Michael Jordan offered his rare opinion during a phone interview with ESPN.
His voice was calm, as if he were recalling something that had happened a long time ago.
"My rivalry with Li Fei is over. Not because I retired, but because our time has passed. Now it's Li Fei's era. But O'Neal and Kobe want to tell him, 'Your era hasn't come yet.' This series will decide who owns this era. If Li Fei wins, he'll have a Three-Peat and become the undisputed king of this era. If the Lakers win, the OK Duo will tell the whole world, 'This era belongs to us.' Who'll win? I don't know. But I won't miss it. I'll watch. I'll sit in front of my TV and watch this series. Because this is basketball."
The discussion on social media continued, but everyone agreed on one thing: these NBA Finals would be a thrilling show.
Manhattan, New York.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Li Fei's villa, bathing the entire bedroom in gold.
Monica was still asleep, her hair spread across the pillow, her breathing even and gentle.
Li Fei was already awake. He stood by the window, looking toward Madison Square Garden in the distance. The day after tomorrow, twenty thousand people would fill it. Today, the NBA Finals would begin.
The day after tomorrow, he would stand there, in the middle of the court, under everyone's gaze, at the crossroads of this era.
He wasn't nervous.
Not because he didn't care, but because he was ready.
He had spent six years preparing: every game, every practice, every shot, every defensive play. He had prepared for every detail, every possibility, every what-if.
He looked down at his hands.
These hands had made countless shots, grabbed countless rebounds, and blocked countless