on confrontation to achieve healing... I should have made a vow... I should have told everyone to connect the lifeblood of basketball using Cosmic Frequency..."
She resembled a witch whose faith had crumbled, her words a jumble and her steps unsteady, until she finally slumped against the wall.
Mother Zhang turned to look at her, her gaze no longer filled with anger but only disappointment:
"That book of yours... from start to finish, it hasn't saved a single game."
Zhang Jianing wept uncontrollably, collapsing to the ground, repeatedly murmuring, "So... can I still make a vision board now...?"
—
On the other side of the audience, Poole had long lost control of his emotions.
He waved a towel and danced on the sidelines, shouting, "I knew there would be dramatic tension! I knew it! I just felt the shift in the wind while sitting on the bench! I swear!"
He rushed in front of KD and knelt on both knees: "God!! You are the cover star of my life!!!"
KD merely glanced at him indifferently: "Did you not just say I was cheating?"
Poole paused for a second: "Oh right... ah, it doesn't matter! Insults are insults, respect is respect!"
—
Kyrie stood still, quietly gazing at the distant scoreboard. There was no anger in his eyes, only a profound sense of regret that seemed bottomless.
Curry approached and patted him on the back. "It's not your fault. You summoned the divine; we just… weren't divine enough."
Kyrie nodded and let out a long sigh. "I once thought I could end it all, but today, I was reminded—gods are not meant to end things; they are meant to be looked up to."
—
Mother Zhang stood up for the last time.
She lowered her head to straighten her suit, her gaze shifting from the Heavenly Kings Team to the celebrating crowd, then to the electronic screen flashing "Victory." Finally, she turned and walked away.
Zhang Jianing hurried after her, taking two steps. "Mom… did we… did we lose?"
Mother Zhang halted, her tone icy:
"We didn't lose; we merely lived in someone else's script."
She paused, turned her head, and a familiar, chilling smile returned to her face:
"Next time, we'll be the ones writing the script."
Then, without looking back, she disappeared into the corridor.
—
At the press conference, Silver's face was flushed, as if he had been reborn. He shouted at all the media:
"I declare this the greatest battle in NBA history! The Grim Reaper descends, gods clash, a collision of schemes and poetry! I’m going to turn this game into a documentary and release it worldwide!"
Meanwhile, Xiao Jingteng sat in the control room, softly singing "The Princess" as a tribute to this epic showdown.
Lin Shu-Wei was still in the corner saying, "You know… that’s just American basketball, bro… yeah…"
—
As the arena lights gradually dimmed and the audience dispersed, the floor still held a lingering warmth.
Only Jay Chou remained, standing alone at center court, his back to the empty arena, softly humming:
🎵 "I've always wanted to tell you, you are my divine fire…"
He turned to look at the scoreboard hanging above the court and whispered:
"The story is over. It’s time… to write a new song."
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