NBA: GIANT KILLING

The arena was in chaos, the crowd roaring in wild celebration after Oliver's thunderous dunk.

No one heard Boeheim's shouts.

No one noticed the storm brewing on Alabama's side of the court.

A raging figure was charging forward like an unleashed beast.

No. 66 was in a full sprint, his eyes locked onto one target—Oliver.

In his mind, only a single thought remained:

Crush this damn little runt!

Having come from a football background, he was used to brutal collisions. He thrived on them.

To him, a real man's game was one of force, muscle against muscle.

And right now, he was about to introduce Oliver to the law of the jungle.

No. 66 barreled forward, his massive frame like a runaway freight train.

Oliver, still surrounded by teammates celebrating his dunk, caught a glimpse of the raging bull.

Instinct took over.

Without hesitation, he shoved Gorin aside and squared himself toward the incoming storm.

In that split second, just before impact—he didn't retreat.

He advanced.

No. 66 had expected to hit Oliver a few meters ahead.

But suddenly—collision.

'Is this kid out of his mind? Why the hell did he rush toward me instead of dodging?'

A flicker of doubt entered No. 66's mind.

And in the next instant—his world turned upside down.

He had put his full force into this hit.

Yet somehow—Oliver was sent flying back way too far. Farther than he should be.

Oliver staggered toward the baseline, arms flailing exaggeratedly for balance.

Then—he stepped onto something.

Something solid.

Something unfortunate.

Mo Williams' leg.

The moment his foot landed, his momentum carried him further—sending him crashing into the baseline spectators.

"BOOM!"

The gym fell silent.

Then—a collective gasp.

This wasn't a simple foul.

No. 66 had gone in to destroy him.

With his size and power, hitting Oliver like that at full speed—he could've ended his career.

A wave of sympathy surged through the crowd.

How the hell was he supposed to survive that?!

Four. Maybe five meters. That's how far Oliver had been thrown.

Too brutal.

Too unsportsmanlike.

Was this even basketball anymore?

Or was this attempted murder?

"FUCK!"

Gorin, who had been right next to Oliver, was still in shock.

If Oliver hadn't pushed him aside, he would've been the one sent flying.

His eyes snapped toward No. 66, fury boiling in his veins.

But then—something odd.

No. 66 was on the ground.

Flat on his back.

And in his wide, dazed eyes, a look of sheer disbelief.

"Wait… was that a flop?!"

The crowd started to murmur.

Because No. 66 wasn't just down—he was down bad.

Gorin hesitated.

Something wasn't right.

No. 66 wasn't acting.

Because he knew the truth.

He had wanted to destroy Oliver.

But in the moment of impact—it felt like he had hit a steel wall.

A 5'9'' kid.

With the force of a wrecking ball.

For the first time in his life, No. 66 questioned everything he knew about physics.

"I swear to God," he thought in despair.

"I'm never going to play basketball ever again."

The moment they clashed—he felt it.

And it was him who had been sent flying backward.

But no one had noticed.

Because everyone's attention had been on Oliver.

And those who had seen No. 66 fall—assumed he was faking it.

"Get up, asshole!"

"He just tried to injure the kid and now he's flopping?!"

"Stop the act, buddy! We all saw what you did!"

From all around, jeers rained down on No. 66.

But the man lying on the floor could only stare at the ceiling, helpless.

"I swear…"

"I just wanna go home."

"I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Mommy"

Gorin clenched his fists, ready to return the favor.

If the refs weren't going to call it, then he'd deliver justice himself.

But before he could do anything—teammates yanked him back.

"Leave it! Don't get ejected!"

They were right.

If Gorin took another step forward, No. 66 might have to be carried out in pieces.

"Check on Oliver!"

Realizing Oliver was still on the ground, the team rushed to his side.

Slowly, Oliver rose.

He winced, rubbing his chest, but there was a smile on his face.

"You alright?" Gorin asked, holding him up.

Oliver exhaled.

"Nothing serious." He glanced at No. 66.

"For all that size… turns out he's just an empty shell."

Gorin froze.

Then—he understood.

He turned to Oliver, his eyes narrowing.

"You sneaky bastard."

Oliver quickly raised his hands in mock innocence.

"Hey now. I'm the victim here."

They locked eyes—then burst into laughter.

At that moment, Gorin made a vow.

Never. Ever. Mess with Oliver.

This kid wasn't just some scrappy underdog.

He was a wolf in disguise.

When Oliver finally got to his feet, the crowd exploded.

A hero's ovation.

And No. 66?

The booing was relentless.

"Get off the court!"

"You disgrace the game!"

"You're an embarrassment to basketball!"

The referee didn't hesitate.

Ejected.

As No. 66 walked off, the entire gym jeered.

And then—

A faint voice.

"Medic! We need a medic!"

The crowd hushed, turning toward the baseline.

And there—someone was still lying on the ground.

Mo Williams.

"Holy sh*t."

"Wait… when did he go down?"

"No idea. He must've flopped too."

"Bro, no way. He even called for a medic?!"

A few fans were in disbelief.

Williams—on the verge of losing consciousness—coughed up blood.

"I DIDN'T FLOP, DAMN IT!"

The truth?

When Oliver had stumbled back, he had landed on Williams' leg.

And now—Mo Williams couldn't feel his damn leg.

This ridiculous sequence, all started by No. 66, ended in the worst possible way for Alabama:

One player ejected.

One star was injured.

And that injured player?

Their team leader.

Alabama's morale? Destroyed.

Karma really is a bitch.

"Beautiful work."

Boeheim wrapped an arm around Oliver, grinning ear to ear.

This kid.

This fucking kid.

His mind, vision, leadership—perfect.

His speed, shooting—flawless.

And now?

Strength.

He had everything.

Meanwhile, on Alabama's bench—their coach was livid.

Cursing his players.

Cursing No. 66.

Cursing the universe.

Mo Williams' injury had shattered his game plan.

But he had no choice.

If they wanted a chance—Oliver had to be taken down.

Yet—

On the bench, Alabama's remaining players exchanged uneasy glances.

Because at this point—

Who the hell had the guts to go after Oliver now?