Chapter 342: Popularity Soars and the Battle of the Black Funeral
"Playoff Shockwave, 71 Points in a Single Game."
"White Horse, Silver Spear, Chen Yan Conquers Los Angeles by Himself."
"Hollywood Reversed, the Villain Wins."
"A Solo Masterpiece, Chen Yan Buries the Lakers Inside Staples Center."
"The First Mister 70 Plus in Playoff History."
"Chen Yan Smiles, 71 Is Only the Beginning."
"A Game That Turns Into Legend, Chen Yan Pushes Phoenix to the Brink of the Finals."
"Passing Jordan, the Greatest Rookie Ever Is Born."
The headlines came in like a flood.
Chen Yan's 71 point night did not just shake the series, it shook the league, then kept rolling until it felt global. By the next morning, his name was splashed across front pages everywhere. 150 media outlets worldwide led with the same story, some in disbelief, some in celebration, all of them chasing the same moment.
The comparisons were immediate.
People brought up Kobe's 81 from years ago, because that was the closest modern reference point for this kind of scoring earthquake. But there was a reason Chen Yan's 71 hit differently. This happened in the playoffs, in the Western Conference Finals, on the road, in a building that wanted him to fail.
That stage made it heavier.
Back home, the reaction was pure chaos.
For many fans, it already felt unreal that an Asian had produced an NBA level guard. Then Chen Yan went and broke a playoff scoring record that had stood for 20 years, a number linked to the most famous name the sport had ever seen.
It felt like a dream that refused to end.
The media did what the media always does, it went too far, too fast.
Some outlets started pushing the idea that Chen Yan had already surpassed Jordan. Technically, for the highest single game playoff score, that was true. But careers are not built on 1 night, no matter how historic that night is.
Jordan had 6 championships and a mountain of hardware.
Chen Yan had 0 rings.
He was still chasing his first.
None of that stopped the hype machine, because hype is profitable.
Sports Express interrupted its regular midday programming and cut in with a 5 minute special report. They ran the story, then ran it again, then ran it again. They replayed Chen Yan's highlights and both game winners until viewers could recite the angles like scripture.
Fans started joking that Sports Express had become Chen Yan Express, and the meme spread like wildfire.
And as the highlights looped, Chen Yan's popularity climbed even higher.
The NBA's official site released a number the next day. After Game 5, traffic spiked to a historic record, 2.8 million clicks, more than a 100 percent increase.
USA Today ran a poll, and it showed the tide shifting. 59 percent of fans were now backing the Suns, while 41 percent stayed with the Lakers. Ratings climbed too, 17 percent, the highest the league had seen since Jordan retired.
All of it pointed back to the same thing.
Chen Yan had turned Game 5 into something you had to talk about.
Phoenix leaned into it.
The Suns official store quickly rolled out a Chen Yan doll, modeled with his hairstyle, his elbow pads, and the Suns No. 0 jersey. It even copied his signature pose after the game winner, the gentleman's bow.
The moment it went live, the rush was immediate. In less than 2 hours, orders from across the United States hit so hard the system crashed. Even with the factory running at full capacity and workers pushing day and night, production could not keep up.
It was absurd.
It was also real.
But while the popularity was fun, Phoenix still had a series to finish.
And the problems did not stop.
Before Game 6, the Suns released an update that Nash's back had worsened. His status was suddenly uncertain.
Then the next day, Phoenix got hit again.
During practice, Chen Yan sprained his ankle on a non contact play.
It was not a smokescreen. It was not gamesmanship. He had pushed himself beyond the limit in Game 5, and the fatigue was real. A non contact injury was always the scariest kind, because it meant the body had reached a breaking point without anybody touching you.
For a moment, the entire Suns season felt like it was hanging by a thread.
Chen Yan sat, rested, and after a short window he could walk again.
It was not because his body was superhuman.
It was because of the system.
He spent 59 honor points to repair the damage.
This was why he saved points. If he had not had enough to heal, he would have missed Game 6, maybe even Game 7, and the entire direction of the series would have changed.
The Lakers were not healthy either.
After Game 5, reports came out that Kobe's finger injury had worsened, and his knee was swelling.
But Chen Yan knew Kobe. A do or die Western Conference Finals game could not keep him off the floor. If Kobe had to roll out in a wheelchair, he would still try to play.
That questionable tag felt like a smokescreen from Los Angeles.
As soon as both teams injuries hit the news, the most anxious person in the entire league was not a coach, not a player, not even a fan.
It was David Stern.
This Western Conference Finals had been printing ratings because it was built around a rivalry and a scoring duel, Chen Yan versus Kobe. If both stars missed Game 6, the viewership would fall off a cliff.
…
May 28 was Game 6.
Suns versus Lakers, back in Phoenix at US Airways Center.
The broadcast went live in 36 languages across more than 200 countries, setting a new NBA record.
It was clear the world was treating the Western Conference Finals like the real Finals.
The media said it out loud too. Compared to the upcoming NBA Finals, they believed the West had more weight, more star power, more urgency. The old idea that the Western Conference champion was the true champion had been circulating for years, and this season only fed it.
It was not just disrespect toward the East.
It was math.
The second seed Cavaliers in the East would have ranked only 7th in the West by record, right next to a Denver team that Phoenix had swept in Round 1.
That gap told its own story.
Hundreds of millions of fans tuned in.
Back home, the energy was even louder. Chen Yan's 71 had pushed basketball interest to a peak, and Kobe was still Kobe, the magnet who pulled eyes no matter what uniform he wore.
Game 6 reached the point where every fan felt like they had to watch.
College students packed cafeterias, because the dorms were too quiet for a game like this. Cafeterias had noise, crowds, the shared tension that made every run feel bigger.
Working adults and students in middle and high school had it worse. Some took leave. Some skipped when they could. If they had no choice, they followed text updates on their phones, refreshing like their thumbs were part of the coaching staff. Others sprinted home during lunch just to catch a few minutes.
At the pregame press conference, both head coaches confirmed the same thing.
Chen Yan was starting.
Kobe was starting.
Only then did everyone breathe again.
As the Suns entered the tunnel, the cameras caught something strange.
Every Phoenix player was dressed in black.
Reporters immediately asked why.
Chen Yan answered without blinking.
"This isn't a normal Western Conference Finals," he said. "This is a funeral battle."
Black meant only 1 thing.
Phoenix had come to bury the Lakers.
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