Malone flexed his biceps in front of Zhao Dong and said coldly, "Boy, I heard you were talking shit, saying we ain't winning the championship?"
"Malone, don't start this shit," Oakley stepped up immediately, his presence heavy.
But Ewing? The so-called franchise star? Dude didn't even flinch. No movement, no reaction—just sat there like it wasn't his business.
"Charles, you really gonna back him up?" Malone growled at Oakley.
"You already know the answer," Oakley replied, stepping right next to Zhao Dong.
Malone snorted, locking eyes with Zhao Dong. "You just gonna hide behind them like a little bitch?"
Zhao Dong smirked, gave Oakley a nod, then said something that made the entire hallway freeze.
"Why don't we just handle these Black and White Devils right now?"
Silence.
The eight or nine security guards around them looked at Zhao Dong like he was crazy. Even Malone's own teammates glanced at each other, uncertain.
John Starks, eyes cold as hell, didn't say a word—just took a quiet step back behind his teammates.
"The fuck did you just say?"
Malone took a step forward and slammed his chest into Zhao Dong's.
BAM!
Zhao Dong staggered back half a step, but the next second—
CRACK!
Zhao Dong's foot shot up, drilling Malone in the gut.
"Ugh!" Malone groaned, stumbling backward.
For all that upper-body muscle, his core strength wasn't the same. His lower-body stability was weak—dude was strong as hell up top but shaky down low, and that's why he couldn't keep his balance after getting hit.
"Fuck 'em up!"
Zhao Dong didn't hesitate—he charged right at Malone and threw a clean right hook straight to his face.
POP!
Malone took the punch square, his head snapping to the side. He lifted his arms up, trying to block, but Zhao Dong was already moving—body shot, then another shot up high. Malone was scrambling, flustered, unable to keep up.
With Zhao Dong setting it off, Oakley—an amateur boxer—couldn't hold back any longer.
He rushed in.
Seeing that, Ewing, Allan Houston, and Chris Childs had no choice. They jumped in too.
By the time security reacted, ten players were already throwing hands. When they finally broke it up, the Jazz's entire starting five was looking wrecked. Meanwhile, the Knicks? Barely a scratch.
Malone, though? He was fucked up.
Dude had blood leaking from his nose, his face swollen, his stomach and legs sore from the kicks. He underestimated Zhao Dong, thought he was just some young kid talking shit—but the rookie caught him slipping and worked him.
He was humiliated. Furious.
Even after security broke things up, Malone was still roaring, trying to get at Zhao Dong.
"You little punk! This ain't over! You got the balls? Fight me in the octagon!"
Zhao Dong, rubbing his swollen cheek, didn't even blink.
"Scare tactics? Please. I grew up in the Imperial City. You think I was raised on fear?" He spat on the floor and pointed at Malone. "You dumbass, you think those big-ass arms gonna save you? Fighting ain't just about muscle. It's about speed, explosiveness, and balance. Your top half? Built. But your legs? Weak as hell. You can't stand firm. You can't keep up. You wanna test that in the octagon? Try me. I'll dog walk your ass."
Malone was heated. He wasn't expecting Zhao Dong to be this good at fighting.
Just then, both teams' coaching staffs and management rushed in.
When they saw the scene, they just stood there. Speechless.
Meanwhile, outside, the arena announcer was already calling for the Jazz to come onto the court—but they were nowhere to be seen.
Reporters tried to rush in, but security held them back.
Both teams' management knew better than to escalate things before tip-off. So they agreed—deal with it after the game.
But when the Jazz finally walked out onto the court…
Bruises. Swollen faces. Noses busted.
The crowd gasped.
When the Knicks came out right after—not a single one looked hurt.
The Garden erupted.
"Oh shit! They really threw hands before the game! Looks like the Knicks got the upper hand!"
Doug Collins laughed.
"This is good. Get the fight out of the way now, so they're less heated on the court," Marv Albert said, shaking his head.
Doug Collins rolled his eyes. He knew better. This wasn't over.
CCTV's Zhang Heli and Sun Zhenping were just as shocked.
"Good thing Zhao Dong looks fine. He probably stayed out of it," Sun Zhenping said.
"His face is a little swollen. Maybe someone got a shot in on him," Zhang Heli replied.
"But damn! Look at Malone! Who the hell worked him over like that? His face is swollen like a bun!"
"Haha! Must've been Oakley. That man fights every game."
Meanwhile, in Houston, Charles Barkley saw the highlights and started howling.
"Oh, this is amazing! They whooped Malone's ass! HAHA!"
If only Barkley knew—two years later, Malone was gonna elbow him so hard, it'd tear his muscle. If he knew that, he'd be laughing even harder.
On the Knicks' bench, Larry Johnson was pissed.
"You fought without me?" He glared at Oakley and Zhao Dong.
"Malone started it. Zhao finished it. Best fight I've had in years!" Oakley laughed.
"Next time, I'll call you," Zhao Dong smirked.
Tip-off.
Zhao Dong jumped against Utah's 7'2" center, Greg Ostertag.
The Knicks won possession.
Swish!
First shot—Ewing. Turnaround jumper. Buckets.
Bang!
Under the rim, Malone threw an elbow into Zhao Dong's chest.
It wasn't hard, but it was intentional.
Utah's turn to attack.
Stockton brought it up, no pick-and-roll.
Instead, he exploded.
But as he drove inside, he threw an elbow to Oakley's stomach.
"Ugh!" Oakley staggered back, losing position.
Zhao Dong and Ewing had already retreated into the paint.
BAM!
Zhao Dong immediately fired back— elbowing Malone right in the ribs.
Malone grunted, but didn't back off.
Then—suddenly, he cut up to the free-throw line.
Stockton read it immediately.
Zhao Dong reacted, stepping up—but Stockton made a quick stop.
Back pass.
Shit!
Swish!
Wide open. Malone's jumper was money.
"Rookie! Guard the damn pick-and-roll!" Ewing barked.
"I got it," Zhao Dong replied, pissed at himself.
As they ran back, Malone started talking.
"Chinese boy, you ain't shit."
Zhao Dong snapped back immediately.
"You dumb fuck, I already whooped your ass once. After the game? I'm doing it again. You better be in that locker room when I get there."
Malone sneered.
"You think I'm scared? I'll be waiting. Let's see what you got."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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