When the Kings players wrapped up their quick locker room celebration and returned to the court, less than a third of the crowd remained.
That's just how it goes in a small-market arena—home fans are loyal through and through.
But those still here weren't Milwaukee locals.
They were fans from all around the world who had come for one reason—to witness Han Sen's coronation.
The title of "solo-carry champion" has always been controversial.
Everyone defines it a little differently. But most agree that only a select few belong in the conversation: Hakeem Olajuwon in '94, Tim Duncan in 2003, and Dirk Nowitzki in 2011.
But after tonight?
Han Sen might be the next name etched into that list.
In five Finals games, Han averaged 42 points, 7 rebounds, 6.2 assists, 2.4 steals, and 1.2 blocks per game—on 50.6% shooting and 36.8% from three.
No other Kings player even averaged 20.
Not even half his scoring.
Statistically, structurally—this was as pure a solo-carry as it gets.
And it wasn't just the Finals. This was how the entire playoff run looked.
Among all the reasons the Kings became champions, Han Sen stood at the very top.
That was made clear the moment the championship trophy was handed to him.
Even with the crowd thinned to a third, the roar inside the arena felt loud enough to rip the roof off.
Then came the Finals MVP voting.
Unanimous.
Of course it was.
And when Bill Russell, frail and unsteady, handed Han the Finals MVP trophy, the cheers soared to the rafters again.
As Han took the trophy, Russell leaned in and whispered softly:
"I'm glad the last one I see… is you."
Russell's health had been rapidly declining. This was his final trip to present the award.
The promise between them—it was Russell who would bow out first.
But in his final moments, he got to witness Han lift his seventh championship. To watch him be crowned. To watch him become the greatest.
He had no regrets.
Han later brought up Russell during his acceptance speech—along with the topic of greatness and their shared promise.
"Bill Russell was the greatest of his time. Michael Jordan was the greatest of his.
But comparing greatness across eras?
That's like arguing Mozart versus Beethoven, or Messi versus Pelé.
There's no final answer—just different kinds of legendary."
In those words, Han gave respect—both to Russell and, for the first time publicly, to Jordan.
And no—it didn't contradict a word he'd said before.
Wanting to surpass Jordan was never about disrespect—it was about chasing the mindset. The obsession. The bar.
Tonight, Han wasn't staking a claim.
He was honoring what came before.
He was acknowledging what it meant to stand on this stage.
His mention of Jordan also carried a subtle nod—after all, MJ had recently given Han a personal opportunity in their esports business collab.
Of course, that was just a small part of the speech.
Most of it?
It was about his teammates.
From young guns like Tatum and Mitchell, to veterans like Rudy Gay and Marc Gasol—and of course, the coaches: Lue, Van Gundy, and everyone else.
Because basketball is a team sport.
And this championship? It belonged to all of them.
To every last one of them, this title meant the world.
For Han and the rookies, that's obvious. But for guys like Gay and Gasol, who'd spent years being doubted after Memphis fell apart—this was redemption at the end of their careers.
For Tyronn Lue, it proved he wasn't just a figurehead. He could coach a championship team.
And for Van Gundy?
He may never have been elite as a head coach…
But as an assistant?
He just showed he was top-tier.
Han looked around one last time—at his team, at the fans, at the trophy in his hands.
And with a calm smile, he ended it simply:
"We climbed the mountain together.
And now we're here.
This is ours."
---
TNT: Inside the NBA – Post-Finals Reaction
Ernie Johnson: "Sacramento. NBA Champions. A 4–1 win over the Bucks, and Han Sen with his seventh ring and another unanimous Finals MVP. Chuck, where you at with this one?"
Charles Barkley: "First off, shoutout to the Kings, man. That's not a superteam. That's rookies, vets, and one cold-blooded dude carrying 'em. Han Sen? Different animal. You can't even put him in a box anymore. He done broke the damn box."
Shaquille O'Neal: "Listen… Giannis played hard. But you poke the bear? That bear gon' eat you alive. You saw what happened when they tried that dirty stuff on Tatum — Han took that personal."
Kenny Smith: "It was over after that. You could feel it. That team flipped, man. Tatum came back fired up, Morris knocked Giannis on his ass, and Han was just surgical. Every possession. He smelled blood."
Shaq: "Yeah. And ain't nobody else even averaged 20. I looked it up. Dude averaged 42, carried that team front to back. I know about carrying — and lemme tell you, that ain't easy."
Charles: "And it wasn't just scoring. He was out there dictatin' everything. Coaching on the floor. Settin' the tone. This ain't no fluke — that was domination."
Kenny: "And let's give props to those young guys too. Tatum, Mitchell, Hield — they showed up when it mattered. Han molded those guys. You could see it."
Shaq: "I love what Van Gundy brought too. He ain't the head coach, but you can tell that dude had a gameplan ready every night."
Charles: "Man, this felt like 2011 all over again. Like what Dirk did — but even crazier. That Kings team? Nobody had 'em winnin' it all in October. Nobody."
Ernie: "And now they're champs. Han Sen with title number seven. Career arc keeps getting wilder."
Shaq (grinning): "Better make some room in the rafters. Sacramento got one now."
---
A few days later, Sacramento held a massive championship parade.
Being in California, the scale of this parade matched—if not surpassed—what the Cavaliers had back in the day.
For the first time, the capital city of California made its presence felt on the sports map.
And in a unique twist, the Kings set up the championship stage outside their arena like a royal coronation—literally crowning a new monarch.
Who the "real King" was? That was never really up for debate.
But now it was official.
And nobody had a problem with it.
Because this Kings title wasn't just historic—it was damn near mythical.
No one else could've led this franchise to the mountaintop. No one but Han.
During the fan Q&A, someone threw out the big question:
Would Han try to build a dynasty in Sacramento, the same way he did in Memphis and Cleveland?
That's the thing about winning—it never satisfies for long.
Once you get the first ring, everyone starts thinking about the next.
And with Han? The next automatically means a dynasty.
Han didn't dodge the question.
He smiled, leaned into the mic, and gave a straight answer:
"Why not?"
This Kings team had stunned the world—including Han himself.
A roster led by hungry young players, with Han still in his prime, and vets like Rudy Gay and Marc Gasol still contributing?
There was no reason not to chase greatness again.
That one-liner sent imaginations into overdrive.
If Han really builds dynasties with three different franchises, it won't just be an NBA first—it'll be something that transcends the sport entirely.
It wouldn't just rewrite his legacy…
It might reshape the global reach of the game itself.
And so, with that one answer, Han didn't just ignite Kings fans.
He set the world buzzing.
---
Before Han Sen could enjoy the offseason, one mission remained: the World Cup—representing his country.
Training camp had already kicked off in May, and the squad was stacked.
Alongside Han, NBA players like Ding Yanyuhang, Zhou Qi, and Zou Yuchen were all in the mix.
And this time, thanks to relentless efforts from Yao Ming, the national team had finally joined the global trend—they had their first naturalized player.
FIBA rules allow each country to add one naturalized player to their roster.
Spain. Germany. Even the powerhouses used it.
China never had—until now.
And Han Sen was a big reason why.
His presence gave Yao Ming more pull, not just with the national team, but all the way up to the sports bureau.
Han committing to the national team was a once-in-a-generation opportunity.
Everything around it had to be world-class.
The two most talked-about options for the naturalized slot?
Jeremy Lin and Kyle Anderson.
Jeremy needed no intro. The only Chinese-American player in the NBA. And now that Han played small forward, Lin was the league's only Chinese point guard.
Anderson's case was different. He had no direct ties to the country—until his mother reconnected with their heritage.
Her mother, Anderson's grandmother, was born in China.
Last summer, Anderson and his mother made the trip. He took on a local name—Li Kaier—and was officially added to the family lineage.
When the basketball association reached out, both Lin and Anderson were eager to represent.
After all, if they couldn't be Han's teammate in the NBA… why not link up in FIBA?
Han's involvement made Team China the hottest ticket in town.
After consulting with Han, the team went with Li Kaier.
There were two reasons.
First, fit.
Yi Jianlian was still the core inside—but at his age, he couldn't move like he used to. He anchored the post, but he needed a mobile partner.
Li Kaier checked every box: mobile, high-IQ, and an elite help defender—even by NBA standards.
Paired with Yi, Zhou Qi, and Zou Yuchen, Team China's frontcourt could finally hold its own against European giants.
As for the backcourt, Han had to be the primary initiator—anything else would be a waste. That meant pairing him with 3&D types, not ball-dominant guards.
Jeremy Lin didn't fit that mold. His shooting was streaky, and his ideal role would've been sixth man.
So the optimal lineup?
PG Han Sen, SG Ding Yanyuhang, SF Zhai Xiaochuan, PF Li Kaier, C Yi Jianlian.
And if they faced a twin-tower team like Spain? Slide Li Kaier to the 3, and start Zhou Qi or Zou Yuchen at center.
---
After picking up the season MVP at the awards ceremony, Han immediately flew out to join the national team.
He'd made the commitment. And Han didn't do anything halfway.
The moment he walked into the gym, the energy shifted.
Coaches paused mid-sentence. Players stopped shooting. Everyone turned.
It was like a celebrity crashing a family dinner.
But this wasn't just any celebrity.
This was Han Sen—seven-time NBA champion, seven-time Finals MVP.
His presence sent a jolt through the squad.
Practice resumed, but it wasn't the same.
Every drill, every scrimmage—guys were sneaking glances. Watching how he moved. Listening to how he called for screens, how he communicated on defense. Just trying to absorb anything they could.
By the end of that first practice, it didn't feel like camp anymore.
It was a Han Sen autograph session.
He signed sneakers. Jerseys. Someone even brought a beat-up Grizzlies cap from 2012.
These were national team players—pros in their own right.
But around Han?
They were just fans.
All those online rumors about bad blood with the national squad—about egos, about grudges?
Dead on arrival.
When someone becomes that great—so good it feels surreal—every choice they make feels justified. Even the ones people used to question.
And Han?
He was nothing but gracious.
He thanked the trainers. Picked up his own towels. Asked guys about their families. Laughed during shooting games.
The federation was one thing; the players were another.
Guys like Ding and Zou? He'd picked them—just like he once picked Tatum and Mitchell.
---
The air in Qingdao felt heavier.
Not from smog. Not from the sea.
From something deeper.
Han didn't tell anyone where he was going. Not even Anjali. He just left the team hotel after morning practice, threw on a hoodie, and started walking.
The cab ride had been short. The kind where you almost wish for more traffic just to slow things down.
He stepped out near the harbor, where the narrow roads still curled like they did when he was a kid—or at least, when the original Han Sen was.
It wasn't nostalgia.
It was unfamiliar familiarity.
The building looked just like the photo Liang Rui once showed him.
Fourth floor. Rusty window grilles. Paint peeling at the corners like dried petals. A little red banner still taped to the side of the door, half-faded from Lunar New Year.
He hesitated before reaching for the keypad.
Then he didn't.
The door was cracked open.
No one had lived here in years. His parents had moved out when his basketball career took off. But they never sold the place. Too many memories, Liang Rui had once said. Good ones and bad ones.
He stepped inside.
The air was stale, untouched. Dust floated like slow snow in the beams of afternoon sun.
A few worn shoes by the door. A coat still hanging. On the kitchen counter, a chipped rice bowl. Time had paused here, like the house had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to come back.
He moved through the rooms quietly, almost afraid to make noise.
It didn't feel like his childhood home.
But it felt like someone's.
The tiny bedroom near the back still had posters on the wall—one of Allen Iverson, peeling at the corner. A bookshelf with faded manga. A calendar from 2008, never flipped past July. A dusty trophy with 市青少年篮球比赛 etched on the front.
Han stood still.
It hit harder than he expected.
This was the part of the boy's life he'd never live. The memories he'd never reclaim. No matter how much he gave to this second life, there were pieces that would never be his.
And yet…
Something pulled him toward the desk.
Taped to the side of the drawer, there was a folded note—yellowed, water-stained, nearly illegible.
He opened it carefully.
"I'm gonna play in the NBA one day.
And I'm gonna take care of Mom and Dad."
— Han
A single sentence.
Childish handwriting. Big loops. No punctuation.
Han sat down on the creaky wooden chair.
He didn't cry.
But he let the silence wash over him, like the apartment was giving him something.
Not a memory. Not a blessing. Just… permission.
Permission to stop pretending.
Permission to stop carrying guilt for a life he didn't destroy.
This wasn't about replacing the original Han Sen anymore.
It was about honoring him.
That boy—who dreamed of the NBA, who promised to take care of his parents—he didn't fail.
Han took a breath.
I'm living our dream.
Keeping the promise.
Even if I came from a different life to do it.
---
That night, Han returned to the hotel in silence.
He didn't say anything when Anjali looked at him, concerned. Just walked past, took a shower, and sat by the window with his phone in hand.
Then, after a long while, he texted his mother again.
"I found the note he wrote."
No explanation needed.
No answer expected.
Minutes later, she replied.
"He would've been proud. I am too."
Han stared at the screen.
No tears. No words.
Just… stillness.
And for once,
he didn't feel like a stranger in his own life.
---
Translator's Note:
As we near the end, the original author began rushing key arcs—this entire World Cup storyline was originally crammed into one chapter.
I've split it into two, added context, and tied in the acceptance arc I've been building behind the scenes.
The next chapter will wrap that arc up. Let me know what you think so far.
Shoutout to Raid_Zulfakar and the Discord crew—appreciate all the feedback.