Inside the gym, Zhao Dong and Karl Malone began to warm up.
Most of the NBA stars stayed neutral—they weren't backing Malone like Jordan was.
Even Jordan started having second thoughts. He and Malone weren't exactly buddies. In fact, Malone had elbowed him before.
At least Zhao Dong never cheap-shotted him. The Knicks had beaten him fair and square.
So, within two minutes, Jordan quietly slid away from Malone's group and joined Barkley and the others.
"Yo, Mike, didn't you say you were backing Karl Malone?" Barkley teased.
"I already did, didn't I?" Jordan muttered and elbowed him lightly.
Barkley chuckled but didn't elbow him back.
"Traitor!" Malone cursed, scowling.
After half an hour of warming up, Zhao Dong and Malone suited up and headed for the ring.
Click, click, click!
Cameras flashed relentlessly as reporters snapped shots of the scene.
They were only allowed to take photos, not record videos—that was part of the deal.
"Zhao Dong, how confident are you?" a reporter asked.
"Am I stupid or somethin'? Why would I fight if I wasn't sure?" Zhao Dong replied casually.
The media loved it. Zhao Dong, who had refused interviews earlier, was finally talking smack.
Immediately, they threw more questions at him, but he clamped his mouth shut again.
With the help of Wells and his boxing trainer, Ham, Zhao Dong stepped into the ring and got Vaseline applied.
---
Meanwhile, one clueless reporter turned to Karl Malone and asked,
"Zhao Dong says he's not stupid. Does that make you stupid for asking to get beat?"
"Pfft!"
The people nearby burst into laughter.
"You're the stupid one!" Malone barked, clenching his fists, resisting the urge to punch the guy.
He stormed toward the ring.
"I'm just sayin'… You always lose to Zhao Dong. If you're not stupid, then who is?" the reporter added with a dead-serious face.
"Hahaha!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
---
"Yo, God of Gamblers! You placing a bet or what?" Zhao Dong hollered toward Jordan.
Jordan's face twitched. He'd already lost millions to Zhao Dong in the Eastern Conference Finals.
His annual salary before this season was only $30 million. Losing that bet had stung.
But as the so-called God of Gamblers, he couldn't back down.
"Bah, screw that nickname!" Jordan cursed under his breath, fists clenching.
He was tempted to storm the ring and beat Zhao Dong himself.
"One mil?" he finally asked.
"Bet whatever you want. I just wanna see you lose again." Zhao Dong grinned devilishly.
"Fk you, you bastard!" Jordan spat, then nodded. "Fine. I'm betting on you—$1 million."
"Hahaha!"
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Malone's jaw tightened.
He blinked, wondering if he misheard.
Jordan?! Betting against me?!
"You backstabbing son of a bitch!" Malone thought bitterly.
"Yo, Jordan! You got no shame, huh?!" Zhao Dong hollered.
Jordan smirked. "What? No rules against gambling."
"Then what's the point of the bet, asshole?!" Zhao Dong barked.
Nearby, Malone was fuming.
"Quit yappin'! Let's fight already!" he roared.
"Yeah, let's go!" Zhao Dong shouted at the ref.
The fight setup was pretty formal:
One ref in the ring
Three judges off-stage
A timekeeper
An emergency doctor on-site
The match was official, registered under the boxing gym's name.
"Box!" the referee roared.
The fight began.
Ham's strategy for Zhao Dong was to move fast, use hit-and-run tactics, and target Malone's flanks.
But Zhao Dong wasn't having it.
He threw the plan out the window.
His trump card? Injury exemption.
Tonight, he was going to stand and bang—no running, no fancy footwork.
Just slug it out and beat Malone into the dirt.
The moment the bell rang, Zhao Dong lunged forward, using a sliding step to close the distance.
He fired off a one-two combo, left and right straight punches.
"Bang!"
Caught off guard, Malone ate both punches, but they didn't land cleanly—Zhao Dong didn't pierce his guard or hit his head.
"Get him, Malone! Smash his face in!" Jordan screamed from ringside.
"Traitor!" Malone cursed under his breath, hearing Jordan's voice.
The two traded blows like madmen, face-to-face with no defense.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong took a shot to the eye, leaving a red welt around it.
"Bang!"
Malone caught a clean hook to the nose—blood spurted out instantly.
"Bang, bang, bang!"
They wailed on each other relentlessly.
No defense—just pure aggression.
"Zhao Dong, kill him!"
On the Knicks' side, Oakley, Larry Johnson, and the others were losing their minds, screaming and hyping him up.
"Malone, blow his head off!"
The Jazz were roaring just as loud.
After twenty seconds, they had both landed several heavy shots.
The fight was getting brutal.
Malone's face was swollen and bruised.
The multiple blows left him dizzy and sluggish.
When he tried to clinch, Zhao Dong sidestepped and fired a vicious hook straight into Malone's chin.
"Bang!"
Malone's head snapped back violently.
The world spun around him.
He staggered, then crashed onto the mat.
"Stop!" the referee shouted, pushing Zhao Dong away.
"Ohhhh!"
The Knicks' bench erupted in celebration.
"Karl, get up! You're the best!"
John Stockton was panicking, his voice cracking.
"Damn, this is serious."
Barkley's eyes widened.
"They're going harder than pro boxers. Someone's gonna get hurt."
"Yeah, this is nuts."
Larry Bird muttered, uneasy.
"Pro boxers know how to protect themselves," Magic Johnson added, shaking his head.
"These two don't. They're just wailing on each other. This is dangerous."
"Ha! The so-called strongest bench press in the league can't even handle Zhao Dong!"
Shaq snorted sarcastically.
Jordan's eyes twitched.
"These two are insane."
He made a mental note: No more messing around.
From now on, he was sticking to basketball when dealing with Zhao Dong.
On the mat, Malone slowly sat up, his face a bloody mess.
His jaw was split open—a three to four-centimeter gash.
Blood poured down his neck and chest.
The ref checked Malone's condition.
"Get up, Malone!"
Zhao Dong sneered, taking off his mouthguard.
"Stop acting dead, you bum! You're wasting my time. Get up! We're not leaving this ring until we're done."
Malone glared at him, blood dripping from his jaw.
"Just wait, you bastard."
He gritted his teeth, then stood up, defiant.
"Sir, let's go!"
He shouted at the referee, demanding to continue.
Malone wasn't ready to quit.
He'd landed some solid punches earlier and still believed he could knock Zhao Dong out.
"You gotta plug the wound with Vaseline and wipe the damn ring," the ref reminded.
Karl Malone's boxing assistant climbed into the ring and started patching him up.
"Take your time, Mailman. The ref won't rush you. You're not real boxers, so you can chill a little longer," the assistant muttered quietly while tending to him.
"Got it!"
Malone still felt dizzy. His legs were shaky, and his head was spinning. He only got back in the ring to be a punching bag for Zhao Dong.
Two minutes later, he was still slumped against the corner post.
"You useless piece of shit! Are you gonna fight or what? The donkeys on your farm don't get breaks this long!" Zhao Dong barked.
"Your donkey doesn't either!" Shawn Kemp and the others chimed in, jeering from ringside.
"These assholes..."
John Stockton and the rest of the Jazz players started cursing back.
"Haha!"
Charles Barkley and the crew watching the chaos burst into laughter.
"You ready?"
The ref finally approached Malone.
"Yeah..." Malone grunted, slowly rising to his feet.
The gash on his chin was now slathered with Vaseline, making the wound look slick and nasty.
"Box!"
The ref signaled for both fighters to put on their protective gear, checked them over, and restarted the match.
Zhao Dong charged in like an unhinged bull, fists flying straight for Malone's head with no regard for defense.
Malone, still dazed, swung wildly, just as desperate to land a hit.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The two men slugged it out viciously.
Bang!
Five seconds later, Malone hit the canvas again.
"Get up, you weak-ass bum! Quit playing dead!" Zhao Dong roared.
"Shit..."
Malone, blood streaming down his face, started crawling back up, gasping for air. His right cheekbone was shattered.
A couple of minutes later, the fight resumed.
Bang!
Ten seconds in, Malone was on the ground again.
"Get your ass up! Stop playing dead!" Zhao Dong barked once more.
"Shit, if they keep going, Malone's gonna die," Barkley muttered, the fun draining from his face.
Malone got up once more, wobbled around for a few seconds, and got knocked right back down.
By the end of the first round, he had hit the canvas five times. The round dragged on for nearly 15 minutes.
"Stop! Stop!"
The Taiwanese ref rushed in, seeing Malone's stiff, sluggish movements. The Mailman couldn't dodge anymore. He was just standing there, eating punches. The ref risked his life, jumping in to separate them.
Bang!
As soon as Malone was pulled back, he collapsed, falling flat on his back.
He wasn't getting up. His eyes were blank, barely moving. His face was a bloodied, swollen mess—nose shattered, several teeth missing (possibly swallowed), and blood leaking onto his chest.
"Ha... ha..."
Zhao Dong, panting heavily, stared at Malone's mangled face and grinned triumphantly.
"Quit faking, Mailman! Get the fuck up and fight me!" he spat after pulling out his mouthguard.
Compared to Malone, Zhao Dong looked way better. His nose was busted and bleeding, and his face was swollen and bruised, but he was still standing strong. Despite taking dozens of hits to the head, he was fine—no dizziness, no wobbling. Malone's upper-body strength was clearly superior, yet Zhao Dong barely felt phased.
The ref knelt beside Malone, checked his condition, and immediately waved his arms, stopping the fight.
"Fuck, seriously? That weak?"
Zhao Dong sneered as the ref called it.
Malone was barely conscious, reduced to heavy, labored breathing.
"Get him to the hospital. He's probably got a concussion, maybe internal bleeding," the emergency doctor barked.
"Move it! Hurry the hell up!"
Stockton and a few Jazz players shouted at the medics, who rushed in with a stretcher.
"Hey, Stockton!" Zhao Dong bellowed, smirking. "Tell the Mailman to quit bugging me next time, or I'll challenge him to a street fight!"
Stockton's face twitched, a flash of fear crossing his eyes. Without another word, he sprinted after the stretcher.
"Yo, Barkley! You got balls, right? You wanna settle our beef in the ring? Malone's too damn soft. I barely got warmed up before he was done. Come up here and give me a real fight!" Zhao Dong taunted, waving at Barkley.
"Fuck off!" Barkley shot back.
He wasn't stupid. He could see Zhao Dong took plenty of hits, but the guy barely flinched. That meant one thing—dude could take a beating. It was one thing to land hits on him, but could you handle getting hit by him? Hell no.
"I told you, the Mailman's a fool," a reporter who had just interviewed Malone snorted.
"Pfft! Hahaha!"
The crowd burst into laughter.
"Yo, let's grab some drinks," Magic Johnson suggested, grinning.
"Yeah, sounds good," Barkley nodded.
"Zhao, you coming?" Magic asked.
"Nah, I gotta fight Mr. Jordan first," Zhao Dong chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "He might wanna give me a lesson in the ring. Of course, I'm down to beat his ass fair and square."
Zhao Dong smirked and waved at Michael Jordan.
"God of Gamblers, come on!"
"Fuck that!"
Jordan spat and turned away, walking off.
"Coward!" Zhao Dong roared after him, flipping him off.
"Let's go drink. Afterward, I'll take y'all to pick up some girls. Got a huge stash of contacts in Shixi..."
"New York Wolf King! You're not welcome in Stony Brook anymore!" a reporter shouted.
"Hahaha!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
"Man, shut the fuck up! You guys have been tailing me all season, but have you ever caught me taking a girl to a hotel? No! I'm the most disciplined player in the NBA!" Zhao Dong barked, grinning cockily.
"You can hype me up all you want, but if you dare call me that again, I'll have my lawyer sue you all into bankruptcy!"
The reporters clammed up, embarrassed. They really didn't have any dirt on him.
"The Mailman Got Wrecked! Now in ICU—His Career in Jeopardy, Jazz Take a Huge Hit!"
— New York TV Station
"Zhao Dong Showcases His Insane Toughness—Knocks Down Malone Six Times and Scores a Brutal KO in One Round! The League's Most Ruthless Superstar!"
— New York Times
By noon, news of the brutal match between Zhao Dong and Karl Malone was everywhere. Countless media outlets were reporting it.
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong was perfectly fine. Ernie Grunfeld, the Knicks' GM, watched from the sidelines, satisfied. With the players heading into the offseason, this was his busiest time.
Back at team headquarters, Grunfeld leaned behind his desk, rubbing his chin. After some deep thought, he picked up the phone and made a call.
Far away in Texas, just as Don Nelson was walking into the Mavericks' headquarters, his phone rang. He pulled over and answered it.
"Hello, this is Nelson... Ernie?" Don Nelson's voice carried a hint of surprise.
When he left the Knicks last season, things had gone south between him and Ernie Grunfeld. After all, he got fired.
He only lasted one season in New York because he wanted to trade Patrick Ewing. That move got him axed by Ewing and the front office, leaving him bitter.
But regardless of the past, Nelson was a seasoned vet in the league. He was about to take over as GM of the Mavericks, so he wasn't about to air out any lingering grudges.
"Yeah, Don. I wanna talk to you about something. You got a minute?" Grunfeld asked.
"Sure. Gimme a sec to park," Nelson replied, pulling over.
He put his phone down, swung the car into a roadside spot, and killed the engine.
"Alright, Ernie. Shoot."
"Listen, Don... I want you back."
"...What?"
Nelson froze.
Back? What the hell was Grunfeld thinking? Jeff Van Gundy had just led the Knicks to a championship and won Coach of the Year. Was he seriously thinking about firing him?
But Nelson wasn't focused on Van Gundy's job security. What he really wanted to know was why the hell Grunfeld would fire him last season only to ask him back now, fresh off a title.
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
Grunfeld didn't hesitate. "You know Jeff's game. He was your assistant."
"Of course," Nelson said flatly.
He knew Van Gundy's style—solid on defense but shaky on offense, and far too green. Truthfully, Nelson didn't think Van Gundy was the reason the Knicks won the championship. It was Zhao Dong's dominance that sealed the deal.
Grunfeld continued, "Ewing tore his ACL. We have no idea how he'll look next season. We're thinking about trading him..."
"...Hah?"
Nelson almost laughed but held back. That would've been rude.
Grunfeld was in a tight spot. Last year, Ewing could've fetched Shaquille O'Neal or a similar superstar in a trade. But this year? Ewing's value was shot. They'd be lucky to get half of Shaq in return.
"Don, we're in trouble. Larry Johnson is washed, and our bigs are old—they can't even log serious minutes anymore. We need a veteran coach. Jeff's not cutting it," Grunfeld admitted.
"So... you want me back?" Nelson asked.
"Yeah. Zhao Dong is our franchise guy, and Jeff's coaching style just doesn't fit him. That's my take, at least," Grunfeld added.
At the mention of Zhao Dong, Nelson's ears perked up.
If he was even entertaining this conversation, it was because of Zhao Dong.
He wasn't against coming back, but being fired last season had stung. Going back now would be a blow to his pride.
But coaching a superstar like Zhao Dong? That was a different story.
Zhao was a walking cheat code—an elite two-way player with playmaking skills, capable of dominating all five positions. He was a coach's dream.
Back when Nelson coached the Warriors, he embraced a run-and-gun style with tons of fast breaks. Zhao Dong's guard-level speed and athleticism made him a perfect fit for that system.
Fast, aggressive offense + Knicks' ironclad defense = unstoppable force.
The thought made Nelson's blood pump faster.
"Don? You still there?"
Grunfeld was still talking, but Nelson was already sold.
For a coach, nothing was more thrilling than seeing their basketball philosophy come to life. With Zhao Dong as the centerpiece, Nelson knew he could redefine the game.
"Ernie... have you talked to Jeff?" he asked.
"Not yet. Why? ...Wait, you're in?"
Grunfeld's voice sharpened, picking up on Nelson's tone.
"I want Jeff to stay on as my assistant. His defense is still valuable," Nelson said firmly.
"Got it. I'll talk to him right away. To be honest, Jeff's been cracking under the pressure. Zhao Dong's trying to build a dynasty, and Jeff's losing sleep over it. Dude's losing his hair again—he's a mess," Grunfeld chuckled, clearly relieved.
After hanging up, Nelson called Mavericks' owner Ross Perot Jr. to break the bad news.
"Why?" Perot asked, confused.
"Because I'm gonna coach the guy who put Michael Jordan on his ass. I can't pass that up. Sorry, boss."
Nelson laughed, already picturing himself on the Knicks' sideline.
---
Meanwhile, at the hospital...
Karl Malone's medical exam was over. The beatdown left him with:
Severe concussion
Broken nose
Two missing front teeth
His future in the NBA? Uncertain. It all depended on his recovery.
The fight had been so vicious that if they had gone slower, the damage could've been worse. More rounds, more punches, and Malone could've suffered permanent brain damage or worse.
Zhao Dong?
He was immune to injuries, making him lethal in a long fight.
In professional boxing, smaller fighters often took longer to knock out their opponents. With less punching power, they dragged out matches, inflicting repeated head trauma. In contrast, heavyweights like Zhao Dong ended fights quickly—KO or be KO'd.
Malone, lying in his hospital bed, stared blankly at the ceiling. His eyes were unfocused, and dizziness clouded his mind. He shut his eyes after a while, but it didn't help. The room still spun.
The physical injuries were bad enough, but the psychological trauma was worse.
Zhao Dong had crushed him—twice.
First on the court.
Then in the ring.
Malone had convinced himself that his superior upper-body strength could overpower Zhao Dong. Instead, he got humiliated.
Twice hospitalized.
Twice destroyed.
Now, just thinking of Zhao Dong made his head pound.
"Hey, Karl. Quit thinking about that shit and just rest, alright?" Kay Kinsey, Malone's wife, said softly.
He glanced at her, eyes bleary, and mumbled, "How's that guy doing?"
"Zhao Dong?" she asked, lips curling into a bitter smile.
She shook her head. "Didn't even go to the hospital. Went straight to get drinks with Magic Johnson and Barkley."
"..."
Malone opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Instead, he just felt shock and disbelief.
"Am I that weak... compared to him?"
That was the only thought running through his head.
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