Basketball System: Hate Makes Me Unstoppable-Chapter 408: Death.

(TL/n: My bad, y'all. Ramadan started this month, and between work and classes, I've been struggling to find time. I'm not great at managing my schedule... but I'll do my best to wrap this up once and for all since we're so close to the finish line.)

After wrapping up the postgame press conference, Han Sen returned to the locker room, only to find Dante Cunningham still there.

"Boss, I was catching up with some of the guys in Cleveland," Cunningham said as he got up to greet Han.

Han smirked. "How's Nikola holding up?" His bias toward Jokić was obvious.

Cunningham chuckled. "He's fine, but Luka? Man, that kid looked at me like I stole something from him. Just because he lost a game? Come on. If anyone's got deeper ties to Cleveland, it's us—not him."

Han chuckled. Dončić really was shaping up to be this timeline's version of Andrew Wiggins. If the Kings and Cavaliers met in the Finals one day, that could turn into something very interesting.

Then Cunningham leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Guess who I ran into over there?"

Han barely had a chance to guess before Cunningham answered himself. "Jason!"

"Tatum?" Han raised an eyebrow. There were plenty of people named Jason, but from Cunningham's expression, it was clear who he meant.

Cunningham nodded. "Yeah, he was chatting with some of the Cavaliers' staff—looked real familiar with them too. Caught me off guard."

That did surprise Han. Tatum was a Duke guy. If this were Charlotte, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. But Cleveland? That was unexpected.

Still, Han didn't dwell on it. His knowledge of Tatum was limited—he was a hard worker, sure, but Han hadn't spent enough time with him to know the deeper layers.

---

The next day, the Kings returned to Sacramento.

Their season had started on the road, but now they had back-to-back home games. No travel. No time-zone adjustments. Just pure basketball.

Han spent the day training at his estate.

Since purchasing the property, he had made a few modifications—adding both indoor and outdoor courts near the castle-like mansion.

Midway through his workout, Rondo arrived.

In a hurry.

Han immediately stopped, wiping sweat from his forehead as he walked over.

Rondo was rarely urgent. Even when there was something to discuss, he usually waited in the living room until Han finished training.

Something was wrong.

"Henry passed away."

The weight of those words hit instantly.

Han's expression turned solemn.

Henry Thomas—his agent for nearly a decade—was gone.

Han had known Thomas wasn't in the best shape. After finalizing Han's transfer to Sacramento over the summer, his health had taken a downturn.

Born in 1953, Thomas was only 64. Not that old by modern standards. Han had grown up in a world where retirement age was 65.

But the stress of being an agent was relentless. The pressure, the late nights, the constant negotiations—it all took a toll.

Han had advised Thomas to take a step back, to focus on his health.

But he never expected this.

"When's the funeral?" Han asked.

"Two days from now," Rondo said. "It's on the same day as our game against the Jazz."

Han didn't hesitate.

He called Lue immediately.

"I'm sitting this one out."

---

Two days later, Han was in Chicago.

Thomas had been born and raised there, and it was only fitting that his funeral was held in a church in his hometown.

The moment Han stepped inside, he saw familiar faces everywhere.

Dwyane Wade. Chris Bosh. Shaun Livingston.

Even retired players like Michael Finley and Larry Hughes had shown up.

Thomas had built a reputation as one of the most respected agents in the business. Every player he had represented—past or present—had nothing but good things to say about him.

So when Han arrived?

All eyes naturally turned to him.

No matter where he went, he was always the center of attention.

Han greeted those he knew, shaking hands, exchanging quiet words. But when he ran into Wade, their conversation lasted longer.

They reminisced. About basketball. About life.

About how fleeting it all was.

There was something about funerals that made people reflect more deeply.

For Han, who had already experienced death once, the weight of it all hit even harder.

When the speeches began, Han hadn't expected to see Wade step up to the podium.

But there he was.

And as he spoke about Thomas, tears welled in his eyes.

Thomas hadn't just been an agent to Wade—he had been a mentor. A father figure.

The emotions in the room were palpable.

When the ceremony concluded, the casket was sealed, and the funeral procession moved to the cemetery.

Unlike some American funerals that took different approaches, this was a traditional burial.

A final blessing from the priest.

Flowers tossed onto the casket.

Then, the slow process of lowering it into the earth.

As Han stood in silence, watching it all unfold, he felt someone step up beside him.

It was Larry Hughes.

---

Han hadn't interacted much with him over the years. By the time Han entered the league, Hughes' playing days were numbered.

To Han, Hughes was mostly a relic of NBA history.

The guy who had been an All-Defensive player and a steals leader—only to look completely out of place when he joined the LeBron-era Cavaliers.

But right now?

Hughes wasn't here as an old player.

He was here as someone who had lost a friend.

"Man," Hughes muttered, eyes fixed on the grave. "Henry was a good one."

Han nodded. "Yeah. He really was."

A beat of silence passed.

Then Hughes said something that caught Han off guard.

"How's Jason holding up?"

Han turned slightly, confused.

Hughes must have caught it, because he immediately clarified.

"I'm his godfather."

That made Han pause.

In the U.S., a lot of NBA players had mentor figures—people who guided them through basketball, through life.

Some were family.

Some were youth coaches.

Some were former players.

For Tatum, that figure had been Larry Hughes.

His father, Justin, had been high school teammates with Hughes. They had even played in a band together before their paths diverged—Justin fading into obscurity, while Hughes made it to the NBA.

Naturally, Hughes had taken on the role of guiding Tatum toward the league.

And suddenly?

Cunningham's story about Tatum being familiar with Cleveland's staff made perfect sense.

Hughes had played multiple seasons with the Cavaliers.

Tatum, as a kid, would've had access to everything.

Locker rooms. Practices. Team events.

It wasn't random. It wasn't weird.

It was just a connection Han hadn't known about.

Han considered his words before responding.

"He works hard," he finally said.

Because truthfully? That was all he really knew about Tatum.

Compared to the other young guys on the team, Tatum was the most distant. Not unfriendly—just... separate.

But one thing was clear.

Tatum never slacked.

He was always in the gym an hour before practice.

That was something Han could respect.

"He's got the right mindset," Hughes added. "That kid's got the purest love for the game. He'll do anything to win."

Han gave a noncommittal nod.

Not agreeing. Not disagreeing.

Just letting Hughes say his piece.

And as they stood there, watching the final shovels of dirt cover the casket, Han exhaled.

This was life.

Unpredictable. Unforgiving.

And death?

Death was the one thing that never played favorites.

---

After returning from Chicago, Han Sen had one immediate issue to address—his new agent.

The moment news broke of Henry Thomas' passing, every top sports agent in the industry had reached out through various means, all hoping to secure a meeting.

Han wasn't just the greatest player of his era—he was the greatest in NBA history. Representing him would be the pinnacle of any agent's career.

And these agents weren't wrong to act fast. The sooner they got to Han, the better their chances.

But Han?

He had no intention of choosing any of them.

It wasn't that he disliked their approach. It was simply that he had already made plans for this long before Thomas' passing.

After so many years in the league, Han had built his own circle of trusted people.

At the center of it?

Chris Rondo.

And beyond Rondo, two familiar names from his Barry University days—Will Atkinson and Aaron O'Neal.

Atkinson was sharp, quick-witted. Han had placed him in a role at Under Armour, letting him learn the ins and outs of business operations. Over the years, Atkinson had been involved in several of Han's endorsement deals.

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O'Neal, on the other hand, was quieter, more meticulous. He wasn't flashy, but he was reliable. Han had placed him under Thomas' wing to gain experience, knowing that one day he might take over.

And in recent months, as Thomas' health declined, O'Neal had already begun handling some of Han's affairs behind the scenes.

Now, with Thomas gone, promoting O'Neal to full-time agent was the natural decision.

But when the news broke?

It sent shockwaves through the industry.

"Han's a great player, but he's not a great businessman."

"Thomas protected him from a lot. Without him, Han's influence will start to fade."

"He's no different from Michael—just another superstar who only trusts his inner circle."

Bitter words from agents who had been shut out.

Some of the gossip made its way back to Han, but he barely acknowledged it.

At the end of the day, this was simple.

It wasn't about hiring the most qualified person.

It was about trust.

Just like in ancient times, when a royal guard's most important trait wasn't skill—it was loyalty.

With the power and leverage Han had? He could have made O'Neal's grandmother his agent, and it wouldn't have mattered.

Major endorsement contracts? Han handled those himself.

Besides, it wasn't as if veteran agents were foolproof—just this past summer, Tim Duncan had been swindled out of $25 million by his own agent.

And as for O'Neal being a rookie in the business?

That was never the issue.

Rich Paul had been a rookie once, too.

When a player's stature reached a certain level, their agent became a superstar by association.

And sure enough, O'Neal wasted no time proving himself.

Not long after taking over, he finalized a long-anticipated deal—Han Sen became the North American ambassador for TikTok.

---

TikTok had emerged from ByteDance, a Chinese tech giant, after acquiring the U.S.-based Musical.ly. Now, they were launching their platform in the West.

And before their official release, they had one goal—sign Han Sen.

No one fit the brand better.

But negotiations had dragged on for months, partly because of Thomas' health, and partly because Han had been seeking an equity stake.

Once O'Neal took over, the deal was closed.

Han signed a 5-year, $50 million endorsement contract.

More importantly?

He secured 2% ownership of TikTok.

Compared to the cash, that equity was what mattered most.

TikTok operated on a shareholder model. ByteDance retained roughly 40%, while the rest was split among investors—many of whom held even smaller stakes than Han's 2%.

And since this was real equity—not just a marketing gimmick—Han would receive annual dividends as long as he held onto it.

This was a deal on the same level as Jordan's partnership with Nike or Han's under-the-table agreement with Vivek Ranadivé.

A true long-term collaboration.

Could he have negotiated for more? Probably.

But agreeing to the deal early also served another purpose—it was O'Neal's first major transaction, a way to establish credibility in the business world.

Shortly after the contract was signed, Han created his official TikTok account, posting clips from his daily life.

Back in Cleveland, he had engaged with fans through radio shows.

But times had changed.

Social media was the new frontier.

For fans, downloading TikTok wasn't a big deal.

For many, it was a relief—a fresh alternative to Facebook and Twitter, platforms stuck in the past.

Within days, TikTok became the most-downloaded app in the U.S.

And Han?

His influence had never been clearer.

---

Han had always been forward-thinking with his finances.

The TikTok deal wasn't just another endorsement—it was equity, ownership, a long-term stake in something bigger. It was the kind of move that separated athletes who made millions from those who built generational wealth.

And it wasn't his only play.

Sitting in his hotel room, scrolling through his phone, Han's mind drifted. He had Chris Rondo managing his financial projects, real estate investments piling up, and an eventual goal of owning an NBA team.

Every move had to be strategic.

That was when a headline caught his eye.

"Bitcoin hits $10,000 for the first time."

Han froze.

His brain clicked.

How the hell did he forget?

He came from the future. He knew exactly how big Bitcoin would get. He had watched it skyrocket during the pandemic, saw people make absurd amounts of money just by holding onto it.

And yet, somehow, in the chaos of building a dynasty, moving teams, winning championships, he had completely missed his window to invest early.

It wasn't too late, though.

2018 still had time. The biggest surges were yet to come. He didn't need to go crazy with it—just enough to make sure he had a serious stake in the game.

Pulling up his contacts, he immediately called Chris Rondo.

"Chris, we need to move some money into Bitcoin."

Chris, always calm under pressure, barely reacted. "How much are we talking?"

Han exhaled, calculating. If he were thinking ahead to his end goal—NBA ownership—this could be a shortcut.

"A hundred million."

For the first time, Chris hesitated. "...Dollars?"

"Yes."

A long pause. Then, a slow whistle. "That's a serious bet, man."

Han smirked. "I already know how it ends."

Chris chuckled. "Alright, I'll get it set up. You better not be messing with me."

"I never mess with money."

That part was true.

As soon as the call ended, Han sat back, phone still in hand.

In his past life, he had never had the money to make a move like this. He had watched the market explode from the sidelines, knowing he'd never have a shot at that kind of wealth.

But this wasn't his past life.

This time, he was playing the game right.

---

Of course, all of this was just a footnote.

Han's focus remained on the Kings.

And while he had been away?

Sacramento had lost to the Jazz 103-113.

Mitchell struggled—17 points, 5-for-17 shooting.

Scoring consistency had been an issue for him last season. That hadn't changed.

On the other hand, Tatum had bounced back, leading the team with 20 points on 8-for-15 shooting.

But there was no time to dwell on the loss.

The next day, Han was back in the lineup for their home game against Portland.

The Trail Blazers, led by Damian Lillard and CJ McCollum, were a tough matchup.

The game was a battle from start to finish.

But with 47 points from Han, the Kings secured a 126-121 victory.

Mitchell also rebounded from his poor showing—24 points, 9-for-14 shooting.

Tatum, however? 9 points on 3-for-7 shooting.

And as the Kings wrapped up their first three games of the season...

An unexpected trend emerged.

Tatum—supposedly the perfect off-ball complement to Han—was struggling.

Whenever he played alongside Han, his impact faded.

It wasn't just a slump.

It was something deeper.

Something Han hadn't anticipated.

There was no chemistry.

As if the two simply didn't fit together.

Even Han hadn't seen this coming.