001: Lin Qi and Theo

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Belgrade, Serbia, 2002.

The morning mist, heavy with the vapor of the Danube, swept through the streets. There was no sign of life; on either side, old, crowded houses exuded a sense of desolation.

The sunless, chilly sky made the city appear all the more forlorn.

Lynch brushed the unruly hair from his forehead, gazing once more at his own handsome yet unfamiliar face reflected in the window of a pastry shop.

Three days ago, he had been an ordinary eighteen-year-old, full of youthful energy, passionate about basketball, video games, and the appreciation of the human form.

As a carefree high school graduate, Lynch cherished every evening. He’d poke fun at the Dallas Mavericks’ “Brow Blockbuster” series that barely began before ending abruptly, mock Jimmy Butler’s overzealous tributes to Paul Pierce, play a few rounds of video games, then finish with a good movie. He never went to bed unless exhaustion demanded it, savoring every second of entertainment.

He didn’t consider this a waste of time. He understood well enough that, for a boy of modest upbringing with no grand ambitions, these carefree, unfettered days were already in short supply.

Twelve years of hard study, followed by decades of drudgery—what harm in enjoying life while he could?

There is no crime in savoring life, nor in letting the milky days of youth slip through one’s fingers.

Yet, before long, his peaceful existence was overturned. Overnight, his consciousness was brought to the year 2002, into the body of a sixteen-year-old boy who shared his name.

The good news: he had become a basketball player.

If Lynch harbored any dream, it was to become a professional basketball player. It’s easy to see why—liking basketball is one thing, but becoming a top-level pro means a life transformed, with unimaginable wealth within reach.

Of course, like most regular kids, Lynch’s unimpressive 1.73-meter frame and utter lack of a basketball foundation meant his dreams were little more than fantasy—even in NBA2K, realizing them would require serious in-game spending.

Now, however, he was a player for FMP Belgrade’s youth team—the Metal Products Factory Club of Belgrade. Suddenly, his dream didn’t seem so distant.

Though not yet a true professional, he had at least reached the threshold.

The bad news: this body's fragility rivaled that of NBA’s top salary-dodger, Kawhi Leonard.

In Lynch’s memories, the body’s previous owner barely played after joining the FMP youth team, always sidelined by injury—so much so that even the 63-year-old gatekeeper’s attendance put him to shame.

A sprained knee six months ago, a broken rib three months back, a twisted ankle six weeks prior...

Every physical exam, the team doctor would mutter with pity, “Kid, your medical report looks like the bombed-out Novi Sad Bridge.”

Without a healthy body, the dream of professional basketball remained out of reach.

Lynch looked away from the window and up at the gloomy sky.

This stagnant city, its sunless shroud, the heavy atmosphere—all seemed deliberately intent on telling him: Basketball? Give it up.

“To hell with that,” Lynch muttered, slamming his fist against the glass. “I’m going to try, no matter what!”

In his previous life, he’d surrendered because there was no path forward, no matter the effort. Now, given the chance to change his fate, how could he simply let it go?

No matter the obstacles ahead, no matter who stood in his way, Lynch would neither flee nor cower.

He would fight for his dream until the very end!

“Hey kid, looking for trouble!?” A hulking man, arms covered in tattoos and built like a professional athlete, stormed out of the pastry shop.

In this country, where the average man stands 1.80 meters tall, such men were everywhere.

He glared at Lynch, who had just punched the window. “What are you doing? Basketball? My ass! Stay and clean my glass!”

Lynch’s eyes blazed as he stared at the first person to stand in his way, then dashed forward—

And escaped onto a bus.

-----------------

Guided by memories in his mind, Lynch rode to the youth team’s training facility. Today was his first day back after a serious ankle injury.

Though FMP was a professional basketball club, eligible for Serbia’s top league, the youth team’s base was far from the luxury Lynch had imagined.

Down a narrow path beside a slope stood an old, worn basketball gym. The rusted sign was neither new nor bright.

This was all the FMP youth team possessed.

Inside, Lynch saw a giant team banner emblazoned with a black panther and the words “Founded 1975”; the scuffs on the wooden floor told their own story.

He also saw a man—not old, but with little hair left atop his head.

The man, clearly aware of his youth, stubbornly combed a few strands across his bald crown in a vain attempt to cover it. This only made things worse; he’d have been better off shaving it all.

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Memory told Lynch that this man with the stubborn Mediterranean hairstyle was the youth team’s head coach, Bosko Jokic, who soon spotted Lynch.

With a 2.03-meter frame and a 2.25-meter wingspan that was still growing, Lynch was hard to miss.

Their eyes met in the air. From the coach’s gaze, Lynch saw no expectation for a returning player—only a hint of pity.

Bosko did indeed pity Lynch. He once thought the Chinese boy, training with FMP’s youth squad since age twelve, was a prodigy—Lynch’s static and dynamic gifts were both outstanding.

But a basketball player’s value exists only on the court.

Bosko knew, with absolute certainty, that the endless cycle of injuries had sentenced Lynch, blocking his path to professional basketball.

Not only did the injuries themselves ruin him, but the constant setbacks made Lynch fear physical contact—he played timidly and weakly, his once-imposing arms shrinking into wallflowers on defense.

The more he was hurt, the weaker he became. Lynch had fallen into a vicious cycle.

If youth league competition already left him injured and frightened of contact, there was no way he could ever play with the men’s team.

In Bosko’s eyes, the child he once had such high hopes for had become just another shooting star among thousands.

Now, Bosko’s attention was entirely on the team’s star prodigy, Milos Teodosic—the starting point guard of the Euro-champion Serbia-Montenegro U16 squad. He might lack the flash of another Serbian wonder, Darko Milicic, but he was exceptional nonetheless.

As for the once-promising Chinese boy? Bosko could only wish him the simple happiness of basketball, for that was all that remained—happy, casual basketball.

Teodosic, the youth squad’s genius, entered the gym then. He was silent and reserved, as lifeless as the city itself.

Because of this, no one greeted him, nor did he speak to anyone.

Except Lynch.

The sixteen-year-old, already possessing the face of a thirty-five-year-old, nodded to Lynch, then said coldly, “Welcome back.”

Honestly, Lynch thought his face hardly suited the “young prodigy” label.

That mature visage, paired with his messy, unkempt hair, made him look more like a sleazy middle-aged man peddling bootleg American adult DVDs along the Danube.

Even more inconsistent with his “genius” status was the fact that, in the team, his only friend was Lynch—the “wastrel.”

In third-rate dime novels, geniuses are always arrogant, tools for the protagonist’s rise, only to be upended.

But Teo was different; he was closest to Lynch.

Teo’s overly serious demeanor and somber personality made him unpopular among the boisterous youth squad. Lynch’s Asian face meant he had few friends here as well.

Their teammates didn’t exclude them, but were not exactly warm either—they were the sort who’d never be invited to class reunions.

Yet, these two oddballs had formed a sort of chemistry.

The old Lynch found Teo warm-hearted beneath his cold exterior, and Teo didn’t mind having an Asian friend.

After their greeting, Teodosic continued in his emotionless monotone, “Don’t worry too much about injuries.”

“Mm,” Lynch nodded.

“The senior team coach is coming to watch today.”

“Oh? Are you nervous?”

Teo didn’t answer, just shook his head.

“Uh... want some water? I bought an extra bottle.”

“No.”

Lynch: ...

No wonder this guy has no friends—every word sounds like it’s from a soulless robot, and never more than absolutely necessary!

Even talking with DeepSeek was more human than this!

But then, the Serbian android said something that actually warmed Lynch’s heart.

“I will pass you the ball later.”

After a simple warmup, the scrimmage was set to begin. Lynch was eager to see what this physically gifted body could do.

But in the end, he found he wasn’t listed for the game.

Coach Bosko delivered the harsh news:

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“I don’t think you’re ready to play yet. For now, you’re not on our official roster. In fact, Lynch, I think... it’s best if you return to the U16 team.”

God is witness, Bosko had nothing personal against Lynch—he just couldn’t bear to see him writhing in pain on the floor after another collision.

This 2.03-meter frame was like a battered armored vehicle in a war museum—no longer fit for service.

Every year, countless Serbian children join club academies, training from age five to sixteen, with only a precious few ever reaching the professional stage. Most lose their chance to chase their dreams.

It’s harsh, but it is reality.

Lynch, who had waited so long for this moment, could not accept it. In Europe, if you’re not playing with the youth team by sixteen, it’s essentially a farewell to professional basketball.

“Back to the U16 squad? Are you kidding? The doctor said I’m fine! You’re still clinging to your hairstyle despite your baldness—so why should I have to sit on the bench? I deserve a chance, even a few minutes on the court!”

Bosko was both angry and surprised at Lynch’s outburst, instinctively touching his head.

Wait... is my early baldness really that obvious?

Didn’t I perfectly cover it with the hair on the sides!?

Fuming, Bosko whipped out a comb and brushed his few remaining strands, trying to conceal his scalp even more—determined to prove he still had a full head of hair.

The gesture had the same comic self-deception as LeBron James trying to plead innocence with outstretched hands.

“Don’t defy my decision, kid. And,” Bosko put away the comb, enunciating every word, “never question my hair! My hair is just soft and flat, so it looks thin, but in fact there’s plenty!”

Lynch couldn’t help but laugh.

When a man lies, he’ll even lie to himself.

Teodosic immediately grabbed Lynch, whispering, “Don’t be impulsive.”

“But...”

“The senior team coach will want everyone to take the court, even if just for a moment.”

“Really?”

“Even Bosko has to listen to him.”

“I see.”

“So you’ll get your chance.”

“Uh... Teo, could you...”

“Even if it’s just thirty seconds, I’ll find you with a pass.”

“Thank you, but could you...”

“But if you argue now, you really might not get to play.”

Lynch: ...

Can you not just say it all at once? Is your CPU incapable of longer sentences?

Annoying as it was, Teodosic’s AI-like monotone managed to calm Lynch’s restless spirit. He sat on the bench, waiting for the senior coach’s orders.

And so, he was left in the farthest corner of the bench, watching his teammates run, jump, and shout on the court, feeling like an outsider.

It seemed fate was playing a cruel joke—professional basketball felt tantalizingly close, yet still utterly out of reach.

Then, suddenly, a few lines appeared before Lynch’s eyes.

[Due to constant injuries, you accumulated only 35 minutes of playing time in three years with FMP’s senior squad. Riding the reputation of European youth training, you returned home to play in the NBL (China’s secondary league), only to encounter a salary crisis. Lacking the courage to pursue your professional dream any longer, you reluctantly retired, became a children’s basketball coach, and lived an ordinary life repaying loans.]

[At thirty, watching those who also came from European youth systems dominate the NBA, you regret your past timidity. Your earliest passion for basketball rekindles—you long to play once more.]

[Goal: Rediscover the courage of your youth. Bravely step onto the court again and reclaim your dream!]

[Reward: NBA Role Player Skill Pack.]

(A new book has arrived—dear readers, your guidance and votes are humbly sought!)