Chapter Thirty-Eight: We Aim to Lead Your Team by Thirty Points

Feng Yisheng looked at him, but the other only wore an expression of contempt. Zhao Hui arrogantly raised two fingers and declared, “We’ll beat you by at least twenty points!”

But Feng Yisheng, even more brazen, held up three fingers and replied, “I’m far more arrogant than you—I’ll beat your team by thirty!”

Now you act so smug in front of me, but soon I’ll make you eat your words and leave you utterly stunned, even if you don’t wear glasses to break.

A whistle sounded at the edge of the court. Zhao Hui leapt up, drawing gasps from the crowd.

So high!

He jumped incredibly high, but Feng Yisheng took his time gearing up, knowing full well that no matter how slowly he went up, he’d still snatch the rebound. Sure enough, as Zhao Hui stretched out his hand in mid-air to tip the ball toward his team’s point guard, Zheng Dayong, a larger hand suddenly reached above his, sending the rebound toward Feng Yisheng’s side.

That hand belonged to Feng Yisheng. He slapped the ball toward Wan Shui. The game had just begun, and both sides’ defense was still loose.

Wan Shui took possession and dribbled slowly. He played basketball casually but rarely participated in actual matches, let alone against a strong school team. Though two days’ practice on the outdoor courts had honed his skills, now, even unguarded, he was visibly tense.

He dribbled slowly, took a deep breath, and glanced inside the three-point line—his teammates were all closely marked by the basketball team, except for Feng Yisheng, whose defender was more relaxed since he was still standing outside the three-point arc.

Without overthinking, Wan Shui made a direct pass to Feng Yisheng. Guarding Feng Yisheng was Chen Xiaoming, the basketball team’s small forward from the second year, known as “James of No. 2 High.” He stood at 188 cm—much taller and more muscular than Feng Yisheng, his physique imposing and robust.

Chen Xiaoming saw Feng Yisheng receive the ball. Although Zhuang Bi had warned him about Feng Yisheng’s shooting accuracy, Chen still underestimated him, figuring his own height and wingspan were overwhelming advantages.

He believed Feng Yisheng’s previous shots had been lucky flukes, so he didn’t bother to guard him closely, giving him plenty of space—fully a meter away.

Seeing Chen leave him open, Feng Yisheng thought to himself, “Another fool! But at least you’re saving me some effort.”

A sly grin tugged at his lips. From half a meter behind the three-point line, Feng Yisheng executed a Kobe-style fadeaway jumper.

At that range, Chen Xiaoming was convinced there was no way Feng Yisheng could hit the shot. But reality is often harsh.

Glancing back, he saw the ball drop cleanly through the hoop.

3–0.

…

A roar of cheers erupted—hundreds of voices. Jiang Zhiming and Qian Da were on the sidelines, shouting their support for Feng Yisheng.

The crowd along the court was electrified by that three-pointer. By now, several hundred spectators had gathered, and someone had already filmed Feng Yisheng’s basket and uploaded it to the forum of Nanshui Foreign Language School; of course, some clips landed on short video platforms as well.

“Whew!”

The referee’s whistle signaled that the basket was valid, and now it was the basketball team’s turn to attack.

As the second-year team took possession, Feng Yisheng’s side—except for him—had already prepared to fall back on defense. He had told his teammates beforehand: when the opposing team attacks, he would guard the paint, while the other four would zone in on the ball-handler, conceding open threes and daring them to shoot.

After all, Feng Yisheng didn’t believe anyone could shoot more accurately than he could.

If the basketball team tried to drive inside, there would be at least a triple-team, and Feng Yisheng would step in to help. He didn’t believe they could score under such pressure.

At this point, Feng Yisheng felt unconcerned about whatever came their way, exuding the confidence of a man who felt he could handle anything—he firmly believed none of the second-year team could match him.

…

Sure enough, when the basketball team inbounded, it was Zhuang Bi who took the ball. Against Feng Yisheng’s team, Zhuang Bi felt no pressure.

He dribbled past midcourt, only to find Feng Yisheng stepping up to meet him, which made Zhuang Bi a little nervous.

Outside the three-point arc, Zhuang Bi dribbled unhurriedly, but Feng Yisheng noticed a flicker of unease in his demeanor—his dribbling rhythm was off.

Some in the crowd, who knew a thing or two about basketball, spotted Zhuang Bi’s nerves, and many began to murmur.

“What’s wrong with Zhuang Bi today? He seems distracted.”

The speaker was Yang Yong, the third-year basketball team’s coach. He’d heard about the match from a fellow teacher at Nanshui Foreign Language School. Normally, Yang Yong wouldn’t bother with such a lopsided contest, but since the second-year team would soon be promoted to third-year and would represent the whole city in the high school league, he wanted to observe their teamwork firsthand. He hadn’t expected them to concede a three-pointer right at the start.

Feng Yisheng’s performance had impressed him, but not enough. Yang Yong curled his lips and muttered, “This student alone won’t be enough to defeat a team that’s trained together for two years. At best, he’ll just motivate them to improve.”

…

On the court, Zhuang Bi slowed his dribble—usually a sign of an impending drive or fake pass. Sure enough, he feinted to the side, and the less experienced Feng Yisheng took the bait, shifting to defend right. Zhuang Bi seized the chance and drove left.

From his vantage point on the grandstand some twenty meters away—an elevated spot where school leaders usually addressed the students—Yang Yong saw it all clearly. He’d often watched the second-year team’s training games and knew Zhuang Bi loved this kind of move. But he also spotted a flaw: Zhuang Bi’s drive was slow. If the defender reacted quickly, they could chase him down and strip the ball.

As soon as Zhuang Bi got past him, Feng Yisheng’s instincts kicked in; he spun and gave chase.

His speed was remarkable, but since it was over a short distance, it didn’t draw undue attention.

Feng Yisheng reached in from behind—Zhuang Bi, trying to accelerate after the drive, was just a bit too slow, and the ball was deftly stolen.

“How’s that possible!” Yang Yong exclaimed from the stands.

To some of those watching, Feng Yisheng’s steal felt like a winning hand in a game of chance.

Many believed the only reason Zhuang Bi lost the ball was his lack of speed.