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Of course he knew exactly who Nikola Vučević was.
The man had talked shit.
A response was mandatory.
Real trash talk didn’t always require killing someone’s parents or promising blood.
Sometimes the purest humiliation was simply refusing to remember the name at all.
That single “never heard of him” had Vučević shaking with rage.
Not even worth remembering.
That was open, naked disrespect.
Vučević stared at Rex’s back, eyes full of murder, and swore a private vow.
… Tweet!
The referee’s whistle cut the air.
Fresno State Bulldogs versus USC Trojans.
Round of 32.
Officially underway.
Exactly as every analyst and reporter had predicted, Rex was in the starting five.
“History is being made right now!” The moment Rex stepped into the circle for the tip, Mike Breen’s voice exploded with pure adrenaline.
“Rex has just become the first center in NCAA history to start a March Madness elimination game!
Whatever happens tonight, he has already carved his name into this national stage!” Slap!
The ball went up.
Rex’s 7’1″ frame and absurd vertical made the tip effortless.
He flicked it cleanly back to his own side.
Fresno ball first.
The point guard pushed it across half court and found Paul George at the top.
Rex immediately set a bone-crushing screen, then— the second Vučević stepped up to help—tank-turned and exploded baseline.
Boom— Whoosh— Paul George saw it and threw the lob high into the paint.
To be fair, Paul George was never a pure passer.
The ball left his hand on a terrible arc, clearly off target.
“Sorry, Rex…” The moment it left his fingers George already had both hands over his face.
But every legendary alley-oop in history is born from a pass that should have been a turnover… Just as the entire arena prepared for a low-IQ mistake, Rex did something inhuman in mid-air.
His body twisted with impossible flexibility, folding into a violent reverse C-shape.
Right arm parallel to the floor, he snatched the ball clean and slammed it through.
KRA-BOOM————!!
Five seconds into the game.
An inhuman mid-air contortion alley-oop had opened the night’s violence.
2–0.
“What the fuck?!” Vučević stared at Rex still swinging on the rim, mouth twitching hard.
He had expected the physical tools to be excessive.
He had not expected them to be this excessive.
Far beyond his projection.
Still, he wasn’t scared.
He was a proud technical center from Montenegro.
He had seen pure athletic freaks before.
On the other end he set up to display the elegant arrogance of European post play.
“Come on, Daniel!
Give me the ball!” Vučević sealed hard and demanded the entry pass with his right hand raised.
The ball arrived.
Every eye in the building locked onto the matchup.
One: the sudden monster riding pure momentum.
One: First-Team All-Pac-10, European technical master.
Rex versus Vučević.
Athleticism versus skill.
Asian physicality versus European craft.
A mountain of storylines compressed into one possession.
Thud!
Vučević caught and immediately leaned back, testing Rex’s strength with his full weight.
The instant his back hit that chest—armor-plated, unyielding—his eyes went wide.
“Damn… why is he this solid?!” He tried to dig in twice more.
Rex clamped down so tight there was nowhere to go.
When pure power failed, Vučević stepped out with the left foot, spun on a crossover step, and began the shoulder fakes and pump-fake sequence.
One pump.
Rex’s center of gravity never moved.
Two pumps.
Still nothing.
I pump, I pump, I pump-pump-pump… Seven, eight consecutive fakes.
Vučević looked like a video-game character stuck in a lag loop, mashing the shoot button in place.
He didn’t dare release.
The defensive pressure was suffocating.
Any real shot attempt was going to get erased.
With the shot clock dying he had no choice.
He rushed a hook.
Slap!!
A clean, violent crack.
The hook never had a chance.
Zeus’s Shield swatted it into the third row.
“You out here pumping your mama?
You lagging or what?
Stuck on the shoot button?” The rejection landed, and the trash talk landed harder.
“The fuck is ‘lagging’…” Vučević stood there getting roasted, toes curling into the hardwood from pure embarrassment.
Paul George scooped the loose ball and tried to push the break, but the scramble ate the clock.
Fresno had to reset in the half-court.
… Next possession.
“Come on, PG!
Throw it right here!” Under the rim Rex spread those massive arms and used a back as wide as the Siberian steppe to seal Vučević completely.
Vučević had gone full desperation mode—shouldering, leaning, throwing every ounce of European post technique into the contest.
Thud!
The second the ball hit Rex’s hands, Destructive Hammer activated.
Left hand secured the rock.
Right shoulder dropped, coiled, then exploded through the contact.
BOOM—!
Flesh met flesh in a single catastrophic collision.
Everything Vučević prided himself on—strength, positioning, European craft—turned to ash under that pure iron-hammer charge.
His center of gravity vanished.
He landed flat on his ass and slid a full two meters across the baseline.
Obstacle cleared.
Rex rose in the paint like some ancient beast.
KRA-BOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then— Crack… crack… Under the stunned eyes of nearly twenty thousand people, the steel hydraulic arm that held the backboard finally reached its limit.
A massive split opened right at the welded joint.
A heartbeat later the entire tempered-glass backboard, no longer supported, collapsed toward the floor.
Destructive Hammer.
He had broken the basket.
The arena detonated into the loudest roar of the night.