NBA: The Dynasty Crusher (Basketball)

Chapter 347: Chapter 347



"Arong, it's probably because of Zhao Dong and Mrs. Lindsay. Don't overthink it. Just finish your makeup," whispered Mr. Tang, Zhang Guorong's agent.

"You're probably right."

Zhang Guorong nodded.

He was about to enter the dressing room when Zhao Dong and Lindsay entered with their entourage.

"Mrs. Lindsay, Mr. Zhao."

The attending stars quickly stood and greeted them.

Zhao Dong was slightly surprised to see so many Hong Kong tycoons here, but he first greeted Zhang Guorong, then exchanged brief courtesies with the others.

Naturally, Lindsay was the main reason for the gathering. Zhao Dong was respectfully acknowledged as well, though only Mrs. Guo and Brother Ji engaged in a serious conversation with him.

"Mr. Zhao, when would it be convenient for Mr. Li and me to visit you?" asked Mrs. Guo.

Zhao Dong smiled. "We're not a rich family, just a regular Beijing household. You're welcome anytime—just let us know ahead so we can properly host you."

Mrs. Guo and Brother Ji chuckled inwardly. If Zhao Dong's family was considered "ordinary," then the rest of them must be peasants.

They quickly set a visit for 10 a.m. the next day—Saturday.

From the brief conversation, Zhao Dong understood their true purpose: investment.

Lately, rumors had swirled through the elite circles of Hong Kong that Mrs. Guo and Brother Ji were entering the mainland market on Lindsay's advice.

These tycoons feared being sidelined like the four major real estate families and were eager to explore investment opportunities in the mainland—especially in real estate.

They had skipped formal group visits or state-level talks, hoping for a more private discussion with Lindsay to feel out her stance before moving forward.

Zhao Dong also understood these tycoons had no interest in high-tech industries. At most, they would dabble in low-value manufacturing. Their short-sightedness was a flaw—but also an opportunity.

Tianlong Investment Bank had integrated dozens of group companies, spanning various sectors. Many low-value-added segments were perfect for these investors to absorb.

What China lacked was capital, and these investors could help fill that gap.

---

Zhang Guorong's concert was a success—three hours of nonstop energy and emotion. Fans were thrilled, the atmosphere electric from start to finish.

That night, Zhao Dong hosted a large dinner party, booking several restaurants for an after-party.

The next morning at 10 a.m., the Zhao family welcomed Mrs. Guo, Brother Ji, and their extended families. Everyone showed up—sons, daughters, even grandchildren.

Guo Binglian, the third son, was out on bail, but the second son, Bingjiang, was still in custody and likely facing jail time. This time, Guo Binglian accompanied Mrs. Guo to Beijing.

The Guo family had been notorious for internal strife. In a previous life, the eldest son had ratted out his brothers in a bid for control, sending Bingjiang to prison and disgracing the family.

In this timeline, things played out differently. The issues with the second and third sons stemmed from sabotage by Gao Ziang's business spies—not internal betrayal.

Though suspicion lingered, the eldest Guo had repeatedly denied any involvement, and tensions had eased.

As the families arrived at Sanbulao Hutong, they noticed a number of young men standing nearby, eyes sharp and alert.

Their instincts were right—these were bodyguards, assigned by higher-ups to protect the Zhao household due to the significance of both Zhao Dong and Lindsay.

"Mind your manners," Mrs. Guo and Brother Ji reminded their grandchildren as they exited the cars and walked toward the courtyard.

Both elders, particularly the 71-year-old Brother Ji, were greeted personally at the gate by Zhao Dong's parents, a gesture of respect.

"Oh, we don't deserve this kind of welcome!" Brother Ji said with a warm smile.

They had done their homework. They knew Zhao Dong and Lindsay always deferred to the elders, standing behind them quietly. Given the couple's humility, they lowered their own stance as well.

"Come, come in! Our house is modest—don't mind the simplicity!" said Zhao Dong's mother, Li Meizhu, warmly.

The compound now housed only the Zhao family. Other residents had been relocated—either to high-rises or similar courtyards, generously compensated far above standard demolition rates.

Aside from the family, Lindsay's team of foreign bodyguards and assistants operated a full office system from the compound, with staff constantly coming and going.

As the Guo and Ji families entered, their younger members looked around curiously at the old, weathered courtyard.

"Mrs. Lindsay lives here?" one of the Guo grandchildren whispered, stunned.

The idea that the richest woman in Hong Kong would live in such a modest setting was inconceivable.

The elders led a formal reception under a pomegranate tree in the second courtyard. While they engaged the second generation in discussion, Zhao Dong and Lindsay took charge of hosting the younger guests.

While this wasn't traditional protocol—Zhao Dong and Lindsay were vastly more prominent than the guests' children—the Zhao elders didn't fuss. To them, young people should mingle with young people.

Zhao Dong and Lindsay were left to handle the young guests, since Zhao Dacheng wasn't home. If they didn't step in, there wouldn't be anyone to entertain the group.

But when the old man specifically told Lindsay to host the visiting grandchildren, Brother Ji and Mrs. Guo grew uneasy. The wealthy daughters-in-law from both families kept throwing warning glances at their kids, silently telling them: Behave. Don't piss off Mrs. Lindsay, or it's game over.

Zhao Dong and Lindsay led the group of young people back to the first courtyard. All of them looked like they were on edge—quiet, heads down, answering only when asked.

And when Lindsay spoke? Their nerves shot up like it was the NBA Draft Combine.

But Lindsay didn't have time to babysit. After a brief chat, she handed things off to Zhao Dong and went to work.

Once Lindsay left, the mood eased. The kids relaxed a bit. They were still shy, but with Zhao Dong around instead of Lindsay, they could at least look up without fear of being vaporized by her gaze.

"Let's go," Zhao Dong said casually. "I'll take you around the hutong to check out the scene."

The hutong still had its charm—street snacks, games, and the constant hum of Beijing life. There were candied haws, stinky tofu, popcorn, dry-fried meatballs, stir-fried kidney beans, crispy broad beans, wonton stalls, popsicle carts, and even scissor grinders—all weaving through the alleys, shouting out their specialties.

"Have fun. Eat whatever you want, my treat," Zhao Dong waved them off.

Then he plopped down at the front door like old Uncle Zhang across the alley, leaned against the pillar, crossed his legs, and basked in the afternoon sun.

The kids glanced at Zhao Dong, then at Uncle Zhang across the street. Same posture. Same energy. Like father, like son? Or like neighborhood sage and disciple?

"How'd that guy end up with a woman like Mrs. Lindsay?" one whispered.

At noon, Li Meizhu made dumplings to feed everyone. With so many mouths to feed—including the old man, the old lady, Lindsay, and Zhao Dong—the whole household pitched in.

By the time they saw the Guo and Li families off, it was already past two. Zhao Dong had nothing to do, so he took Lindsay on a casual stroll through the hutongs.

Beijing used to have thousands of hutongs—only a few were dead-ends. Most were connected, forming a massive maze that stretched through the capital. But even a Beijinger in his 40s couldn't possibly know them all.

Zhao Dong and Lindsay wandered with a couple of bodyguards in tow, eventually reaching a martial arts school.

Zhao Dong's face shifted the moment he saw it.

This place held old grudges.

Ten years ago, when the Zhao family moved from the compound back to their ancestral home, Zhao Dacheng had been itching for a fight. He trained with military instructors and had the hands of a street brawler. It didn't take long before he dragged Zhao Dong to the Shichahai Martial Arts School for a challenge.

Dacheng was fifteen, Zhao Dong only twelve. Two half-grown kids challenging an entire school? Naturally, the instructors didn't entertain them—but the students? They welcomed it.

And they got rocked.

One-on-one, the students were no match. Broken arms, concussions—it got ugly. Zhao Dacheng had learned combat, not sparring, and didn't know when to pull his punches.

When the students realized they couldn't win fair, they switched to a group fight. It turned into a full-on melee. The Zhao brothers got beat down, too—but not before dishing out serious damage.

When they got home, Zhao Dacheng was torn apart by the old man. The legendary bamboo-shoot stir-fry discipline was served hot that night.

Zhao Dong? He was spared. Being only twelve—and already a tall 1.7 meters—the old lady gave him a candied haw instead of a spanking. Comfort food after battlefield trauma.

Dacheng was bitter. He started the fight? Nope. It was Zhao Dong who stirred the pot. And yet he got the candied haw, and I got the belt? Unfair!

To make it up, Zhao Dong shared his candied haw. Peace restored.

Now, standing in front of the same martial arts school, Zhao Dong couldn't help but remember one of the students from that brawl—Wu Jing.

That kid? He went on to act in Hong Kong kung fu films. One of the future legends of China's action film scene. Zhao Dong had even watched his Tai Chi Grandmaster drama last year. Great ratings. But Zhao Dong still held a grudge.

"Trash school," Zhao Dong muttered. "No martial ethics. They extorted a fat compensation from our family. Didn't have meat for half a year. Can't afford them, so I just avoid the place."

He turned to Lindsay. "One day, I swear, I'm setting up a ring right at their front gate. We're running it back."

Right then, the school gate creaked open. A young man walked out. Zhao Dong squinted.

Well, well. Speak of the devil.

It was Wu Jing.

He saw Zhao Dong and froze.

"Oh? Can't make it in Hong Kong, so you came crawling back?" Zhao Dong jabbed with a smirk.

Wu Jing's face twitched. "Zhao Dong, I'm not talking trash. If you wanna fight, go get your brother."

They were both born in '74. Wu Jing was three years older than Zhao Dong. During that famous fight, he had kicked Zhao Dong down—only to get his arm snapped by Zhao Dacheng. His family was one of the many the Zhao household had to pay hush money to.

"Heh. What? You gonna call the cops again if you lose?" Zhao Dong sneered, cracking his knuckles.

"I never called the cops!" Wu Jing's face went red. "It was the school, not me!"

"Then let's go." Zhao Dong stepped forward.

Behind him, a dozen massive bodyguards followed.

"Shit," Wu Jing muttered under his breath. He glanced at the school behind him. Retreat? Or lose face?

It was hopeless. Zhao Dong was built like a tank now. Tyson would think twice. And with a whole security team behind him?

Fighting was suicide.

Wu Jing stood frozen. No exit in sight.

(End of Chapter)

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