“Zhelin, didn’t you sleep well last night?
Why did you get up so late?” Lin Huiqing walked over holding a warm bowl of mian xian hu—noodle paste—and set it on the dining table.
Ever since Wang Changhai had set strict expectations for his son at ten years old, Wang Zhelin had maintained a disciplined daily routine.
Over the past three days, however, his schedule had been completely off.
It was only natural for his mother to worry.
“Ah…
well, a little bit,” Lin Bei replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
Looking at the middle-aged woman in front of him with her long dark hair, kind eyes, and gentle smile, he felt a sudden pang of guilt.
Can I really tell her that the son she raised has been replaced from the inside?
In his previous life, Lin Bei had been an orphan, navigating the world entirely on his own.
Feeling the warmth of a real family for the first time touched something deep within him.
He made a silent promise: Whatever happens, I’m going to protect this family.
“Is it because the competition has been too stressful lately?
Or is something going wrong with your training?” Lin Huiqing pulled up a chair and sat down, the smile on her face replaced by genuine maternal concern.
“It’s nothing like that, Mom,” Lin Bei said quickly.
“I was just…
a little too excited.
You don’t need to worry.” Looking into her anxious eyes, he finally spoke the word naturally for the first time since crossing over: “Mom.” “Excited?
About what?” Though surprised by his answer, her expression softened.
“I was thinking about those exhibition games down in Gansu earlier this month,” Lin Bei explained, accessing the original body’s memories.
“It was my first time going up against players from the NBL and facing older, stronger competition inside.
But I still performed well.
Aren’t you proud of your son?” He was referring to the recent NBL exhibition series in Gansu, where Wang Zhelin had matched up against grown men, including starting centers from top domestic clubs.
He had put up multiple 20-plus point games, anchoring the paint and turning heads across national basketball circles.
A few foreign scouting reports had even begun taking note of the young center from Fujian.
“Of course I am,” Lin Huiqing said, her smile returning as she patted his shoulder.
“Our Zhelin is the best.
Eat up slowly.
Your dad and I have errands to run, so we’ll be out for most of the day.” “Phew…” Lin Bei let out a long breath as she walked away, turning his attention to the feast on the table.
In addition to the steaming bowl of Quanzhou-style noodle paste, the table held a poached egg, a large glass of milk, and a thick, freshly seared steak—the original owner’s absolute favorite.
His mouth watered instantly.
The local sports writers hadn’t been exaggerating when they quoted Wang Changhai saying his son could go through two full pounds of beef in a single sitting.
By the time Lin Bei cleared the table, it was already 7:30 AM.
His parents had already left.
Walking into the living room, he spotted a handwritten note on the coffee table under a small glass paperweight, anchored by two crisp 100-yuan bills.
Zhelin, we might not be back until this evening.
There’s food in the fridge.
If you don’t feel like cooking, grab something nearby and take care of yourself.
— Mom Lin Bei tucked the cash and note into his pocket, sank into the soft leather sofa, and instinctively reached for his phone to play a game.
He pulled out a heavy, metallic flip phone.
Right…
it’s early 2011, he reminded himself with a wry chuckle.
No smartphones, no mobile esports.
His eyes drifted across the spacious living room, finally landing on a worn leather ball resting by the shoe rack.
A basketball.
Lin Bei stared at it.
You aren’t a burnt-out corporate worker anymore, he told himself.
Your name is Wang Zhelin now.
Your future is on the hardwood.
He stood up, walked over, and picked it up.
So small…
That was his immediate reaction.
Holding an official size-7 basketball in his massive, 2.10-meter frame felt entirely different from holding one with his old 1.70-meter hands.
He gripped the leather, feeling the pebbled texture sink into his palms.
The physical memory embedded deep in his muscles hummed to life.
Yet, uncertainty lingered.
He knew what the original Wang Zhelin had accomplished—CBA MVP, national team mainstay, NBA draft pick.
But could he replicate that?
Hard work at the elite level was brutal, and without a cheat code, he was starting from scratch in terms of mental discipline.
Three days and no system, he thought.
Guess I’m doing this the hard way.
Knowing the direction modern basketball was heading, Lin Bei mentally outlined a development plan for his career: Defensive Mobility: Build enough lateral speed and awareness to at least be a functional rim protector in the NBA.
Playmaking: Develop upper-tier passing vision out of the post and off the elbow.
Stretch Range: Build a consistent three-point shot.
In the modern era, an inside-only center was an endangered species.
If Dwight Howard could shoot corner threes late in his career, there’s no reason a Chinese center can’t develop a perimeter stroke, he reasoned.
Our big men have always had good touch.
Decision made, Lin Bei changed into a sleeveless training jersey, grabbed the ball, and walked out to the backyard court.
It was a custom half-court, built to full international dimensions with high-grade flooring and a heavy-duty breakaway rim—a perk of having two former professional athletes as parents.
He dribbled a few times, letting the rhythm settle into his hands.
Let’s start with something simple, he thought, looking up at the orange iron.
Let’s dunk.
In his entire previous life, he had never come close to rim level.
Now, standing nearly seven feet tall, the basket looked shockingly close.
He took two rhythm dribbles, gathered his weight, and launched his massive frame into the air.
He was about to throw it down— “Ding!
Key trigger item detected.
Attire, venue, and psychological threshold meet requirements.
Binding Veteran Inheritance System…” “What the—” Mid-air, Lin Bei flinched so hard his hands slipped off the ball.
The basketball clattered off the top of the backboard and bounced away, while he landed awkwardly on the turf, staring blankly into the empty air.