Coach Steve Kerr stared at the five Kings players preparing to check in and finally couldn't hold back.
"What the hell are they doing?"
It wasn't just Kerr who was baffled—even the commentators in the broadcast booths all fell silent.
How were they supposed to explain this? It was too bizarre to make sense.
The Kings' lineup featured Josh Richardson—last year's second-round pick who'd only had a handful of good games—at point guard, fellow rookie Devin Booker at shooting guard, Jimmy Butler at small forward, Rudy Gay at power forward, and Thaddeus Young at center.
This strange lineup shocked not only outsiders but even the Kings themselves.
...
"Me?"
Thaddeus Young sat in the locker room, stunned. He raised a finger and pointed at his own head in disbelief.
"I'm playing center?"
"Yep!"
Malone, who had given the instruction, looked a little embarrassed. "Your job is to lock up Green and limit his—"
"Wait a second!" Young cut him off.
"I... I... I..." He stammered for several seconds before blurting out, "I thought that play we ran before was just for fun. We're actually using it?"
"What are you talking about!" Malone frowned, forcing himself to look stern. "When have we ever practiced something meaningless? We stick to what we drilled!"
"But we've never used it in a real game! And this is the Western Conference Finals!"
Young couldn't believe it. Was everyone else in the room insane? Nobody was going to stop this ridiculous plan?
Seeing how rattled Young was, Malone held back a laugh and kept a straight face. "Alright, just follow orders. Your job is to secure rebounds and keep the ball moving. Whatever you do, don't let Green dominate you!"
And so, in a mix of his own frustration and his teammates' amusement, Thaddeus Young reluctantly became the starting center for the second half.
"Rudy, you really don't have a problem with this?"
In the tunnel, Young tugged at Gay's arm.
"What could I possibly complain about?" Gay, always the Kings' self-proclaimed Teflon man, brushed him off. "The coach tells you to do it, you do it. What's the point of telling me?"
"What the hell is this situation..."
Even on the court, Young kept muttering under his breath.
"What are you mumbling about, kid?"
Green, his matchup, couldn't help asking.
"Ah, it's nothing... Huh?" Young turned his head, noticing that Green was actually a little shorter than him, and suddenly fell silent.
Maybe playing center wasn't such a crazy idea after all.
...
Meanwhile, at the coaches' bench, the mood was very different.
If Malone's earlier moves had only irritated Kerr, this lineup felt like stomping right into his minefield.
Kerr let out a cold, angry laugh.
"Who does Mike Malone think he is? Just throwing together some lineup to imitate my Death Lineup? He doesn't even know what a knockoff looks like!"
Just then, the Kings' offense stalled. Butler's jumper clanged off the rim.
Green boxed out Young for the rebound and quickly fired a long pass to Curry on the perimeter.
Curry caught it and spun to push the fast break—but as he turned, three purple jerseys were already sprinting downcourt.
Richardson, Booker, and Gay, all positioned near the arc, had taken off the instant Butler released his shot.
"Trying to match my fast break with your own speed?"
Kerr's initial fury cooled into smug confidence.
"But it's useless. My Death Lineup's mobility is on another level—you'll never keep up."
But then Kerr's smirk began to fade. A trace of shock crossed his face.
The Death Lineup's two main weapons were clear: defense leading to fast breaks, and mismatches created through constant pick-and-rolls.
Usually, the Warriors loved using screens to get Curry matched up against opposing centers for isolation plays. But now, with the Kings running no true center, that plan collapsed immediately.
The other weapon—screens to free up shooters—wasn't working either.
Every time the Warriors ran a pick-and-roll, Richardson switched seamlessly, then Booker slid in, then Butler picked up the slack.
The Kings' infinite switching left the ball-handler no room to shoot.
Even scarier, the screened defender instantly recovered—sometimes sliding to the ball-handler's blind side to cut off passing lanes.
"This is insane! Absolutely insane!"
Beads of sweat formed on Kerr's forehead.
Impossible.
His flawless system—broken by the Kings?
No way.
His tactics were invincible! They were supposed to win more titles and build a dynasty. How could it collapse here?!
...
Meanwhile, in Cleveland.
A short coach with sharp, fishlike features was glued to the broadcast, eyes widening.
"Holy crap! So that's how you beat the small-ball lineup!"
Tyronn Lue slapped his thigh and jumped to his feet.
"Sir! I get it now!"
...
On the Kings' bench, Malone finally leaned back, relaxing a little. He glanced up at the scoreboard.
"About time, right?"
He turned to Chen Yilun.
Chen Yilun gave him a silent nod.
"Phase two is over. Get ready for phase three."
The momentum was swinging more and more in the Kings' favor.
The Death Lineup, which was supposed to seal the win, had been thrown off balance. Even when the Warriors got open looks, their shots kept clanking.
"Timeout!"
A visibly rattled Steve Kerr called the Warriors' first timeout of the half.
"Perfect timing!"
Malone chuckled. "Nikola, get ready to check in!"
Arms crossed, he fixed his gaze on the court.
"Let them see what real small-ball basketball looks like!"
...