Los Angeles sun was roasting the asphalt outside the Lakers' training facility like it had a personal grudge.
Link stood at the entrance, old duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like he'd been dragged through hell and back.
The security guard gave him a skeptical once-over. "Hey, you are…?"
"Link. Here for the tryout." His voice was hoarse, whole body screaming exhaustion.
The guard glanced at the list, spotted the unfamiliar name, and shrugged. "Alright, kid. Go on in. Good luck, rookie."
The doors slid shut behind him. The outside noise vanished, replaced by cool AC air thick with the smell of sweat and leather.
Link took a deep breath. Yesterday's nightmare training flashed across his mind, still made him wince.
Dark gym. Blistered palms. Bloody knuckles. Thousands of mechanical, insane jump shots.
Every swish came with that cold, robotic system voice.
[Mission: Make 3,000 clean three-pointers]
[Progress: 2999/3000]
He remembered that last shot—legs shaking, vision tunneling black. The ball arced perfectly. Net.
The world went silent except for the system ding.
[Congratulations, host. Mission complete. Reward: +10% three-point shooting, unlocked skill — Pure Shooter Lv1]
He'd nearly passed out right there on the floor.
Previous life: just another nobody , scraping by on street-ball prize money.
Then a car wreck smashed his skull, put him in a coma.
Next thing he knew, he woke up in 2005 America, 21 years old, already a pro baller bouncing around the minor leagues. Decent three-point shooter—good enough to eat, not good enough to matter.
Then the Lakers, desperate for any spacing shooter after Shaq bolted, tossed him a tryout invite.
One day to prepare.
Fail, and the NBA door slams forever. Nail it, and maybe, just maybe, a ten-day contract.
Of course the transmigrator got a system.
[Congratulations, host. Devil Training System activated.]
[Complete hellish training. Become an elite player!]
A stat panel popped up in his head, cold and clinical.
[Host: Link]
[Age: 21 │ Height: 1.99m │ Weight: 88kg │ Wingspan: 2.08m │ Body Fat: 8.6%]
[Shooting — Three-pointer: B │ Mid-range: B- │ Catch-and-shoot: B- …]
[Finishing — Basic layup: C+ │ Off-hand: C- │ Contact layup: D+ …]
[Athleticism — Speed: C- │ Agility: C │ Strength: D+ │ Vertical: D …]
[Overall: C-]
Only one choice for training: open threes.
He already lived and died by the three. Role players survive in the NBA by being great at one thing. Everything else can be trash.
[Mission: 3,000 clean threes]
Didn't sound bad at first. Curry once hit 100 in six minutes, right?
Reality hit different.
By the end his legs were jelly, arms numb. He almost quit a dozen times.
But he finished.
Overall grade didn't move, but threes jumped to B+, and he unlocked his first skill.
[Pure Shooter Lv1: Slightly improves shooting stability and resistance to contest (Duration: 15 min │ Cooldown: 6 hours)]
Afterward he dragged himself to a pro recovery center—otherwise the lactic acid would've killed him today.
Back to the present.
Link stood inside the Lakers' practice gym, head tilted back, staring up at the rafters: retired jerseys, 14 championship banners glowing under the lights.
In his old life, Kobe led the Lakers to back-to-back titles in '09 and '10.
2020: LeBron and AD.
2025: they'd just traded for young Luka Dončić.
The Lakers always find a way to land superstars.
But in 2005?
Shaq gone. Kobe still dealing with the Eagle fallout. Front office tearing itself apart. Last season: 34 wins, no playoffs. The only fire left in the building was the 24-year-old Black Mamba who refused to lose.
"Pick-and-roll! Ball!"
"Defense!"
"Nice shot—get back!"
The court was alive.
"Hey, you Lin… k?" A white assistant coach mangled the name, clipboard in hand.
"That's me, Mr. Smith." Link smiled politely.
Not many Asian faces in the league besides Yao. People noticing was normal.
"Workout's ready. Follow me." Smith tapped the board. "You look like crap, kid. Out partying last night?"
Link just shook his head with a tired grin.
"Alright. Three parts today: three-point shooting, dynamic testing, and full-contact scrimmage."
Deep breath. Heart hammering.
"Let's do it."
Smith blew the whistle. A handful of Black assistants jogged over—one to pass, one to record, a couple to contest.
In the NBA, shooters don't just need range. They need ice water in their veins when someone's flying at their face.
"First drill—100 open threes. On my whistle!"
Ball smacked into Link's hands.
Everything went quiet.
Two lifetimes. Basketball was his love, his pain, his everything.
Now he stood on the biggest stage in the world.
The purple-and-gold cathedral.
Childhood dream, right there in front of him.
He exhaled, settled into his stance.
Dip. Knees. Release. Follow-through.
Swish.
Clean.
"Not bad," Smith muttered.
Link was nearly 6'7", long arms, smooth mechanics—like a textbook come to life.
"17…"
"29…"
"56…"
Time blurred. Every shot felt automatic, pure, unstoppable.
"7 minutes 45 seconds—92 out of 100!"
Smith's eyebrows shot up.
The rookie looked half-dead walking in.
Now he looked like a guy who belonged.