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墨書 Inktalez
The second quarter reached its midpoint, with the score fluctuating back and forth: 41-41, 44-44, 46-45... ties, lead changes, and then being pulled back again.
The entire Oracle Arena resembled a temple pulled by divine forces, light and shadow intertwining in the air. The basketball was like a sacred vessel in some ritual, passed between the two teams, consuming their energy and souls.
This was not an ordinary game—this was a live dialectic of glory and spirit.
James Harden, retreating endlessly with footwork like a dance, launched two consecutive three-pointers that sliced through the air. Luka Doncic threaded the needle, navigating every dead angle, using his passes like magic to create openings. Although Kevin Durant was closely guarded by Jayson Tatum throughout, he still managed to hit two shots with extreme lean-backs, each one calculated with life-and-death precision.
On the other side, the Trick Team showed no signs of letting up for even a second.
Stephen Curry began to enter a frenzied state.
He didn’t rely on screens to create space; instead, he relied on pure dribbling and feel. With a quick spin and step-back, he opened a 0.5-second window just enough to launch another shot that showcased the aesthetics of a parabolic arc.
“He’s not shooting; he’s drawing astronomical charts!” the commentator shouted.
On the next offensive play, he forced a shot amid double coverage—swish!
“Bang!”
“Stephen Curry, the man who makes you question physics!”
Tatum also showcased the perfect combination of high pressure in the Restricted Area and slashing from the perimeter during this quarter. In front of Durant, he fearlessly drove to the basket, faking with a shoulder lift to create space before rising up against the defense—
“Tatum answers back! It’s like they’re playing a duet on the piano!”
LeBron James sat like a king at the center of it all.
As the Heavenly Kings Team gradually increased the pace, he stepped up to a higher position, waving his finger. Curry and Kyrie Irving immediately began to move, while he executed a behind-the-back pass.
"Is this pass GPS-enabled? How did Curry just happen to be there!"
James's intelligence ran parallel with his muscles; during one offensive play, he forcefully drove into the Restricted Area, drawing a double foul from KD and Jokic, and smoothly finished with a layup. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, "I'm 38 years old, still playing this well—it's just not fair, right?"
As he turned back to defend, he patted Tatum on the shoulder and said, "You guard KD; I’ll go have a chat with Bill."
Bill was no slouch either. Unlike KD or Harden, who were loud and flashy, his shooting remained calm and deadly.
He hit an open three-pointer with silence. After a fake move, he pulled up for a mid-range jumper and scored effortlessly.
He forced the Trick Team to spread their defensive pressure; at one point, Curry was even forced to switch onto him, only to be left bewildered by Bill's low-post turnaround shot.
"This man is surgical," the commentator remarked. "Bill is the kind of player you see being quiet, and then you look at the score and realize he’s already racked up 16 points."
Meanwhile, the matchup between Wembanyama and Jokic was nothing short of a clash of titans.
Wembanyama utilized his wingspan, agility, and elasticity to block space, while Jokic relied on skill, touch, and cosmic-level footwork to shake off defenders.
In one confrontation, Jokic executed four fakes in succession. Wembanyama stood his ground without budging. Finally, Jokic made a deceptive fake pass—
Wembanyama momentarily lost focus, and by the time he regained it, the ball had already slipped through the hoop.
"This fat guy didn't even jump, yet he still made it in!?"
The commentator couldn't help but laugh: "You don't understand, he just thinks too fast, making you think he's slow."
— In the last minute of the second quarter, the score was tied at 59:59!
The crowd went wild, no one could sit still. The audience waved flags and cheered, while the entire bench stood up, as if even the referees had forgotten to keep their cool.
In this minute, there were no isolation plays or lone wolves; only flowing will and endless collaboration.
KD pulled away, Luka Doncic cut in, Jokic set a screen, Bill stretched the baseline, and Harden distributed the ball—
Finally, Harden stepped back for a three-pointer!
Bang—he missed!
The Trick Team launched a fast break. Curry and Kyrie Irving sprinted simultaneously, with Tatum holding the ball and James providing support.
Tatum drove into the Restricted Area, passed back to Curry, who faked a shot and passed to the right corner—
Kyrie Irving caught the ball! He took a three-pointer—
Swish!
62:59, the Trick Team took the lead again!
On the sidelines, Mother Zhang's lips twitched as she turned to Zhang Jianing: "Tell them I won't allow any waste in the third quarter."
Jay Chou gripped his Nunchaku tightly and shouted at the players, "Don't rush! We're just catching our breath. In the third quarter—it's time for us to sing the chorus!"
The halftime whistle blew, and the score was Trick Team 62, Heavenly Kings Team 59.
Both teams returned to their benches, each player looking as if they had just weathered a storm, clothes soaked and breathing heavily, yet in their eyes—no one was backing down.
As the halftime whistle sounded, players made their way back to the resting area, but the heavy breaths and labored steps that seemed to claw back from hell made every spectator understand—this was no ordinary game.
The audience erupted into brief chaos and discussion, social media buzzing with the topic of "the first half as the finals." But at that moment, in the corridor of Trick Team's locker room, an unexpected confrontation was quietly brewing.
Kyrie Irving walked at the back of the team, holding onto a burnt-out Sage stick, silent.
His gaze was somewhat dazed, but more than that, it was filled with repression. It wasn't the pressure of defense on the court or fatigue from physical exertion—rather, it was a crack that had grown from deep within over the years.
Before entering the locker room, he noticed Tatum in the corner drinking water while LeBron sat calmly against the wall wiping sweat, both engaged in a brief discussion about tactical deployment, their atmosphere harmonious.
But for Kyrie Irving, that scene was too glaring.
His fists slowly clenched tight, and finally, he spoke softly:
"You all act like nothing has happened?"
Tatum frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Kyrie turned to look at him, a familiar sharpness gleaming in his eyes.
"Aren't you the star of the Celtics? I still remember how you all treated me back in Boston—"
"Enough, Kyrie."
It was LeBron, slowly rising to his feet, his tone commanding without anger.
"We're playing a game, not writing a memoir. Your mythic narrative has no place here."
Kyrie Irving glared at him. "Oh? You still have the nerve to say that? You once promised you'd take me all the way, and look what happened?"
"My decision to switch teams was mine alone, yet you made the whole world think I betrayed you. And what was the result? You won a championship while I was ridiculed for four years."
Tatum attempted to interject. "What are you even arguing about? We're on the same team now!"
Kyrie scoffed. "Oh? Same team? When you stood there while I struggled with the Celtics, accepting the cheers of the crowd, you didn't treat me like a teammate."
The atmosphere instantly froze.
LeBron's face hardened as he stepped closer to Kyrie, his voice low.
"If you want to dredge up old grievances, fine. But not now. This game is the world's focus, not your personal stage for drama."
"You think your flashy ball-handling and high shooting percentage can erase the mistakes you've made with people?"
"The toughest opponent you face isn't the defense; it's your own memory."
Kyrie's fists trembled, his lips quivered, and his eyes reddened.
Tatum also stood up. "Enough! We have a whole half to play. If you want this to turn into your personal confessional, I suggest you leave now."
Silence stretched across the hallway.
Kyrie Irving gritted his teeth, his gaze shifting from Tatum to LeBron, and then... he lowered his head and smiled.
"Heh... you guys still know how to talk."
He turned and walked towards the exit by the sidelines. At the door, he glanced back, his voice low like a spell:
"Then let me see... if you two are worth my years of regret."
With that, he pushed open the door and stepped into the dark tunnel at the other end of the court, like a storm brewing for a comeback.
—
Mother Zhang was sitting in the VIP room watching the replay, unfazed by the internal conflict. She simply remarked:
"Tricks can be used not only against opponents but also on your own people."
Meanwhile, in the locker room of the Heavenly Kings Team, Harden was pointing at the tactical board, passionately explaining: "Forget about those mythical figures over there for now. I'm going to show you how my backpedal—collide—kill—you—dead technique with Jokic works. You'll see what it means to be a true master of time in this league."
Jay Chou stood nearby, his tone calm but his eyes burning with intensity:
"In the third quarter, we’re not just aiming to catch up. We want these crumbling gods to witness a true team spirit."
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