Chapter 264: This Person Is Unreasonable From the Start
Use the Status Boost Card.
The moment Chen Yan opened his system interface, he locked onto the Status Boost Card he had purchased earlier for twenty five Honor Points.
He had not been saving Honor Points just to avoid injuries. Some games demanded more, and tonight was exactly that type of game. The opening matchup against the Spurs felt like a tone setter for the entire series.
Last season, the Spurs stole Game 1 on the road and flipped the momentum instantly, eventually eliminating the Suns 4 to 2. They were not just the defending champions—they were the most disciplined, experienced, and system driven team in the league.
Popovich had the mind of a strategist. David Robinson, the man who built the Spurs culture, had military blood. Other teams treated the playoffs like a challenge or a job. San Antonio treated them like a mission.
Ding. Status Boost Card activated. Effects last for one game including overtime.
A warm wave spread through Chen Yan's body. His muscles loosened, his palms warmed, his breathing deepened. It was subtle, but powerful. His confidence sharpened on the spot.
A full strength battle against a full strength opponent. That was the matchup he lived for.
After the pregame ceremony, both starting lineups gathered at center court.
"Dear viewers, the Western Conference semifinals between the Phoenix Suns and the San Antonio Spurs is about to begin. The Suns in white, the Spurs in black."
That voice belonged to the in-arena broadcast team, stoking the final sparks of anticipation. The starters remained the same for both sides. Phoenix sent out Nash, Chen Yan, Raja Bell, Diaw, and Amar'e Stoudemire. San Antonio countered with Tony Parker, Michael Finley, Bruce Bowen, Tim Duncan, and Fabricio Oberto.
Players knew each other well. Fans knew the reputations even better.
Right before the jump ball, Chen Yan and Bruce Bowen exchanged a brief look. Bowen's glare was sharp, predatory, a warning. But after what happened earlier that season—a certain punch that made national headlines—Bowen was not as fearless as he wanted to look.
The ref tossed the ball. Duncan outjumped Stoudemire, tapping it cleanly to Parker.
Spurs ball.
Parker walked the ball up the court, signaling the first play. After winning the Finals MVP last season, Parker's status had skyrocketed. He averaged twenty five point six points in the first round alone, shredding Houston's defense. But it was not just his scoring anymore. Under Popovich, his passing and decision making had matured.
Raja Bell picked him up immediately. Against the Spurs, DAntoni always used Bell on Parker. If Nash defended him straight up, it would be a layup drill.
Nash instead hid in the corner against Bowen. Bowen had height on Nash, but offensively, Bowen was limited to the corners. Nash could survive that assignment.
Duncan stepped up and set a screen. Parker exploded around it, shaking off Bell. Stoudemire switched, but Parker dipped his shoulder and accelerated again.
He sliced into the paint.
A floating layup off the glass.
2 to 0, Spurs.
Parker had become their main offensive engine as Duncan aged. But when the game tightened, the ball still went through Duncan. And when things hit rock bottom, Popovich always looked toward the thin-haired man on the bench.
Now Phoenix took over.
The Spurs did not celebrate. They turned and sprinted back instantly. They knew the Suns wanted to run. Denver had allowed Phoenix to play free and fast. San Antonio would not.
Nash crossed half court under pressure.
Phoenix usually started with one of two choices: a Nash and Stoudemire pick and roll, or an isolation for Chen Yan.
Nash passed to Chen Yan on the right wing. Chen caught the ball a step behind the three point line. Bowen crouched low in front of him, focused, arms out, the picture of discipline.
San Antonio settled into a 3 2 zone. It was designed to suffocate Phoenix's shooting—pressure at the top, arms at the forty five degree angles, Duncan lurking in the paint to erase drives.
This was the perfect scheme to slow the Suns.
But Chen Yan was not someone who followed the script.
One step behind the line—with zero hesitation—he rose into a shooting motion.
Bowen froze.
The ball left Chen Yan's fingertips with a quick, clean release. It arced high across the arena, leaving a faint trail of light in the packed America West Arena.
Swish.
Pure. Clean. No rim.
The noise exploded.
Fans leapt from their seats, screaming as if someone had hit a buzzer beater.
Because in this era, nobody shot that shot—at least not willingly.
Deep threes were desperation heaves, last second prayers. Not first possessions. Not with twenty seconds on the shot clock. Not with defenders barely reacting.
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