016: Who Truly Is Lucifer? (Please Keep Reading!)

Mark Coenstein’s face was ashen; he hadn’t felt this devastated even on the night he lost his father.

Mark was a mediocre professional basketball agent. Though he had a few clients in the NBA, they were all obscure players.

Philadelphia’s center, Samuel Dalem Porter, was the most notable among his clients.

Since he couldn’t have foreseen signing the towering center Wang Zhelin in a one-for-one trade for Marc Gasol, Dakko Milicic was, in Mark Coenstein’s eyes, the key to changing his life.

He had discovered Milicic and promoted the Serbian prodigy to North America, longing for this genius to turn his fortunes around.

Until today, the plan had succeeded.

With just three months left before the NBA Draft, Milicic’s stock was at its peak. His dominant performances in Serbia placed him firmly among the top three rookies, with American scouts praising him so highly that debates began over whether Dakko or LeBron was more deserving of the top pick.

As Utah Jazz scout Dal Synn put it, “Compared to LeBron, Dakko’s skills are more complete; he can play center, power forward, and small forward. Who knows what LeBron can do as a point guard or shooting guard? Plus, Dakko doesn’t bear the immense pressure that LeBron does. If we had the first pick, we’d choose Dakko over LeBron.”

As long as Milicic was selected within the top three as expected, Mark Coenstein could finally shed his “mediocre agent” label.

After all, in the NBA ecosystem, a top-three draft pick could transform an agent’s standing entirely.

But this game shattered the dream Mark had so carefully woven.

Tonight, Lynch utterly devoured Dakko Milicic; it was a thorough disaster.

At this moment, Milicic’s eardrums echoed with his own labored breathing, like wind rushing through bellows.

His chest heaved violently, as if he had just endured the world’s most grueling physical trial.

The genius knew clearly that this was the worst game he had ever played in his life.

He had messed up completely, becoming nothing more than a stepping stone for the number 10.

All his technical displays turned into ridiculous self-humiliations, overestimating himself.

FMP’s fans cheered, while the commentators pounded the table, ignoring the spilled coffee, and quoted Moses Malone’s famous words to describe Lynch’s performance:

“Lynch hasn’t faltered for a single minute on the court, and look at his rebound stats—no one has ever grabbed so many boards over Dakko! His shooting may be off, but his rebounds are always there!”

The camera showed Lynch, shouting and high-fiving his teammates on the bench, then embracing a woman in a floral dress.

Wu Lan was proud—more proud than ever before.

The lens then cut to Dakko, slumped on the bench; his platinum hair made him look like a golden retriever with drooping ears.

This stark contrast prompted the commentators to critique Dakko: “It seems that inside that 213 cm frame is only the soul of a 183 cm man. Look at him—he plays like a guard, constantly shooting but always missing, nowhere near as tough as Lynch!”

Watching at home, Misko Raznatovic thought to himself that he must quickly reach an agreement with Lynch.

Because after this game, Lynch would become even more sought after.

And Lynch was Misko’s chance to change his own life.

Misko also believed that if not for the damn age restriction, Lynch could be a lottery pick this year.

But rules were rules—there was no way Lynch would foolishly release a statement like LeBron James threatening to sue the NBA.

If Lynch had to stay in Europe a while longer, how could that time be made worthwhile?

There was only one answer: turn Lynch into a number one draft pick!

You know, a top pick is completely different from other rookies.

It means not only a higher salary but also greater media exposure, bigger endorsement deals, and the most famous behind in the entertainment world.

Of course, the team would spare no resources in nurturing Lynch.

Misko had confidence—in both his own management skills and Lynch’s abilities.

And all this beautiful future depended on reaching an agreement with Lynch as soon as possible.

Misko’s reputation in Europe was at its peak, but he was not yet among the top agents in North America.

If he could manage to get a number one pick, everything would change.

While everyone was already thinking about the futures of Lynch and Dakko Milicic, only Miro Nikolic, coach of the Fursatz Youth Team, was still focused on this game itself.

He tried to calm the mentally shattered Dakko.

“Dakko, look me in the eye! Come back, I want you back—find your focus! Concentrate!

We still have a chance. You are still the best young player in Serbia. We can still take down that number 10.

But first, for God’s sake, stay calm and do the right things on the court!”

Clearly, Dakko Milicic didn’t hear a word. His mind was filled with a hot, thunderous rage.

He hated that number 10; he just wanted to get back on the court and settle it once and for all.

If basketball didn’t work, then he’d find another way!

No one would shame him on this court!

The timeout ended and the game resumed.

Dakko walked onto the court, completely oblivious to the coach’s words, fully controlled by his emotions.

In the first defensive play, Dakko knocked Lynch down.

Lynch had just jumped for an offensive rebound when a bulging vein on a hand grabbed his shoulder with force, causing him to lose balance and fall flat on his back.

“Go back to that shitty restaurant and stir your pans!” Dakko shouted, platinum hair flying with spittle.

The insult was like lighting a Balkan powder keg. The normally gentle Luka Modric transformed into a furious hunting dog, pushing Dakko stumbling into the scorer’s table.

“Bastard, what do you think you’re doing?!”

Nemanja Jokic, the loyal dog and mixed martial arts enthusiast, naturally wouldn’t miss this scene. He stepped forward, grabbing Luka Modric’s wrist: “Take your filthy hands off Dakko!”

“Get lost!” Teodosic joined the fray. He said nothing but forcefully shoved both Milicic and Nemanja away.

But furious Dakko grabbed Teo by the collar and hurled him aside: “You damn dwarf, I swear if you push me again!”

Chaos erupted as players from both teams swarmed in from all sides.

Lynch immediately got up and, wild-eyed, grabbed Dakko by the neck.

Lynch’s anger was understandable—after Dakko’s malicious foul on him, he even threatened Lynch’s best friend.

But the referees intervened swiftly, preventing the conflict from escalating.

Separated, Dakko glared fiercely at Lynch and Teo, shouting, “Remember Nemanja’s warning, you two cowards—don’t mess with Lucifer!”

In the stands, Mark Coenstein was nearly losing his mind.

What the hell was that idiot Dakko doing? Was he trying to nail the coffin shut on his NBA draft hopes?

Nemanja Jokic and Dakko’s antics helped no one in the game, but they didn’t care—they finally got to vent their anger.

In this, they never feared anyone, since their favorite pastime outside basketball was practicing mixed martial arts.

It was well known that after retiring, Dakko Milicic had competed professionally in MMA, achieving more than Michael Jordan ever did in baseball.

Where did Dakko get this inspiration? From Nemanja Jokic himself.

Nemanja had played college basketball in Detroit for a time but realized he was far from professional level, so he switched to MMA.

Now, though neither was a professional fighter, their occasional training gave them a solid foundation far beyond most amateurs.

Dakko’s smug, petty face made Lynch sick, but it was Bosko who kept Lynch calm.

“That bastard is dying; he’s just struggling in his last moments. Ignore him!”

Lynch cursed under his breath, then looked at Teo: “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Keep them underwater; don’t let them breathe!”

In the following plays, Dakko’s performance showed no sign of improvement, but his actions grew increasingly violent, each physical contact dripping with malice.

Lynch and Teo were repeatedly knocked down by Dakko’s small dirty tricks. When the whistle blew, he’d spread his hands in an exaggerated innocent gesture; when the referees turned away, he’d grin broadly at the fallen Lynch or Teo.

Though trailing in score, Dakko derived a twisted pleasure from watching his opponents writhe in pain—at least in this moment, he was still the lord of the court, Lucifer.

When Dakko committed too many fouls, Nemanja Jokic would step in to do the same, and the two would laugh together.

With eight minutes left in the game, the Fursatz Youth Team was down by 19 points.

Though victory was near and they had crushed Dakko, Lynch felt a sense of frustration.

The smug expressions on Dakko and Nemanja’s faces made it seem like they were the real winners!

At this moment, Lynch had no triumph in winning, because his opponents showed no signs of backing down, only growing more arrogant.

When Lynch drove to the basket and was fouled by Dakko again, shouting erupted from the sidelines.

“You little bastard! You can’t keep fouling even if you’re losing! Ref, why don’t you just eject them?”

Wu Lan pointed at Dakko’s nose and yelled; her sharp voice carried across the arena.

Teo stared at her trembling figure in disbelief. He had been to Lynch’s restaurant many times but had never seen this usually gentle Eastern woman so angry.

In Lynch’s memory, this was the first time he had seen her so furious.

This mother, dressed carefully to watch her son’s game, had only anger on her face now.

You could understand her feelings—her child was making the greatest night of his basketball career, while another child was playing dirty off the court.

More than anything, she did not want to see Lynch suffer injury again.

That kind of pain she never wanted to recall.

The referees and Bosko came to comfort Wu Lan, causing the game to pause.

Lynch wanted to go to the sideline to soothe her, but then the hateful blond man whispered in his ear.

“Your mom? Ugly as hell. That dress is tacky. Didn’t she check the mirror before coming?” Milicic sneered, his taunting smile growing more irritating.

He seemed to be telling Lynch, “Even if you win, you’ll end this night full of frustration and shame!”

“Bang!”

Everyone heard a dull thud as an enraged Lynch punched Dakko squarely in the nose.

Dakko’s last words ignited the fury Lynch had been holding back for so long. He knew Wu Lan had carefully dressed for this game, so he could no longer tolerate this idiot.

Dakko’s platinum head snapped back suddenly; it felt like a grenade exploded inside his skull. Blood and shattered bone filled his mouth; his legs floated weakly as he collapsed to the floor.

Dakko hadn’t expected Lynch to strike him and was completely unprepared for the blow.

As Dakko fell, the players turned the game into a rugby scrum.

Fursatz players tried to tackle the rampaging Lynch, while FMP players used their bodies to keep them away from their “quarterback.”

They were buying time for Lynch’s “execution moment.”

Lynch seized the gap, mounting Dakko and furiously throwing punches.

“This one’s for Teo!” The first punch sent Dakko’s mouthguard flying.

“This one’s for me!” The second crushed arrogance, blood spraying onto Lynch’s rolling Adam’s apple; that damn bastard could no longer gloat.

“This one’s for my mom! Watch your mouth!” The third punch targeted those once-proud, condescending blue eyes; as the fist landed, a crimson tear split Dakko’s eye corner.

“You bastard, damn bastard!”

The fists kept coming, showing no sign of stopping.

Like a machine, Lynch hammered Dakko’s head against the wooden floor with every blow.

Dakko’s carefully styled platinum hair was soaked in blood. The referee’s whistle, the coach’s scolding, and players’ shouts all faded into background noise.

The previously triumphant Nemanja Jokic stood frozen, while the man he called “Lucifer” lay curled in a blood pool like a torn marionette.

Finally, Lynch was restrained by referees and opposing players.

As he was pulled away, his gaze met Nemanja Jokic’s—now pale with shock.

“Now—” Lynch raised his blood-stained hand, pointed at the ghostly pale Nemanja, and gave a terrifying smile that Nemanja would never forget, “who’s really Lucifer?”

(Alright, I can only say the next update will be before midnight and then before 4 p.m., because I’m planning a sneak attack, hahaha.)