"Having fun, kid?"
Karl Malone smirked as he looked at Zhao Dong. Dude was actually talking trash after throwing that cheap shot, like he had no regrets. Hell, he even looked proud of it, like he wished he'd hit harder.
Zhao Dong wiped his mouth and grinned. "Yeah, real fun. But I got something even better for you."
Malone raised an eyebrow. "More fun?"
Before he could process it, Zhao Dong twisted his waist, cocked his arm back, and—BANG!—drilled a brutal hook straight into Malone's gut. The force folded him up like a damn shrimp.
The whole arena erupted.
Van Gundy, who had just managed to hold Oakley back, turned around and saw the chaos unfolding. His face turned pale. "Shit... it's over!"
"Motherfucker!" Malone, still gasping, tried to get up, rage all over his face. But before he could regain his balance—BOOM!—Zhao Dong cracked him across the jaw with another heavy hook.
It was like someone knocked over a bottle of paint—colors just exploded in Malone's head. Red, yellow, and white flashed across his vision as his brain scrambled, completely disoriented.
THUMP!
Zhao Dong raised his leg and kicked the shit out of Malone, sending him sprawling onto the hardwood. Then he pounced on him, straddling him, fists cocked.
Without hesitation, he started hammering Malone's head with punch after punch.
Malone, dazed as hell, had no chance to fight back. He threw his arms up to cover his face, trying to block, but Zhao Dong was relentless.
When he couldn't get through, Zhao Dong switched tactics—dropped his elbows and started slamming them down.
BANG! BANG!
Malone's arms shook from the impact, pain shooting through them. But he couldn't afford to drop them. Not with Zhao Dong looking like he was ready to take his damn head off.
By this point, the Jazz players finally snapped out of it and rushed in, trying to pull Zhao Dong off.
They barely managed to yank him away, but he was a wild animal—broke free immediately and lunged back in.
BOOM!
A vicious kick to Malone's head as he tried to get up.
His head snapped sideways, and he just collapsed. Dude wasn't moving.
Zhao Dong went in for more, but this time, security swarmed him, pinning him down before he could land another blow.
"It's over, it's over, it's over…"
On CCTV's live broadcast, Zhang Heli and Sun Zhenping were shitting bricks.
Over in Houston, Barkley sat in stunned silence before shaking his head. "Damn. This kid just took Laimbeer's job. He's not one to mess with."
At Madison Square Garden, the fans were going crazy.
"Damn, Zhao Dong is a beast!"
"Malone's been elbowing dudes for years—finally met someone who ain't taking that shit!"
"The Four Dirty Players just lost one—Zhao Dong is the new enforcer!"
"Shit, Knicks got two killers now. Who the hell is messing with us?!"
Even with security all over him, Zhao Dong was still pissed.
"Let me the fuck up!" he barked.
A security guard leaned down. "Zhao, I'll let you up, but you gotta chill the fuck out. If you keep swinging, you might actually kill him."
"Yeah, man," another added. "You can't even move your feet."
"Fuck!" Zhao Dong growled. His blood was still boiling.
If not for the system protecting him from injury, who knew what would've happened?
Hell, he'd seen what Malone had done to Isiah Thomas—40 stitches on his forehead from an elbow. That cheap shot could've killed him.
Zhao Dong twisted his neck, locked eyes with Malone's unconscious body, and spat venom.
"Karl Malone, you better be ready! Every time I see your ass, I'm beating you down. I ain't ever letting this slide!"
The Jazz players, including Stockton, took a step back. Zhao Dong's rage was pure, unfiltered, dangerous.
Even the Jazz's team doctor was sweating as he checked Malone. The kick to his head had split his scalp open—blood was everywhere, pooling like someone spilled a damn bucket of paint.
After a quick check, he yelled, "He's alive! Get him to the hospital, now!"
Van Gundy, still hyped, yelled, "Get Zhao Dong to the hospital too—he got elbowed in the back of the head. Might be internal bleeding!"
Jazz coach Jerry Sloan's jaw dropped. "The hell? Internal bleeding?!"
He was ready to cuss Van Gundy out—Zhao Dong just beat the shit out of Malone, how the hell is HE the one injured?!
But he swallowed his words. A blow to the back of the head was no joke, and if anything happened later, the Knicks weren't taking any chances.
With security "protecting" him, Zhao Dong was carried out.
The crowd lost its mind.
As he reached the tunnel, Zhao Dong suddenly sat up on the stretcher, making the security guards jump.
He turned to the Knicks bench and roared, "Kill the Jazz! Don't let those motherfuckers walk out of here!"
"Kill the Jazz!" Oakley immediately fired back.
"KILL THE JAZZ!"
The whole Garden exploded, 20,000 fans chanting.
Satisfied, Zhao Dong laid back down.
"Alright, get my phone," he muttered.
CCTV was broadcasting the game—his family definitely saw that fight. They'd be worried sick.
Back in Beijing, the Zhao household was chaos.
Li Meizhu, his mom, was panicking, calling him over and over, tears streaming down her face.
Finally, the call went through.
"Hello—"
"XIAODONG!"
"Mom, it's me—"
"You little shit! You finally answered!" she bawled.
"Mom, chill, I'm fine. I swear—not a scratch."
"Really?!"
"Really! I fought back, knocked Malone out cold. Dude's in the hospital right now."
"Oh thank god—but you better get checked!"
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Tell Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad I'm good."
"They're all here—we're listening!"
Thibodeau, sitting beside him, kept pushing. "Tell her you're getting checked now."
"Alright, Mom, gotta go. I'm heading to the hospital."
After several more reassurances, he hung up and got back on the stretcher.
On the way to the hospital, Thibodeau glanced over. "Zhao, you dizzy?"
Zhao Dong touched the back of his head. "Still hurts. A little dizzy, yeah."
"Rest up. We'll be there soon," Thibodeau muttered, worried sick.
Dude just wrecked Malone, but a hit to the back of the head was serious shit. Nobody was taking chances.
Once they got to the hospital, the tension finally eased.
Tests came back—no major damage.
Still, Thibodeau ordered him to stay overnight for observation.
And just in case, two security guards were stationed outside, keeping the media vultures away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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