Chapter 069: A Resounding Slap in the Face

All five shots at the first rack found their mark!

Lin Feng had a perfect start, and with each pinpoint-accurate three-pointer, the crowd’s enthusiasm was set ablaze. Waves of cheers and shouts rolled through the arena, and fans whipped out their phones to capture the electrifying scene from every possible angle.

He moved to the second rack.

Taking a moment to steady his breathing, he picked up the first ball.

Arm outstretched.

Release.

Another basket.

Second ball. Third. Fourth. Fifth.

Lin Feng was like a flawless shooting machine—identical movements, identical rhythm, identical... results.

Another five shots, all net.

After two racks, Lin Feng had already tallied 12 points.

On the sidelines, Smith was dumbfounded. The initial contempt in his eyes had vanished, replaced by sheer disbelief. He still couldn’t accept what he was witnessing—a black-haired, yellow-skinned Chinese man had honed his three-point shot to such supernatural perfection. It was simply incredible!

But Lin Feng’s performance was far from over.

At the third rack, his streak remained unbroken; the net rippled again and again.

Eighteen points—matching Smith’s total from the first round.

Lin Feng glanced at Smith, then took his time strolling to the fourth rack.

He picked up the ball.

Shot.

Swish!

Nineteen points—Lin Feng had surpassed Smith’s score from the opening round.

A tidal wave of cheers erupted from the stands.

“Lin Feng, you’re amazing!”

“Lin Feng, you’re unstoppable!”

“Lin Feng, I love you!”

As Lin Feng overtook Smith’s score, the crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch.

“The winner of this round has been decided. You can announce the result now.”

Lin Feng stopped shooting and called out to the host, Wu Xin.

“Alright! First round: Lin Feng, 19 points. Smith, 18 points. Lin Feng wins! The score is 1:0!” Wu Xin cooperated enthusiastically, intentionally bellowing “Lin Feng wins!” at the top of his lungs, and then repeating it in English—making sure Smith and his American team heard him loud and clear.

Smith’s face at the sideline was ashen. In his previous contest with Zhu Dayu, he had ended the game early to humiliate his opponent. Never did he expect Lin Feng to return the favor so swiftly—and with such dominance, needing only three racks to claim victory.

The second round began.

This time, Lin Feng would shoot first.

“No way he keeps up that touch from the first round! That’s impossible!” Smith stared at Lin Feng on the court, reassuring himself.

But Lin Feng’s performance made a mockery of his doubts.

Just like the first round, Lin Feng didn’t miss a single shot at the first three racks—maintaining his terrifying perfect streak.

At the fourth rack, he finally made a “mistake”—missing the third ball.

Seeing Lin Feng finally miss, Smith’s hope was rekindled. He craned his neck, silently praying that Lin Feng would brick the rest.

But fate had other plans. Lin Feng sank the next two shots, finishing the fourth rack.

With four racks complete, Lin Feng had 23 points!

As the crowd speculated whether Lin Feng could go perfect again at the fifth rack, Lin Feng stopped shooting and called to Wu Xin, “I’m done with round two.”

“Uh…” Wu Xin was momentarily stunned, then realized Lin Feng’s intention—he was conceding a rack to Smith. If Smith still couldn’t win, it would be an even greater humiliation. Even if Smith managed to win, it would be a hollow victory, for Lin Feng had given him a head start.

Wu Xin grinned and gave Lin Feng a thumbs-up. This was the perfect way to deal with an arrogant braggart like Smith—strike at his pride with ruthless precision.

“Lin Feng has chosen to forgo the final rack. Let’s give him a thunderous round of applause!” Wu Xin shouted.

The audience understood Lin Feng’s gesture and erupted into fresh cheers.

“Lin Feng, you’re amazing!”

“Lin Feng, you’re unstoppable!”

...

“Now, let’s welcome the three-point king from America—Smith!” Wu Xin announced.

Smith walked onto the court with a grim face. Even with a rack’s advantage, Lin Feng had scored 23 points—surpassing that would not be easy.

Before shooting, Smith glanced at Lin Feng, committing the man’s face to memory. A deep sense of foreboding filled him; he feared he might fall to this black-haired, yellow-skinned Chinese man today.

“Begin!”

With Wu Xin’s cue, Smith started his second round.

Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

Perhaps the pressure was too much—Smith bricked his first three shots.

Booing thundered through the arena.

Yet Smith, worthy of being a top American player, showed admirable composure. Unfazed by his misses and the hostile crowd, he drilled the last two balls of the first rack.

At the second rack, Smith found his rhythm, making four out of five.

At the third, his performance was average—three out of five—but he made both money balls.

After three racks, Smith had 12 points.

Two racks remained, worth a total of 12 points. That meant he’d have to make every one of his remaining ten shots to surpass Lin Feng’s 23.

Approaching the fourth rack, Smith mentally tallied his score. He knew he’d need perfection from here on out—a daunting challenge.

To maximize his accuracy, he shot with utmost care.

First ball—good.

Second—good.

Third—good.

Fourth—good.

Under pressure, Smith displayed his skill, sinking the first four.

He picked up the fifth—another money ball.

He released.

Clang!

The ball rattled off the rim.

He missed the crucial money ball.

With that miss, Smith’s hopes of overtaking Lin Feng vanished. Even if he made every shot at the last rack, he’d only reach 22.

“Damn it!”

Frustrated, Smith cursed under his breath. Knowing the outcome was decided, he abandoned the final rack and walked off the court, defeated.

The crowd erupted in their loudest cheers of the day.

“We won!”

“Haha, Lin Feng won!”

“That was exhilarating! Unstoppable!”

“That was a proper smackdown!”

...