033: Answer me! Speak!

"Antonios Fotsis!!!"

The arena announcer bellowed the Greek player's name. He had just drained another three-pointer, helping Real Madrid firmly grasp the initiative of the game.

The secret code to this lethal long-range shot lay in Lynch's textbook off-ball screen and Louis Bullock's surgical, pinpoint pass. These two teammates, whom Fotsis secretly loathed, had constructed a perfect tactical loop for him.

After the basket, Antonios Fotsis wanted to high-five his teammates, but as he turned, his gaze fell upon them. Lynch, the person he hated most on the team, had set the screen for him. Louis Bullock, the second-most hated, had delivered the pass. He simply couldn't bring himself to do it.

Lynch and Louis Bullock didn't pay him any mind either; they turned and headed back to set up their defense immediately after the shot. But the refusal to high-five didn't matter. Teammates don't have to be friends. What mattered was that they were playing like a true, cohesive unit.

Every scout in the arena witnessed the change in Lynch. His offensive statistics had stagnated for some time—his personal scoring output hadn't budged—yet his impact on the game was expanding. His defense had locked down Jasikevicius while simultaneously protecting the rim, leaving Maccabi to rely solely on Anthony Parker’s sporadic mid-range shots to stay alive. While his scoring remained static, his offensive gravity consistently created opportunities for his teammates.

The greatest testament to Lynch's influence was that whenever he went to the bench for a rest, Maccabi would easily narrow the lead. But the moment he stepped back onto the court, the flicker of the opponent's comeback was ruthlessly extinguished.

By the middle of the fourth quarter, Maccabi trailed by 15 points. David Blatt had tried everything, but no matter the tactic, nothing could bypass the hands of the number 10.

At this point, the Israelis in the stands began to lose their composure. They shrieked at the top of their lungs, "God's chosen people will win this game!"

Having played an entire EuroLeague season, Lynch had never heard fans from any other country claim to be God's chosen people; only the Jewish nation was so persistent in such self-aggrandizement. Listening to their cries, Lynch only felt more energized.

God's chosen people?

No one could win today—no one!

The game continued. Pushed to the brink, Jasikevicius initiated his off-ball movement, attempting to use a web of screens to shake off the shadow of Real Madrid's number 10. While this would inevitably lower his efficiency, it was the best way to escape the suffocating pressure. Like a serpent, he wound around a triple screen. The moment he caught the ball in the right corner, he adjusted his trajectory, and the arc of the ball as it left his hands was flawless.

Trailing by 15, Jasikevicius had no choice but to gamble on the long ball. He was confident in his touch; he had often staged miraculous, game-changing comebacks with a barrage of consecutive three-pointers when his team was down by double digits. That was exactly what made him so terrifying.

But his off-ball movement didn't grant him the freedom he sought. Lynch’s fingertips grazed the side of the basketball, completely altering its flight path. As the ball veered away in a bizarre trajectory, the commentator stood up and shouted, "Another block! The eighth one! Lynch has tied the single-game record of eight blocks set by Maceo Baston! Sarunas couldn't find a shot even with his off-ball movement; Lynch has completely frozen him!"

"Damn it!" Jasikevicius felt both furious and helpless.

In the stands, Antonio Maceiras was reminded of Moses Malone. The number 10 on the court once again overlapped with the image of Moses Malone in his memory. Every center who faced Moses Malone would have that same drained, hollow expression by the fourth quarter that Jasikevicius wore now.

The difference with Lynch was that he didn't just torture centers; he could replicate that expression on the face of any star player at any position.

Real Madrid on offense: Maccabi no longer dared to collapse their defense. Fotsis was a massive threat, and the opposing center was forced to follow him out beyond the three-point line. Anthony Parker didn't dare focus solely on Lynch either; today, it wasn't just Fotsis who benefited from Lynch’s gravity—Herreros had already hit three three-pointers because Parker was too preoccupied with helping out on Lynch. So now, even if Herreros went to the corner just to smoke a cigarette, Maccabi had to send someone to hold the ashtray.

Thus, when the Greek received the ball outside the arc and everyone else cleared out, only the poor, already-broken Baston remained under the rim to contend with Lynch.

Fotsis didn't even think; he tossed the ball toward the hoop, throwing an alley-oop to Lynch. His point-guard-like fundamentals ensured the height and angle of the pass were impeccable. The problem was that Lynch was currently entangled with Baston. Furthermore, Lynch was right under the basket, back to the hoop, with no room to run up or turn around.

But the Greek knew these weren't problems at all. He didn't like Lynch, but he acknowledged his strength.

Sure enough, Lynch easily shoved Baston aside. Pushed to the brink of losing his balance, Baston heard a metallic roar beside his ear. Lynch, back to the basket, leapt from a standstill, caught the ball, and slammed it back-handed through the net. The basket assembly groaned under the strain.

Maceo Baston was used to it. He was used to picking the ball up from under the hoop time and time again to inbound it. His spirit had been completely crushed.

Julio Lamas couldn't suppress his smile. Lynch setting a screen for Fotsis, Fotsis throwing an alley-oop to Lynch... this was a scene that had never happened before. If the team faced Barcelona in this state, the European championship would surely be brought to Madrid!

The lead was 17 points. On the bench, Maccabi head coach David Blatt’s act of loosening his tie betrayed his despair; he was struggling to breathe.

After their defense was demolished, Maccabi's offense failed again. Anthony Parker’s mid-range jumper didn't even get a chance to test its luck, as it was blocked by Lynch the moment it left his hand.

The Real Madrid number 10 was like an inexhaustible war machine. He was no longer just a defender; he was a black nightmare looming deep within the opponents' souls. Lynch was everywhere. His total commitment to defense showed everyone what true terror looked like.

The ninth block—the EuroLeague record was broken once more.

As Herreros scored on a fast-break layup assisted by Louis Bullock, the lead stretched to 19 points. The Maccabi players on the bench looked listless, unable to even muster the energy to wave their towels.

Jasikevicius knew he had only one chance left. If the lead hit 20, the game would effectively be over, as it would psychologically shatter Maccabi.

Jasikevicius continued to search for an opening through off-ball movement. Everything was the same as before; the moment he caught the ball, Lynch arrived in time. The Lithuanian "war god" raised the ball, and Lynch immediately launched himself into the air.

But as Lynch swung his arms, the Lithuanian retracted the ball and dropped his shoulder in a flash. It was a pump fake!

After sending Lynch flying, the Lithuanian calmly raised the ball again. He would save the team, starting with this three-pointer!

However, just as the ball cleared his brow, that giant hand he had just fooled plummeted from behind his head like an iron gate. The lethal contact between palm and basketball rewrote the script of the possession!

"The tenth one!" The commentator’s shout pierced the arena. The basketball, pressed into the floor, witnessed the coronation of a new king.

Lynch looked down at the Lithuanian, who had stumbled to the ground after the block, and muttered the name of another man: "Dejan’s crown is too loose; it’s better suited for me to wear."

Yes, he could already start thinking about his next opponent.

In the end, Maccabi completely collapsed, losing the game 64 to 87. Lynch only scored 17 points that night, but he racked up 18 rebounds and 10 blocks.

The Maccabi bench looked as if it had been swept by a hurricane; towels were scattered everywhere, and Coach David Blatt’s loosened tie hung around his neck like a noose. This European powerhouse would now only be able to play for third place against CSKA Moscow.

Amidst the jubilant white tide, the arms of the Real Madrid players had already linked into a chain of victory.

As the celebration ended, Lynch looked at the cameras flashing on the sidelines. On the giant electronic screen, the golden words "New Record: 10 Blocks in a Single Game" were burning bright.

Moreover, a new chapter of history was unfolding: the beacons of the EuroLeague were about to witness the first Spanish National Derby. The grudge between Real Madrid and Barcelona would spark epic fireworks on the highest possible stage.

Lynch’s mind was filled with the arrogant Dejan Bodiroga.

It was time to resolve the final issue.

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

"God's chosen people? Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's. Clearly, this game is under my jurisdiction. By the way, the crown on Dejan's head belongs to me now, too." — Lynch during the post-game press conference.

"We gave it our all, but Lynch is simply not at this level. He is the most terrifying defensive player in the history of European basketball." — David Blatt, sighing helplessly at the post-game press conference.

"Why didn't I stop Lynch when he was doing whatever he wanted on the court? Let me ask you this: why couldn't so many famous players stop him before? Why couldn't the First Team All-EuroLeague opponents from last season beat him? Answer me!!! Couldn't they stop him either? Huh? You dogs who say I'm useless, answer me! Look in my eyes! Tell me, why? Baby why? Speak!!!" — Maceo Baston, screaming in an emotional breakdown at the press conference.