NBA: The Dynasty Crusher (Basketball)

Chapter 348: Chapter 348



"I'm telling you, Zhao Dong, you're an international celebrity now. Your wife's a major investor in China. Don't embarrass us locals in front of these foreigners," Wu Jing pleaded, trying to save face. "Chinese don't fight Chinese, right?"

He was clearly stalling—fearing a beating—but trying to spin it as patriotism.

By now, several neighbors and passersby had stopped to watch. You could smell the Beijing drama building in the air.

"Follow me if you've got the guts," Zhao Dong replied flatly, turning and walking off with Lindsay.

"Who are you trying to scare?" Wu Jing muttered under his breath, reluctant but still unwilling to back down. So what if I get beat? I've had broken bones before.

Moments later, at a dead-end alley next to the Shichahai Martial Arts School, Zhao Dong finally stopped and turned. Wu Jing followed, his steps heavy, but defiant.

"Alright," Wu Jing puffed out his chest and raised his chin. "If I scream, I'm no real Beijing man!"

Zhao Dong arched an eyebrow. "Hey, Wu Jing, you're just gonna lie down and not fight back?"

Wu Jing's eyes flicked to Lindsay. "Your wife's done a lot for our country. She's brought in investment and built jobs. I'm not throwing hands."

Lindsay smiled politely and looked at Zhao Dong. He rolled his eyes—These martial arts guys really know how to play the moral high ground.

Zhao Dong reached out and slapped the wall of the martial arts school. "This place has a nice location. Would be perfect for residential buildings. Maybe we'll talk to the government about requisitioning it tomorrow."

"Hey! Don't joke like that, Zhao Dong!" Wu Jing panicked. "You can't tear this place down!"

"What? This dump of a school?" Zhao Dong said with a straight face. "I'll tear it down if I want."

"If you're gonna beat me, then beat me. But don't bring the school into it. Be a man. Settle it with me!" Wu Jing snapped.

Just then, Lindsay's phone rang.

"Hello? Mom?"

Her voice softened. "We're near the martial arts school."

The voice on the other end sounded concerned. "Shichahai? Tell Dongdong to come home. He gets all worked up near that place."

"Got it, Mom."

She hung up, then turned to Zhao Dong. "Let's go. Mom wants us back—there are guests at home."

Zhao Dong scoffed, but nodded. "Wu Jing, don't get too comfortable. One day, I will tear down this broken dojo."

"You seriously still holding a grudge after ten years?" Wu Jing shouted behind them. "It was you who broke my arm! We injured eight people that day, and you walked away with a candied haw!"

Zhao Dong laughed and turned around. "Still in the Black Banner, huh? Face looks uglier than ever."

"Ugly?! Who are you calling ugly? You think I'm scared of you?" Wu Jing growled. Then he pointed at himself indignantly. "And I'm White Banner! Don't talk nonsense!"

Zhao Dong snorted. "What's the matter? Couldn't make it in Gangcheng? Bet it's hard just to land a sidekick role these days."

Wu Jing's frustration exploded. "They look down on us mainlanders! A two-bit extra can boss me around! If it weren't for Brother Hong, I wouldn't even have a role!"

Zhao Dong's voice turned cold. "Go find my brother. He handles your kind of business now."

And with that, he turned and left.

Wu Jing stood frozen for a moment, then shouted after him. "Are you serious?!"

But Zhao Dong didn't look back.

"Fine, go! Better than kissing up to those fake elites in Gangcheng," Wu Jing muttered, grinding his teeth. He glanced at the dojo. Time to visit Zhao Dacheng. That guy's film company has been on fire lately...

---

September 23 – New York

At noon, Zhao Dong boarded a flight to the United States. The big match was scheduled for the 28th, and he'd fly back after the fight, possibly returning in late October.

Lindsay stayed in China. She was swamped with high-level operations, including pushing China's entry into the WTO using Tianlong Investment Bank's network.

Fifteen hours later, Zhao Dong landed at JFK International Airport at 3 PM local time. He hadn't even exited customs when a horde of reporters ambushed him.

Surrounded by flashing cameras and booming microphones, Zhao Dong walked slowly with his security team, answering questions as he pushed through.

"Zhao Dong! How confident are you about the fight with Holyfield?" one shouted.

"One hundred percent," Zhao Dong replied coolly.

"You took out Tyson in one round—how many rounds will it take this time?"

Zhao Dong shrugged. "This guy's a hugger. We might be dancing for twelve rounds."

"Zhao Dong," a Wall Street Journal reporter chimed in, "Storm's been dissolved, and Mrs. Lindsay's Tianlong Investment Bank is now headquartered in Hong Kong. Is she done with Wall Street?"

"She'll be back," Zhao Dong said firmly.

In his mind, he knew—there was no way Lindsay was stepping away. The next twenty years would see Wall Street's grip tighten across the world economy. Tianlong Bank was just getting started.

---

Twenty minutes later, Zhao Dong made it to the parking lot where Ringo Wells waited with the car.

"Zhao," Wells said, "the league just announced a new batch of rules."

"Oh?" Zhao Dong asked, getting into the car.

Wells started listing them off.

"First, double-teams are now allowed off-ball. That one's gonna affect you the most. They can swarm you from start to finish."

Zhao Dong nodded. "Expected."

"Second, the five-second backdown rule. Doesn't apply to you—you don't post up that long anyway."

"True."

"Third, illegal hand-use is being enforced now. No touching the ball handler above the free-throw line or that dotted circle."

"That one's in my favor," Zhao Dong smirked.

"Fourth rule—last two minutes of the fourth quarter. Any foul on an off-ball player results in two free throws."

"That one's for O'Neal. Classic Shaq rule," Zhao Dong chuckled. "Bet the Golden Tyrant still bricks 'em."

Zhao Dong wasn't the least bit surprised by the league's new rule changes. In fact, he'd seen them coming.

Back at the villa, life was calm and orderly. The housekeeper, Ms. Abel, managed everything with flawless precision. Zhao Dong pulled her aside and mentioned that he and Lindsay planned to have a child next year. He asked her to start preparing—maybe upgrade some facilities, reorganize living spaces, whatever was needed.

Ms. Abel's reaction was pure joy. In her eyes, this was the best news she'd heard all year. A noble without an heir was dangerous, especially one with Zhao Dong's kind of fortune.

And whether anyone admitted it or not, the Zhao family was nobility now. One look at their wealth and power made that obvious.

Though it wasn't urgent, Ms. Abel immediately got to work. She brought in specialists to redesign parts of the home and hired professional consultants to train the staff in prenatal care and infant services. Even the servants were excited—they were learning new skills for free, and everyone took their lessons seriously.

---

September 27 – Madison Square Garden, New York City

The buzz had reached fever pitch.

Zhao Dong and Holyfield faced off at the official press conference. This bout was sanctioned by both the WBA and IBF, making it a double gold-belt heavyweight world championship. Winner takes all. Crown, belts, legacy.

Holyfield—still not yet 37—stood at 6'2" with a 6'5" wingspan. Zhao Dong towered over him at 6'10", with a 7'2" reach and a 15-kilogram weight advantage. On paper, the physical mismatch was real.

The press conference was a blockbuster.

Alongside the promoters and boxing organization presidents were high-profile guests: Mike Tyson, Lennox Lewis, Riddick Bowe, and even the legend George Foreman.

Bowe, still at his peak at 32, had beaten Holyfield twice in his prime. His agent had reached out to Zhao Dong for a possible future fight—but Holyfield had gotten there first.

Also present was a new rising heavyweight, Sherichenko, who many believed would dominate the scene once the old guard stepped aside.

But none of these pros liked Zhao Dong.

He was a disruptor—an outsider. An NBA icon walking into their world, knocking down their legends. When he destroyed Tyson, it shook the entire boxing industry. The media mocked them: An amateur embarrassed your best man.

Now, if Holyfield lost too? The damage to professional boxing's image would be massive.

To them, Zhao Dong wasn't a boxer. He was just a tourist who came in to "switch flavors." Tyson had been the unlucky appetizer. Now Holyfield was on the menu.

Zhao Dong, however, wasn't alone.

Michael Jordan showed up, suit crisp, arms crossed, ready to back his friend. Alongside him were fellow NBA stars: Charles Barkley, Shaquille O'Neal, Larry Johnson, Charles Oakley, and even Yao Ming, who was currently training with the Dream.

The difference was clear: the boxing world had legends of the ring. Zhao Dong had kings of the court.

And then came the surprise guests from the East—Jackie Chan, Leslie Cheung, and even Anita Mui, who'd come to visit and cheer. Anita, healthy and radiant, waved brightly at the cameras.

The moment Zhao Dong and Holyfield stepped onto the stage, the crowd exploded. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Holyfield was a longtime pro, one of the sport's elite. But Zhao Dong's fame reached far beyond boxing. He wasn't just a champion—he was the husband of Lindsay, the mysterious powerhouse behind Tianlong Investment Bank. His presence drew even more lenses.

The two men stood side by side for a traditional staredown. The tension was electric.

They didn't shake hands. Didn't smile.

Just two bulls, eyes locked, ready to charge.

"Ivan, don't give him any respect!" Tyson suddenly roared from behind Holyfield.

He hadn't forgotten the beatdown Zhao Dong gave him. He lost everything—his titles, his money, his pride.

Zhao Dong turned casually, spotted him, and smirked.

"Mike Tyson," he said, voice smooth, "I'll help you make some serious money, alright?"

Tyson blinked. His eyes widened like a child offered candy. Suddenly, all that anger... flickered.

He looked at Zhao Dong as if he'd just seen a checkbook walk into the room.

"Just one thing," Zhao Dong added. "You gotta cheer for me now."

He jerked his chin toward his side of the stage—where Jordan stood cool as ice.

Reporters gasped. Cameras clicked like crazy.

"You bastard!" Tyson snapped, heart crashing back down. "You messing with me?!"

"I'm serious," Zhao Dong replied calmly.

Holyfield turned around, face pale. "Mike what are you doing?"

But it was too late.

With a deep breath and no expression, Tyson stepped off Holyfield's side... and walked over to stand beside Jordan.

The entire room went silent—then erupted.

"Mike?!"

Holyfield's veins popped in rage. "Get your ass back here! Are you out of your mind?!"

The other boxing champs looked on in disbelief.

Did the man just switch sides... over money?!

Tyson lowered his head, face burning red. He felt the judgment. But he didn't turn back.

You think I care? I got a family to feed. This is survival. I'd cheer for the Golden Tyrant if it meant a paycheck.

Holyfield was stunned.

Tyson was no longer the undefeated destroyer who once ruled the heavyweight division. Now, he was just a man with burdens—family, debt, responsibility. Pride didn't pay bills.

Zhao Dong let out a confident laugh, turning toward Holyfield with a smirk.

"Haha... Holyfield, what's it feel like watching your teammate defect in front of the cameras?" Zhao Dong mocked, then looked at Tyson. "Mike made the smart move—stepping into the light. Stick with me, you'll be living good."

"Mr. Tyson, congrats!" Larry Johnson clapped him on the shoulder. "You've officially joined the Justice League."

Charles Oakley followed with a grin. "Yup. No more dark side, Mike."

As the banter flew, Tyson finally cracked a crooked smile, laughing half-heartedly.

Holyfield's eyes burned with frustration. "Zhao Dong," he growled, "you think you're a hero buying loyalty? Real heroes win in the ring. If you've got guts—prove it under the lights."

Zhao Dong's smile faded. "Try hugging me in the ring and see what happens. I'll knock you into next week."

"That's called strategy!" Holyfield barked back.

"Strategy, my ass. You headbutted Tyson on purpose and clung to him like a leech. That's not boxing."

Holyfield had no comeback.

"Facts," Tyson suddenly shouted. "You pulled that move on me too, Holyfield! Rubbed my cut open. You can't blame me for biting your ear!"

"Mike!" Holyfield turned, his face red. "Really? You turning on me this completely?"

Tyson crossed his arms and looked away. He didn't speak again—but he didn't move back either.

The press conference instantly became global news. Every major sports network and outlet covered Tyson's "betrayal." Within hours, headlines exploded across TV and online platforms.

---

September 28 – Madison Square Garden

Under the neon glow of MSG, the energy was electric. Stars flooded in from all industries. The atmosphere rivaled an NBA Finals Game 7. It felt like All-Star Weekend collided with a prizefight.

Zhao Dong's camp had taken over the Knicks' home locker room. The scent of leather gloves and sweat filled the space. He had just wrapped up a phone call with Lindsay, who was still in China, buried in her own battles.

"You need to be careful," she urged. "Why not offer Holyfield $100 million to take a dive? Get it over with."

Zhao Dong nearly exploded. "You think I'm a fraud? A fake fighter?"

Before he could cool off, the door opened—and in walked Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Leslie Cheung, and Anita Mui, along with the Four Towers: Yao Ming, Wang Zhizhi, Balotelli, and The Dream.

"Still time before the fight," Zhao Dong grinned. "Let's run a few rounds."

"What rounds?" Jackie asked, puzzled.

"Mahjong, of course. You wanna take a bath too?" Zhao Dong joked, pulling out a box of mahjong tiles from the closet and slamming them onto a folding table.

Everyone exchanged looks—then burst out laughing.

"Let's go!" Jackie grabbed Jet Li. "I'm your partner."

Anita Mui hesitated, tempted. She hadn't played in a while. Leslie Cheung, a Hong Kong mahjong veteran, watched but didn't join.

Yao Ming politely stepped back. "Let Da Zhi and Balotelli go first. I'll just watch with Dream."

Dream raised an eyebrow. "Yo, Yao… what is this?"

Yao grinned. "The most popular sport in China. No debate."

"At least hundreds of millions love it," Wang Zhizhi chimed in, his English stiff but earnest.

Dream blinked. "Wait. You're telling me this table game... is a national sport?"

"Damn right," Yao said proudly.

Meanwhile, Jet Li reached out across the table. "Brother Zhao Dong, I'm Li Lianjie."

Zhao Dong shook his hand with a polite nod. "Brother Jet."

But deep down, Zhao Dong wasn't a fan. He didn't trust people from Shichahai Martial Arts School. The old grudge ran deep.

Jet Li smiled while stacking tiles. "I ran into Wu Jing recently. He's with your brother now. Thanks for helping him out."

Zhao Dong scoffed. "Him? Please. I saw him getting stomped in Hong Kong. That's the only reason I helped. That guy kicked me when I was twelve. Over a dozen of them ganged up on me and my brother. Cowards. Can't fight fair."

Jet Li glanced sideways at Jackie Chan, who was grinning through the awkward tension. Jackie's smile faded slightly. He knew Zhao Dong was throwing shade—not just at Wu Jing, but at the entire Hong Kong film system.

He wasn't wrong.

Back in the day, mainland actors were treated like garbage in Hong Kong. They earned scraps while the extras from local productions often got paid more. No respect. No chances. Cold shoulders everywhere.

But now? Things were changing.

Storm Capital had crashed into Hong Kong. Zhao Dong and Lindsay had become the richest couple in the city. And behind the scenes, Wan Guo Media was shifting the entertainment industry's tone. Mainland influence was growing fast—and no one dared to suppress it openly anymore.

What they didn't know was that Zhao Dong had already begun buying up private schools in Hong Kong. He wasn't just changing the film industry—he was rebuilding the city from the foundation up.

---

As the mahjong table got busy, more guests began pouring into the room.

Jordan.

Barkley.

Oakley.

O'Neal.

Even Tyson.

They entered with swagger and confusion—then froze when they saw the setup.

"What the hell?" Barkley blinked.

"Yo, did we walk into a casino?" Shaq asked.

"You playing mahjong before a title fight?" Oakley raised a brow.

Zhao Dong looked up, grinned, and said, "What? You think warmups are only for basketball?"

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Check my Pâtreon for (40) advanced chapters

Pâtreon .com/Fanficlord03

Change (â) to (a)


Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.