Wukong was completely dumbfounded.
The spectators were completely dumbfounded too.
The streetball player they touted as the strongest one-on-one player had been shut out, 5–0.
It was simply absurd.
But after they managed to recover, some of them started shouting again.
"What's so impressive about beating the third-place finisher? If you've got what it takes, challenge Yoyogi."
"You beat a third-place finisher who'd just played a game and was exhausted, and now you're acting all cocky. That's the best you can do."
"Yoyogi, beat him up!"
Wang Yi didn't understand what they were saying, but he couldn't be bothered to figure it out.
He still held the ball in one hand and looked at Yoyogi on the podium.
Then he tilted his chin at him.
His provocation was unmistakable.
Generally speaking, Wang Yi kept a low profile when he went to other courts.
After all, China followed the doctrine of the mean.
As long as nobody provoked him, he generally wouldn't go out of his way to provoke anyone.
But this country was different.
The moment he arrived, some instinct inside Wang Yi seemed to kick in on its own.
He felt that if he didn't swagger around and make a scene here, he'd be letting down his skills.
He'd be letting down his ancestors.
He'd be letting down the generations who came before him.
He wouldn't deserve to call himself Chinese.
How could Yoyogi tolerate Wang Yi provoking him like that on his home court?
He was about to make his move.
But the fat man on the podium reached out and stopped him.
"Wouldn't it be giving this guy too much credit to have our champion take him on?"
"The guy looks skilled, but he uses a standard center's style. My nimble footwork is the perfect counter to