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墨書 Inktalez
The day after the championship, the atmosphere in the Zhang Family Mansion of the Trick Team was as stifling and hot as a steamer in a hellish kitchen, filled with the silent tension before an explosion.
Mother Zhang, dressed in a black silk robe, sat in the center of the living room on a single leather chair. Her nails were already torn from her own picking, and the glass of red wine in her hand remained untouched, yet it bore fine cracks from her grip. The television replayed the final moments of last night's game: Harden's step-back, KD's three-pointer, Bill's dunk—each scene replaying the humiliation.
"These garbage fans... they change their minds faster than flipping a book," she said coldly.
Her voice poured into Zhang Jianing's heart like ice water.
Zhang Jianing curled up in the corner of her room, clutching a copy of "Release Your Inner Past Life," her whole being shrunk into a ball. Her makeup was smudged, tears streamed down her face as she cried and murmured, "I just wanted... I just wanted everyone to embrace spirituality... why... is everyone singing 'Basketball Fire'... when I worked so hard to guide them into the sixth layer of collective meditation..."
She cried as if the entire Spiritual Center had collapsed, her worldview shattered by Harden's step-back last night.
But on the sofa next door, Zhang Jiayun was completely in another universe.
Wearing a loose tank top with one foot propped up on the armrest of the sofa, she held an iPad and was video chatting with three sister groups, her voice loud enough to compete with the television.
"Hey, let me tell you! Poole is really so tasteless; when I saw his celebration move, I just wanted to laugh. He looked like he was performing in 'Dance Dance Revolution,' you know? Hahaha!"
"My sister is still crying! Crying for what? Yesterday she wanted everyone to meditate together, but instead, everyone was waving their hands and singing 'Bas-ket-ball Fire'—so embarrassing!"
Her tone was like she was mocking her sister, the audience, the Heavenly Kings Team—she even mocked her own people without restraint, like an out-of-control garbage truck rumbling over everyone's dignity.
"I really don’t understand why everyone loves Jay Chou so much; he’s just a guard coach who loves to sing love songs and has never touched a ball but is out there strategizing."
"My sister keeps saying 'free throws are spiritual release'… are you Guanyin or something? Release my foot!"
Hearing this, Zhang Jianing exploded in tears and shouted, "Jiayun, can you shut up?!"
"Hey, hey, hey, calm down! I'm just speaking the truth. Why are you blaming me for your loss? It's not my fault you chose to believe in that 'Meditation Tactics.' You might as well sit still in the next match and hope to win against Bill! Hilarious!"
In the study, Father Zhang stared nervously at the monitors.
Three screens hung on the wall, providing full-angle surveillance of the entire Zhang Family Mansion. He held a remote control in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.
"The front door is clear... monitoring the back door... wait, who’s that in the garden?!"
"...Oh crap, it's our dog..." He sighed in relief.
"I can't let my guard down... That fan of Poole's said she would come and throw water balloons at us... I can't believe there's any logic left in this world."
He hadn't slept all night; dark circles under his eyes looked like shadows of a lost match.
The only one still functioning normally in the house was—Brother Zhang.
Sitting on a high stool in the kitchen, wearing a tank top, he stuffed his mouth with an entire sausage, grease glistening on his lips. In his hands was a large bowl of Braised Pork Rice, accompanied by spicy Mi Blood and a soft-boiled duck egg.
"Damn, this Mi Blood is still the best cooked in our kitchen."
He glanced at the television still broadcasting the match and said with his mouth full:
"Hey, I think Poole's play was actually pretty cool... Even though we lost in the end, he was putting on a show. The entertainment value was off the charts!"
Mother Zhang instantly turned her head and glared at him.
Brother Zhang: "Oh, oh, I'll shut up now..." (He continued to munch on Mi Blood.)
The entire the Zhang family was currently engulfed in post-defeat syndrome. Everyone was trapped in their own universe, disconnected from one another, exchanging barbs, and emotions were erupting as if the entire mansion was on the brink of an internal war.
But everyone knew this was not the end. Mother Zhang silently stood up and walked toward her study.
"I won't let them win a second time."
A slight smile curled at the corners of her mouth, her voice sharp as a knife.
Mother Zhang entered her study, and the door closed softly behind her, like the prelude to an impending trial. Inside, it was just her and the light. On the desk lay a thick stack of documents, which she began to flip through page by page. These were not reports or financial records—they were copies of Player Contracts, Venue Rental Memorandums, and a draft of a Cooperation Agreement stamped with "Top Secret."
Her fingers slowly glided over one of the pages:
"Article 3-7 of the contract: Adjustment of player image rights usage period…"
"Article 5-1 of the contract: Ownership of match video edits transferred to independent marketing team…"
"Article 9-3 of the contract: If coaching tactics data needs to be made public, prior approval from the Trick Team board is required…"
A strange cold smile appeared at the corners of her lips.
"This time, I won't let you sing again."
She opened her laptop and logged into a backstage system accessible only to Z-Level Directors. The screen flickered with cold white light. Each keystroke echoed in the empty room like the chopping off of a moral head.
She was altering those contract clauses.
She was rewriting the rules of the game.
She was secretly creating the next entry for a cunning victory.
But she was unaware that above her, a pair of eyes had not shifted their gaze.
On the ceiling, beside a crack, a gecko lay still.
Its grayish-white skin blended seamlessly with the ceiling, except for its eyes, which were like two obsidian stones, unblinking and fixed on her.
It made no sound and did not blink, almost merging with the air. Yet its presence was alive.
And this was no ordinary gecko.
It hid in the corner of the Zhang family's ceiling, observing every scheme brewing, every malicious thought taking shape.
Mother Zhang remained completely oblivious.
At that moment, her face was contorted into a grotesque snarl, resembling a smile sent back from hell. Her fingertips rapidly modified the contract:
"…Transfer Poole's image rights to us… Reduce Bill's profit share… Delete the segment of Curry's advertisement where he interacts with Jay Chou… Good… very good…"
She spoke without even noticing that beside her glass of red wine, an iPad lay unattended, faintly glowing.
On it, a system prompt appeared:
✅ "Global monitoring synchronizing"
📡 Transmission target: "T-Level External Backup Node: Neutral Watcher"
The gecko's eyes were not just ordinary eyes.
Within its pupils lay a miniature camera. Beneath its tail was embedded a nearly invisible signal transmission chip.
It was a member of the Watcher.
This competition, this struggle, this war beyond good and evil, above all rules, had already caught the attention of another mysterious organization.
The Watcher did not intervene; they only recorded.
They did not speak, only observed, stored, and waited for the moment the world would collapse, ready to expose everything.
Mother Zhang could not see the ceiling and did not believe she would lose.
She only knew that this contract would become the deadliest weapon before the next match.
"Just wait, Harden, Bill, and you too, Jay Chou—your time in the spotlight is over."
But she was unaware that a pair of silent eyes had already begun to upload her image to the cloud for all to see.
Everything… who exactly had witnessed it all?
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