50–47.
Halftime.
Fresno State clung to a three-point lead.
In the previous four March Madness games Rex had never let an opponent stay inside double digits at the break.
This was the first time the Bulldogs had been forced into a real fight.
Fresno locker room.
Cold air hummed.
The mood was heavy.
Kevin Minusnett wiped sweat from his arms.
The two guards sat with furrowed brows, replaying every defensive breakdown.
Paul George kept his head down, fingers locked in the hem of his jersey, face full of self-blame.
He had spent the entire half chasing Evan Turner and gotten cooked.
Offense and defense.
The single biggest reason the lead never grew.
“Head up, Paul.
This isn’t on you.” Coach Steve Cleveland walked over and clapped a heavy hand on George’s shoulder.
“Evan Turner is the offensive ceiling for every small forward in this tournament.
His skill level is years ahead of his age.
No wing in the NCAA can lock him up one-on-one.
You did everything you could.” The staff was already sketching zone schemes and traps for the second half when Rex, leaning against his locker, spoke in a calm voice.
“Second half, Evan Turner is mine.” The room went dead silent.
Every head snapped up.
Eyes wide.
Pure disbelief.
A 7’1″ power center guarding a small forward?
Unheard of.
“Rex, we need you thinking straight!” Cleveland’s brow furrowed instantly.
“Turner isn’t a pure guard, but he’s still a wing.
He has a real speed advantage.” The meaning was obvious.
He was terrified of Rex getting cooked in a big-on-small switch.
“Relax, Coach.” Rex cracked his neck, voice low.
“I’ll give him a private seminar.
Title: How to Survive Under a Giant’s Armpit.” Ohio State locker room.
Opposite atmosphere.
Pure energy.
Assistants clapped around Evan Turner.
Teammates slapped his hands one after another.
“Evan, you completely shut down their wing in the first half!” “Keep the same aggression.
Stay on the perimeter!” “You’re the real number-one offensive player in this draft!” Turner adjusted his wristbands, eyes sharp.
He had already solved Fresno’s defense by living outside the paint.
“Don’t worry.
My job tonight is to end his undefeated run myself.” He was certain the black-horse Bulldogs were finished.
Three minutes later the second half tipped.
In the TNT booth Barkley was already buzzing.
“No exaggeration—this is the highest-entertainment, highest-strategy Final Four semifinal in twenty years of March Madness.” “Turner has George’s number.
Rex owns the paint.
Perfect closed loop.
Tension is maxed.” Kenny Smith nodded hard.
“Turner is also the first player who has actually traded blows with Rex without needing help.
That’s unreal.” Both teams returned with their full starting fives.
Fresno attacked first.
Rex posted Lauderdale and called for the ball.
Lauderdale matched Favors in size and strength and dug in hard, trying to wall off the base.
Rex wasted zero dribbles.
Hips and back exploded.
Destructive Hammer activated.
BOOM!!
One violent spin sent Lauderdale flying two full steps, balance completely gone.
Rex rose from a standstill and one-handed the poster.
KRA-BOOM——!!
The rim shuddered.
52–47.
Five-point lead.
Simple.
Brutal.
Unstoppable.
Ohio State possession.
Twenty-one thousand pairs of eyes locked onto the matchup.
Fresno switched.
Paul George dropped into the paint on the power forward.
Kevin Minusnett slid up to center.
And the 7’1″ monster stepped out and stood directly in front of Evan Turner, arms spread like a giant purple spider.
The arena buzzed in pure shock.
“What the hell happened?!” Barkley lunged forward.
“Am I seeing this right?
Rex just lined up on Evan Turner!” “Fresno changed the entire defensive scheme!
The center is guarding the star wing!!” Kenny Smith sat frozen.
“This is the craziest defensive assignment in March Madness history.
They’re using an interior monster to lock up the perimeter ace.
Let’s watch this possession!” Courtside, Kobe straightened and leaned in hard.
Turner stared up at the man who towered over him by a full head and possessed an absurd wingspan.
He had never imagined a center would be assigned to him one-on-one.
He immediately spaced to the three-point line, full of confidence.
Cross-overs, spin moves, full-speed acceleration—he tried to blow past the “heavy” big with pure wing speed.
The Murasakibara template answered.
Two-hundred-sixty-five pounds, yet the feet never lagged.
Every drive was sealed.
Guard-level lateral explosion.
Three full sequences of change-of-direction and fake spins.
Turner emptied every isolation tool he owned.
Still could not create space.
“Damn it!” Every lane closed.
Forced into a step-back mid-range jumper.
He had underestimated Rex.
At this stage the host still had not unlocked Murasakibara’s full three-point-line defensive domain, but pure one-on-one perimeter defense—backed by inhuman reaction speed and vertical—was already enough to suffocate any college wing.
College Turner was a god.
NBA Turner would settle into a solid 15-point starter.
“I’ll take that.” The ball left Turner’s hand.
Rex rose and simply closed his fingers around it in mid-air.
Aerial catch-block.
The entire building gasped.
Then came the impossible.
Still airborne, Rex’s core detonated.
One arm whipped like a quarterback and launched a full-court laser.
The ball cut the air and slammed into the hands of a sprinting Paul George, who finished the easy dunk.
54–47.
One defensive stop.
One airborne outlet.
Instant transition points.
“WOOOOOOOW!” Twenty-one thousand fans rose as one.
Hands on heads.
The roar threatened to crack the roof.
Los Angeles had seen Showtime flash and OK Combination violence.
It had never seen a center catch a mid-air block and fire a twenty-meter quarterback pass before his feet even touched the floor.
That core strength did not belong to normal humans.
“Damn!!” Barkley lost his mind in the booth.
“What did we just watch?!
Somebody explain that sequence!” “Rex catches the block in the air, then throws a cross-court laser before he lands and finds Paul George for the layup!” “You heard that right, Charles.
That is core strength kissed by God himself.” Kenny Smith had both hands on his head.
“That’s a move I wouldn’t even dare create in 2K Online with fully custom attributes.” “Rex’s body is a walking science experiment with way too much unexplored potential.” VIP row.
Taylor Swift and Emma Watson both sat with pupils blown wide, completely stunned.
Emma pressed a hand to her chest, red lips parted, heart racing.
“My God… that core… that control… he’s not just a nuclear bomb on the court.
Throw him into bed and he’s still a nuclear bomb.” “I can’t even imagine.
By the time he finishes and lights a cigarette I’d still be twitching.” Listening to her friend’s completely unfiltered American humor, Taylor’s face turned so red it looked ready to drip.
She watched Rex sprinting down the floor, heartbeat hammering against her ribs.
“If I ever become friends with him, the first thing I’m doing is checking whether ‘accidental bedroom injury’ insurance exists.”