Once a Father, Always a Father.
5-6.
Han Sen's back-to-back dunks had cut the lead to just one.
But the real shift wasn't in the score—it was in the momentum.
The Celtics' fiery start had been completely snuffed out.
By the time Boston came back down the floor, the once-deafening crowd had quieted.
And Cleveland?
They turned up the defensive pressure even more.
Michael Malone sat comfortably on the bench, unfazed.
If this were last season, he'd be worried about Han Sen and Kyrie Irving's stamina.
But this year?
With a roster deep enough to run a 12-man rotation, Malone welcomed this level of defensive intensity.
After all, with Kyrie gone, Cleveland's overall talent had taken a hit.
On paper, Boston had the better lineup.
But when a game turned into an all-out war, when only the superstars could break through—Han Sen could beat anyone.
And under this pressure?
Isaiah Thomas disappeared.
Every drive ended in a wall of bodies, every shot attempt smothered.
Boston's offense stalled.
And when the shot clock ticked down, the ball inevitably landed in Kevin Durant's hands.
ISO time.
Durant was built for these moments.
Against Covington, he went into his bag—sharp cross, stop-and-pop—bucket.
He pounded his chest, roaring into the crowd.
The Garden erupted.
"DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!"
The crowd was back into it.
---
Han Sen dribbled up the court, calling for a screen.
But this time, it wasn't Jokić coming up.
It was Tristan Thompson.
And TT didn't just set a pick—he set a damn wall.
Karl-Anthony Towns ate the full brunt of it, leaving him switched onto Han.
Basketball was war.
And war was about finding the weak link—and hammering it.
Stevens had spent years crafting a perfect system to mask Isaiah Thomas on defense.
But Towns?
Towns was on his own.
Han wasted no time.
Left jab step.
Right cross.
Pull-back.
Explode left.
Towns wasn't just behind—he was on the damn floor.
The entire arena gasped.
Han drove into the paint.
Al Horford rotated over—too late.
Whistle.
Horford wrapped Han up mid-air, stopping the and-one.
On the sideline, Brad Stevens had seen enough.
He called for Kelly Olynyk.
Towns had to sit.
If he stayed out there, Han was going to bury him alive.
The boos rained down as Han stepped to the line.
He just smiled—two free throws, both good.
The scoreboard showed the stat: Han had scored all of Cleveland's first seven points.
---
Boston came back down, and Durant made another move—this time, blowing past Covington for a dunk.
But before he took off—
Whistle.
The ball never made it to the rim.
Jokić and Olynyk had tangled up under the basket.
The players quickly got in each other's faces before the refs separated them.
The replay on the jumbotron showed why—Olynyk had grabbed Jokić's arm, yanking him away from the play.
The crowd booed, but the refs called an offensive foul.
Boston's basket didn't count.
Han clapped his hands and motioned for the team to clear out.
Time to feed the big man.
Jokić backed Olynyk down, throwing his weight around.
The Canadian had played dirty, but Jokić was all Slavic blood—he wasn't backing down.
He spun into a hook shot—but Olynyk shoved him mid-air.
No whistle.
Jokić grabbed his own miss.
And this time?
He lowered his shoulder and bulldozed Olynyk straight into the stanchion before scoring.
Whistle.
Offensive foul.
The crowd erupted, cheering for the call.
Jokić just nodded and jogged back on defense.
Han walked up beside him, giving him a high five.
"Keep going," he said.
That was what mattered.
Not whether the shot went in.
But whether Jokić sent a message.
Basketball wasn't just skill—it was mentality.
If Towns had the heart to foul Han hard on that dunk attempt, Han would've respected him.
Instead, he shied away.
And now?
He was on the bench.
Olynyk?
That dude was dirty.
Back in the day, he ripped Kevin Love's arm out of its socket.
If Jokić didn't stand his ground, he'd end up just like Love.
And Jokić got the memo.
---
The next time Isaiah Thomas drove into the paint, Olynyk hesitated.
Jokić didn't.
He swatted the shot clean off the backboard.
Rebound.
Fast break.
Han caught Jokić's outlet pass and took off down the court.
Avery Bradley was on him.
Han jumped.
Bradley grabbed at him, trying to hold him down like Horford had.
But Han was too damn strong.
He took Bradley with him.
The dude looked like a damn cape, hanging off Han's back as he finished the layup.
Whistle.
And-One.
The crowd went silent.
There was no arguing.
The play was on the big screen for everyone to see—Han Sen had just turned Bradley into a damn accessory.
Bradley watched the replay and just shook his head.
Sometimes?
The best defense was knowing when to give up.
As the whistle blew, the crowd at TD Garden erupted in cheers.
Paul Pierce was checking in.
The heart of Boston was stepping onto the floor.
Pierce replaced Isaiah Thomas, and the entire arena roared in approval.
Han Sen turned his head, watching Pierce walk onto the court.
A smirk spread across his face.
Old memories—long buried—came rushing back.
By the time Pierce took his spot near the free-throw line, Han greeted him with a smirk.
"Paul, you're still in the league? Thought you'd retired already."
Han said it so casually, like the two teams hadn't already played in the regular season.
Pierce knew exactly what it was—trash talk.
And remembering the times he had lost those battles before, he chose to ignore it with a cold smile.
Han wasn't done.
"My bad," he said, taking the ball from the ref. "I should've known better. If you were retiring, you'd have a farewell tour like Kobe."
Swish.
Han sank the free throw, turned, and jogged back.
Pierce's face turned green.
Because Han had hit a nerve.
Last season, Pierce had averaged just six points per game, shooting under 40%.
At 39, this was clearly his final year.
He had thought about doing a farewell tour—just like Kobe.
But deep down, he knew he wasn't on that level.
What if nobody showed up? What if the arenas weren't packed like they had been for Kobe?
So he scrapped the idea.
And now, Han had just said it out loud—like he had read his damn mind.
---
Meanwhile, with Thomas on the bench, Cleveland's defense zeroed in on Durant.
Under pressure, KD made a sharp pass.
Pierce, with all his veteran experience, slipped past J.R. Smith, caught the pass, and forced a foul on Tristan Thompson.
As he stepped to the line, he turned to Han, irritation clear in his voice.
"You should show some respect for a veteran."
Han raised an eyebrow.
"No problem," he said smoothly. "Just say this is your final season, and I'll respect you—same way I respected Kobe last year."
Pierce's face twitched.
That 'respect' Han had shown Kobe?
That was the game where Kobe tore his Achilles.
"You're a real asshole," Pierce snapped.
The ref blew a warning whistle.
Han just shook his head.
Funny how quickly the media changed things.
One book, and suddenly, everybody decided he was a villain.
Pierce made one free throw.
Coming back down the floor, Han signaled J.R. for a screen.
And just like that—he put Pierce right in front of him.
Cleveland's bench twitched.
Oh, no.
Han was about to put an old man through hell.
Bullying the young (Towns) and tormenting the old (Pierce)?
Yeah, this book was writing itself.
---
Boston scrambled to trap, but Han accelerated, breaking through the first double-team.
When Olynyk rushed over, Han snapped a pass to Jokić.
Wide open under the basket.
Jokić, still carrying that pent-up frustration from earlier, caught it and hammered down a two-handed slam.
Han turned back to Pierce, palms up.
"You see? I keep my promises."
Kobe had once ruined Jordan's farewell All-Star Game.
Han had given Kobe that same treatment last season in the Finals.
And if Pierce wanted that same respect?
Han was more than happy to deliver.
On the sidelines, Brad Stevens looked frustrated as hell.
Typically, players played with more energy at home.
But Han?
Han came to Boston looking like a damn vampire, feeding off the energy.
Then again, Stevens hadn't been around seven years ago.
He didn't understand the history here.
---
Durant continued to pass out of doubles, this time finding Bradley in the corner.
But Cleveland's defense was locked in.
Covington closed out hard—Bradley's shot clanked off the rim.
Tristan Thompson boxed out Horford and secured the rebound.
Cleveland pushed the pace.
Han signaled for another screen.
Bradley fought hard to avoid the switch, but J.R. set a perfect pick.
Like it or not, Pierce was stuck guarding Han again.
The Garden erupted in boos.
Han palmed the ball in one hand.
Pierce had seen this move before.
Han stepped back to his left.
Pierce tried to react—
But his legs weren't what they used to be.
Swish.
Han drilled the three in his face.
15-9.
Boston had opened the game on a 6-0 run.
Cleveland had answered with a 15-3 punch of their own.
Han had 13 of those points.
And the quarter wasn't even over.
Coming back to Boston felt like returning to an old battlefield.
The memories hit Han like a flood.
And he wasn't the only one feeling it.
Shaq, sitting at the broadcast table, instinctively glanced toward the scorer's table.
That series. That moment.
It was burned into his memory even more than his ring with the Mavericks.
They never made the Finals together.
But their series against Boston?
That was history.
Barkley caught Shaq's glance and smirked.
"Shaq, you remember how Han got that 'Scorer's Table Terminator' nickname, right?"
Shaq grinned. "Of course. Han jumped on Boston's scorer's table and yelled, 'Who's your daddy?!'"
Barkley shook his head. "Nah, big fella, you got it wrong."
Shaq blinked.
Barkley chuckled. "Han did jump on the table, yeah. But what he actually said wasn't 'Who's your daddy?'"
He leaned in, smirking.
"He said, 'I am your daddy.'"
Shaq paused—then nodded.
Barkley would know.
He had been at that game.
Hell, he was the one who gave Han that nickname in the first place.
And there was a difference.
The first phrase was just Cleveland fans trolling Boston all series.
The second?
That was Han Sen looking Boston in the eye and owning them.
That was personal.
Barkley leaned back, rubbing his chin with a knowing smile.
"So, you know what they say—once a father, always a father."
And for Pierce?
Tonight was feeling way too familiar.
---
Coming out of the timeout, Stevens made the switch.
Pierce was out.
Marcus Smart was in.
He wasn't going to let Han keep feeding off of nostalgia.
Smart wasted no time making an impact, cutting to the rim and finishing off a Durant pass for an easy layup.
Boston's motion offense was their foundation.
That bucket was a much-needed reset.
But on the other end?
Han was already backing down Bradley again.
Stevens was both right and wrong.
Han wasn't going off because of Pierce—or any specific player.
He was going off because he felt it.
And when Han Sen got in the zone?
There was no stopping him.
Bradley looked miserable.
An elite 3-and-D defender—tonight, Han had turned him into neither.
Boston sent extra help, but Han spun away at the free-throw line and rose for a fadeaway jumper.
Bradley had been shoved so deep into the paint that by the time he recovered, Han had already let it fly.
Swish.
Han still hadn't missed a shot.
Fans started holding their heads in disbelief.
This wasn't just dominance.
It was inevitable.
And it felt nothing like seven years ago.
Seven years ago, Han had been great.
Tonight?
Han Sen was terrifying.
Boston's defense meant nothing to him.
-End of Chapter-
Translator's Note: These ain't extra chapters. I missed like 4 days this month. Now I probably have 3 days' worth of chapters left. Don't know if I can keep this up though.