NBA: The Dynasty Crusher (Basketball)

"Boss, what's this for?" Larry Johnson asked, puzzled as he stared at the tiles scattered across the table.

"This…" Dream said, cutting in before Zhao Dong could answer, "is the most beloved sport of hundreds of millions of Chinese."

He was already locked in, hunched over the table, fully immersed in the competitive world of Chinese mahjong.

"I wanna play!" Larry's eyes lit up.

Without hesitation, he squeezed in beside Zhao Dong.

"Outta the way!" barked Charles Oakley. "I've heard of this before. Yo Zhao, run me the rules."

Just as Zhao Dong opened his mouth, the table nearly collapsed under the sheer mass of Shaquille O'Neal.

"Let me in!" Shaq's booming laugh filled the room as he bulldozed in, knocking tiles everywhere.

"Come on, come on!" Jackie Chan laughed, quickly getting up. Jet Li followed, afraid of being flattened.

Moments later, the Knicks roster began pouring in.

The NBA preseason was right around the corner—it was late September—and the Knicks players had started gathering. Barkley walked in first, pointing behind him.

"Zhao, let me introduce some of the new blood."

Zhao Dong looked up to see Manu Ginóbili, Jerry Stackhouse, and a few other fresh faces.

"Boss!" they greeted in unison.

Zhao Dong nodded. "The preseason's almost here. Get used to each other quick. The Knicks only have one rule—follow me. Play hard, and I promise: you'll win and get paid."

"Yeah!" the newcomers erupted, fired up.

Stackhouse's heart raced. He'd been worried Zhao Dong wouldn't accept him. Now, all doubt vanished. He'd found his team.

Zhao Dong grinned. "And just to welcome you all, I'm giving each of you a $1 million investment limit. Who's in?"

The room exploded with cheers.

With the kind of ROI Storm Capital had shown, this was the equivalent of a golden ticket. No rookie in their right mind would say no.

Jordan, seated at the mahjong table, chuckled bitterly. Damn... no wonder these kids worship him. Buying loyalty with cold hard cash. Who can compete with that?

"Zhao!" Tyson pushed forward through the crowd, anxious. "What about me? I flipped sides yesterday, and I still haven't gotten anything!"

Zhao Dong smirked. "You?"

He paused, thinking. "Alright, here's the plan. I'll set up a management team for you. You'll get booked for appearances, maybe dip into entertainment, maybe a couple of films. Build up your capital, and then I'll help you invest."

"Entertainment?" Tyson blinked.

He wasn't sure. Boxing was all he knew. Most fighters like him had no commercial value. Holyfield, for example, only made around a million in endorsements annually.

Even in his prime, Tyson's brand had limited commercial pull. What kind of films could he do now?

Still, as his mind wandered... he became strangely hopeful.

Zhao Dong's boxing coach Lentillo peeked in, eyes twitching at the chaos.

"Zhao!" he called. "Start warming up, don't let your body cool down!"

Lentillo sighed. Zhao Dong's locker room looked more like a mahjong parlor than a prep area for a heavyweight title bout.

The main event was still three hours away, following three undercards. Zhao Dong occasionally rose to stretch and shadowbox between games.

Meanwhile, at the table, Jordan, Barkley, O'Neal, and Dream were fully into the game. Jackie and Jet Li hovered nearby, correcting their moves.

Wang Zhizhi, per Zhao Dong's direction, quietly sat beside Jordan, whispering strategies. It was part cultural exchange, part political chess. Building rapport with the NBA GOAT—Zhao Dong played the long game.

By now, they were even placing bets. Jordan's competitive fire never slept.

Zhao Dong glanced to the side, then approached Jackie.

"Brother Jackie... about Sister Mei—I've checked with the professor. She's cleared to work, but only in moderation. Please help keep her balanced."

Mei Yanfang, standing nearby, nodded earnestly.

Zhao Dong continued, "You and Brother Rong should remind her. Remind her agent too. She works too hard. If she slips into overdrive again, it could trigger a relapse. The professor said if it recurs, it's 80% likely to become malignant. If she stays healthy, she'll be fine. And the vaccine's coming soon."

Jackie nodded solemnly. "She just wants to do a concert for her fans. I'll talk to her."

Zhang Guorong chimed in with a smile. "Mei, you need to take care of yourself. Zhao's done so much for us. Don't make him regret it."

"I understand." Mei Yanfang nodded, her tone serious. "I promise. I'll be careful. And what Brother Zhao says, I'll always remember."

"I'll hold a concert in the mainland if I get the chance," she added hopefully.

Zhao Dong grinned. "You will. That ban from '95? I'll fix it. But... you gotta wait on singing 'Bad Girl' again."

Mei laughed. "No worries. I won't sing that one—for now."

She remembered the incident with amusement. She hadn't even planned to sing it that night. The crowd demanded it... and one chorus later, she was blacklisted. Just like that.

---

9:40 PM – Showtime

The third undercard bout ended. Now, it was time for the main event.

Madison Square Garden. Packed. Electric.

The announcer? None other than legendary ring voice Michael Buffell, known as The Golden Throat. His iconic phrase was so protected, anyone else using it had to pay a royalty.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for... the main event!"

"A world heavyweight championship bout! The fight heard around the globe!"

"The red corner, hailing from Beijing, China... NBA megastar... the man who KO'd Iron Man Tyson... the pride of two worlds—Zhao Dong!"

The Garden exploded. 20,000 fans leapt to their feet.

The broadcasting rights were owned by ESPN. PPV was priced at a whopping $120—a record high.

On the ESPN live broadcast, commentator Brin was fired up. "Zhao Dong, nicknamed Tyrant himself, shocked the world in his debut when he took Tyson's full-force hits and dismantled him."

Tom, the co-host, laughed. "And Tyson didn't clinch once! Went out swinging!"

Brin grinned. "Tonight, though... we should start a betting pool on how many hugs Holyfield throws."

Tom chuckled. "Zhao Dong did say if Holyfield hugs too much, he's gonna kick him outta the ring."

Both men burst out laughing.

The lights in the arena dimmed. The DJ music blasted.

"Please welcome... ZHAO DONG!"

Wearing a crimson robe, Zhao Dong stormed through the tunnel.

This was no London crowd. This was his crowd.

The roar shook the Garden.

At the ropes, Jordan and Tyson waited.

They held the ropes open for him—NBA royalty and former boxing king, now flanking the new titan.

Holyfield's entrance was nothing short of dramatic. Though he wasn't a New Yorker, he was still an American boxing icon—and the crowd let it be known. The roar that followed his appearance rivaled even Zhao Dong's.

But unlike Zhao Dong, no boxing legends held the ropes for him. Though many of them disapproved of Zhao Dong stepping into their world, none stooped to assist Holyfield either. Instead, two of his assistants parted the ropes for him, and just like that, the showmanship gap was glaring.

In the ESPN broadcast booth, Brin chuckled, "Looks like Zhao Dong already beat Holyfield in the entrance game. But I have to ask... Jordan and Tyson holding the ropes for him? Are you two really that close to the guy?"

Tom laughed. "Come on, Brin. Everyone knows Tyson joined Zhao Dong's camp after the last match. And Jordan? He bought the Mavericks with Zhao's backing. That kind of bond goes way beyond business."

Brin scoffed theatrically. "Hmph. Bought by money."

"I'd love to be bought by money," Tom quipped. "Sadly, Zhao Dong isn't interested in average commentators."

They both burst into laughter.

In Zhao Dong's corner, his coach tonight was the veteran Mr. Wilson, handpicked by legendary promoter Arum. Known for his in-fight guidance, Wilson offered calm, focused instructions as he adjusted Zhao Dong's gloves.

"Zhao, remember—if Holyfield goes for the hug tactic, stay composed. Don't fall into his rhythm. He'll bait you. Stay sharp."

"I'll kick his balls off if he hugs me again!" Zhao Dong growled loudly.

Holyfield heard it loud and clear. He instinctively pressed his knees together, eyes twitching.

"Yeah, let's go!" Jordan and Tyson whooped from ringside.

"Crush him, Zhao!" Jackie Chan shouted.

Bang!

The bell rang out. The energy in Madison Square Garden shot up like a lightning bolt.

"Let's get ready to rumble!" Buffell's voice rang across the stadium, igniting a thunderous response from the 20,000-strong crowd.

The referee raised his hand and barked, "Box!"

Zhao Dong knew everything about Holyfield's style: explosive energy, elite endurance, quick footwork, rapid-fire combos, and calm decision-making under pressure.

Coach Wilson's strategy was built around this.

It was a hybrid approach—hook and swing. Use Zhao Dong's core strength, focus on massive swing punches, bait Holyfield in, and blast him once he got too close.

Zhao Dong's strength didn't come from traditional finesse—it came from raw force. His massive torso and absurdly powerful waist and abs gave him explosive power in his punches, especially his devastating swing punches.

Swinging allowed him to use the full torque of his body, and when he put his hips into it, even the most elite boxers couldn't absorb the blow without stumbling.

Most fighters struggled against Holyfield's superior reach and height—but Zhao was taller and longer. That advantage flipped. Holyfield would have to get in close if he wanted to land anything. But that meant stepping into the lion's den.

And that's exactly what Wilson wanted.

---

At the opening bell, Zhao Dong slid forward and twisted his core into a massive back-hand right swing.

Holyfield's instincts kicked in. He immediately leaned back, barely dodging the blow.

"Incredible! A back-hand swing to open the match!" Brin shouted.

"You never start with your power hand!" Tom added. "This guy plays by no rulebook!"

The fans gasped. No warm-up jabs, no feeling out. Zhao Dong came out firing.

As Holyfield leaned away, Zhao Dong took a half-step forward and launched a brutal left flat hook.

It tore through the air, a punch packed with full core torque.

Holyfield saw the movement just in time, and despite the chaos, chose the safest response—defense.

He tucked his head, braced with both arms, and lunged forward to hug Zhao Dong.

Bang!

The hook slammed into Holyfield's right forearm, stopping the momentum.

Holyfield was six-foot-two—sixteen centimeters shorter than Zhao Dong. As he clinched, his forehead mashed directly into Zhao's nose, grinding side to side like sandpaper.

"Goddamn!" Zhao Dong snarled through his mouthguard, teeth gritted in rage. He nearly threw a knee reflexively.

From ringside, Wilson screamed, "Ref! Separate them!"

The referee pried the two apart and shouted, "Box!"

---

"Move! Stay mobile, Ivan!" Holyfield's coach barked.

"Zhao, stay patient. He's slippery. Wait for your moment!" Wilson countered.

The two fighters reset.

Holyfield began circling, light on his feet. Left. Right. Darting in and out. His footwork was erratic and tough to read.

On ESPN, Tom laughed, "One second in and he's already hugging! Classic Holyfield."

Brin snorted, "Honestly, I'd rather see Zhao Dong fight Tyson again. This guy's face rub looked like my golden retriever greeting me at the door."

Tom gagged theatrically. "Don't say that, man!"

The audience laughed with them.

In the ring, Zhao Dong stayed calm, rotating with Holyfield's movements, but he'd already missed several punches. Holyfield's rhythm was unpredictable.

Zhao Dong decided to adjust—let Holyfield think he was exposed.

He dropped his right guard ever so slightly.

And Holyfield took the bait.

A sharp step-in, a sudden jab—straight for Zhao's exposed jaw.

"JAB!" Brin shouted.

Smack!

The punch connected—but Zhao Dong had anticipated it, shifting his head just in time to absorb it cleanly.

Then, in one fluid motion, he planted his feet, torqued his core, and swung hard with a left hook.

The crowd erupted.

---

(End of Chapter)

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

Check my Pâtreon for (40) advanced chapters

Pâtreon .com/Fanficlord03

Change (â) to (a)