Bang!
A heavy left hook slammed into Zhao Dong's body, crashing between his chest and abdomen with brutal force, hitting him square in the liver. The impact was sharp, designed to knock the wind out of him and mess with his insides.
Tyson didn't waste a beat. He twisted his waist, hooked his arms, and followed up with a vicious right uppercut, aiming for Zhao Dong's left temple. It was a premeditated combo—Tyson had assumed Zhao Dong would hunch forward from the liver shot, so he threw the uppercut ahead of time, targeting where he thought Zhao Dong's head would be next—fifteen centimeters lower.
But Tyson underestimated Zhao Dong's ability to take punishment. That body shot didn't do the damage he expected.
Zhao Dong did bend slightly, but just a little—not enough to fall into the trap.
Tyson's right uppercut grazed the top of Zhao Dong's forehead and missed.
Bang!
Zhao Dong answered with a brutal right uppercut of his own, landing flush on Tyson's chin.
Tyson's head whipped back, spit flying, as he stumbled. He staggered back, clearly rocked.
Zhao Dong saw his chance and charged forward with a combo.
Bang!
A right hook connected with Tyson's left side.
Bang!
A left hook followed, smashing into his right guard.
Bang!
Zhao Dong stepped in and fired a straight right punch, fast and fierce. It blasted right through Tyson's defense and cracked him right on the forehead. Tyson stumbled back two steps, hitting the corner post with a loud thud.
"Ohhh! Another fierce exchange! Both guys are landing shots, but Zhao Dong is going off! He just backed Iron Mike into the corner!" Teddy shouted in shock on the ESPN broadcast.
The referee kept a close eye on Tyson now, ready to step in at any moment if things turned ugly.
"Tyson, I'm ending this right here."
Zhao Dong stepped up, inhaled deep, and threw his arms wide—signaling his most savage barrage.
"Here it comes! Zhao Dong's going for the kill!" Kevin yelled.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Eight straight haymakers, each over 600 pounds of force, pounded Tyson's guard like a wrecking ball. One by one, they shredded his defense. His arms dropped, useless and paralyzed.
Tyson's head was now exposed—completely unguarded.
Bang!
Zhao Dong's right hook landed clean on Tyson's left temple. The impact twisted his head violently to the side.
A chunk of flesh tore loose from the force, blood sprayed, and Tyson's mouthguard flew out of the ring.
BOOM!
Everything went silent in Tyson's mind. His senses shut off.
Bang!
The titan collapsed like a toppled statue.
"Stop!"
The ref waved it off, rushing between them and pushing Zhao Dong back.
Zhao Dong backed off but kept his glare locked on Tyson, who was now unconscious and soaked in blood.
"OHHHH!" Zhao Dong turned away, stomped to the neutral corner, threw both fists in the air, and let out a feral roar.
BOOM!
The crowd exploded. Cheers, chants, total chaos.
"K-K-K-K-KO!!!"
"Zhao Dong KOs Iron Mike Tyson! It's over in 172 seconds of round one! He straight up cracked Tyson's skull with that final punch!"
Teddy was losing his mind in the commentary booth.
"Tyson's out cold! Zhao Dong just dropped the most feared man in boxing with a cluster of heavy artillery punches. This was a beatdown!"
Teddy added, "Tyson's left temple is torn open—his scalp's peeled back! You can literally see bone! Blood's pouring out. The medics are rushing the ring—it's getting chaotic!"
"This match should've been held in the ICU! I mean, damn!" Kevin shouted.
"They've got the ventilator on him… Wait, is that an adrenaline shot?! They're stabilizing him for emergency transport. He needs surgery now."
"Mike?! Don't quit, man!" boxing legend Lewis yelled from ringside.
Holyfield, George Foreman, and other heavyweights stood beside him, watching in silence.
"Clear the way! Clear the way!"
Medical staff carried Tyson out on a stretcher, leaving a red puddle on the canvas.
YEAHHHH!
The ref grabbed Zhao Dong's arm and raised it high, the crowd roaring like maniacs.
"That dumbass Tyson fought with pure emotion today. No defense, just charging in like a bulldozer. He got what was coming," Lewis said bitterly.
Holyfield added calmly, "Any of us could take down that dude. Tyson didn't even clinch once. He complained I held him too much and bit my damn ear, now he couldn't even protect his own damn head."
Foreman chimed in, "Zhao Dong ain't skilled, but don't sleep on his power and chin. You fight him straight up, you're done."
"I want him next," Lewis said coldly, eyes locked on Zhao Dong.
"Same here," Holyfield nodded.
On stage, Zhao Dong shouted to the crowd, "Party at my place tonight! If you rock with me, you're invited!"
YEAHHHH!
The place erupted again.
"Let's get outta here," Jordan muttered to Karl Malone beside him.
Zhao Dong spotted him. "Yo Jordan! Tyson said he'd beat your ass, and I just mopped the floor with him. How 'bout a little thanks?"
Jordan didn't even look back. He just grunted, "Tch," and walked off.
Zhao Dong and his crew burst out laughing.
The party that night went until the sun came up.
Before the event ended, Arum found Ringo Wells, who was slightly buzzed after a few drinks. He approached with a friendly tone and said, "Ringo, I just had a talk with the agents of Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield. They want a fight with Zhao Dong. Both hold world boxing titles from the four major organizations. This could be a massive opportunity. What do you think?"
"World title fight?" Ringo sobered up instantly.
"Yeah, a title shot. A legit world champion bout," Arum confirmed with a grin.
But Ringo shook his head. "Zhao's skills ain't there yet. It's way too soon."
Arum pressed further. "Can you convince him to leave the NBA? He's a natural. That punch of his? It's like getting hit by a damn truck. And the way he takes hits—it's insane. He could dominate heavyweight boxing. I'm talking complete unification, all belts."
He wasn't lying. Arum was dead serious.
Ringo waved his hands. "That's not gonna happen. Zhao? No way he's leaving the league. And more importantly, Lindsay would never allow it."
Hearing her name made Arum frown. He didn't want to mess with Lindsay, one of the hottest rising investors on Wall Street. Offending her? Bad idea.
He sighed in disappointment. "To be honest, boxing's not even as dangerous as football. I heard Zhao's really into football—that's why Miss Lindsay bought the New York Jets, right?"
"You're telling the wrong person, man," Ringo said with a bitter smile. "I wouldn't touch that topic with her even if you paid me."
"Alright, alright. Then I guess we wait. When Zhao polishes his skills, we'll talk again," Arum said with a helpless shrug.
---
At 9 a.m. the next morning, Frank Warren dropped a bomb on the media.
"Mike's surgery lasted three hours. He's still in a coma."
"He suffered a skull fracture on the left temple. It's been repaired, but the hit caused a serious concussion. He's gonna be out of the ring indefinitely."
That same day, the news exploded—Zhao Dong had knocked out Mike Tyson with a single punch.
The whole world was shook.
"The heavyweight division just found its new king. His punch is brutal, his attack unmatched, and his body practically invincible. He's got the potential to unify the belts!" – The New York Times.
"NBA better wrap up these labor talks quick, or Zhao Dong might not come back." – New York Sports Daily.
"Commissioner Stern, Jerry—hurry the hell up. We can't afford to lose this guy."
"Jerry, we've lost enough already. We need to push to the next round of negotiations. No more delays."
One by one, team owners started calling David Stern, urging him to accelerate the talks. Some didn't even bother with phone calls—they flew straight to New York to speak with him in person.
---
On the 4th, Zhao Dong and Lindsay flew back to New York with their team on a private jet.
Meanwhile, at Nike HQ…
"President! The second billion-dollar loan's gone!"
Nike's CFO, Robert Harold, didn't even knock. He barged into the office, face pale.
Phil Knight stared at the screen in front of him. The K-line chart for Nike stock was drowning in green—it practically blinded him.
In just three trading days, after Storm Fund officially issued a takeover order for Nike, the stock price had doubled—shooting past $80.
Under normal circumstances, this should've been cause for celebration. But all Phil Knight felt was fear.
The price had soared so high that buying back stock became near impossible.
And it wasn't just Storm Fund eating up shares—there were bigger sharks in the water now. Larger funds had joined the hunt, snatching up shares and squeezing Nike even harder.
"How much of the company do we still control?" Knight asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Thirty-one percent," Robert replied flatly.
"Keep going," Knight growled.
"With what money?" Robert shot back.
"Equity mortgage. Get us another $3 billion. We're going all in," Knight said, teeth clenched.
"Even with cash in hand, there's no supply to buy," Robert warned.
"Then raise the buying price. Offer more to lure sellers out. No matter the cost—if they're selling, we're buying." Knight slammed the desk with finality.
Once Robert left, Phil Knight slumped into his chair like a man who'd seen death. Deep regret flooded him.
He swore he'd never cross Zhao Dong again.
Back on Wall Street, at Storm Fund HQ, Zhao Dong sat casually in Lindsay's office.
"Babe, we only used three billion," Lindsay said, sipping coffee. "But we've got over $100 billion in follow-up funds waiting. Four major investment firms are riding our wave now."
She tapped a chart on the screen.
"Nike's now raising their own prices just to attract sellers so they can buy back shares. They're doing the work for us. All we gotta do is wait. Once the price hits the ceiling—they're done. We short, sell high, and bleed them out."
Zhao Dong chuckled. "Even if they survive this wave, they're gonna be limping for the next ten years."
"They shouldn't have messed with us in the first place," Lindsay said with a devilish smirk.
---
On the 8th, Michael Jordan finally broke.
He picked up the phone and called his agent, David Falk.
"David, I'm losing it, man! If the season doesn't start soon, I swear I'm retiring!" Jordan barked.
"Michael, calm down," Falk replied. "I'll push the talks forward."
David Falk wasn't just anyone. He was the guy. The most respected agent in the league.
He had Patrick Ewing and Shaq under his belt, and he even helped bring Ewing to the Bulls last season when Jackson needed a vet. This time, he convinced Ewing to come back on a vet-min deal too.
Both Ewing and Shaq sat on the players' union panel during the labor negotiations, with Ewing acting as the chairman.
Later that same day, at Storm Fund HQ, Lindsay made another power move—she officially authorized a short strategy against Nike, Adidas, and several other sports brands.
Because of the sudden shift in the trading chips over the past two days, Lindsay quickly realized that Nike and Adidas had almost completed their buybacks. The trading volume had dropped significantly—classic signs of a weakening defense.
Nike's stock had soared to $135 per share, with a total market cap of $50 billion. It more than tripled in just one week.
Calmly, Lindsay opened her laptop and began typing a value assessment report targeting companies like Nike and Adidas. Not long after, the piece was published in the Wall Street Journal.
The core argument? Companies like Nike and Adidas were seriously overvalued.
The article hit hard—precise, ruthless, and calculated. On Wall Street, it made a splash.
It wasn't just a critique. It was a warning flare.
A warning to retail and small investors: pull out before you become the bag holder.
A signal to the big boys: I'm shorting this bitch. Follow me or get burned.
"Go ahead," Lindsay said coldly that morning as markets opened. "I want Nike's stock price to hit the damn floor."
Under her command, Storm Fund took the lead—dumping Nike shares with surgical precision. Like sharks catching the scent of blood, other hedge funds joined the selloff.
And if Nike tried to hold the line?
She was ready to scoop them up dirt-cheap—and complete a hostile takeover. The funds were already locked and loaded.
At Nike headquarters, panic set in.
Founder Phil Knight stared blankly at his screen. A fat red line plunged downward on the ticker, and the flood of sell orders was overwhelming.
"Boss, what do we do?!" the CFO ran in, eyes wide with panic.
"…"
Knight was stunned.
If they kept buying their own stock, they'd bleed out all remaining capital.
If they didn't? The stock would crash and burn—and with it, the $5 billion loan from the bank.
Default was around the corner.
Nike didn't have enough liquid cash left. Almost everything had gone into the buyback frenzy.
"They… Storm Fund… Evelyn Lindsay… she's slaughtering us. Ruthless…" Knight mumbled, sweat beading on his forehead.
By the end of the trading day, Nike's stock had plummeted from $135 to $85—a 37% drop.
Volume exploded to 650% of the previous day. Over 20% of total shares exchanged hands. Market cap? Wiped down nearly 40%.
Wall Street understood the message: this was just the beginning.
When the wolves of Wall Street sink their teeth in, mercy is not on the menu.
Meanwhile, back at Storm Fund, Lindsay was coolly reviewing the day's numbers.
They had sold high, bought back low—and somehow still held the same stake in Nike.
Paper profit: $60 million.
On the 10th, Zhao Dong brought a group of Knicks teammates over to Giants Stadium.
Home to both the New York Giants and Jets, the venue was packed for the NFL's own version of a city showdown—the Big Apple Triple.
Today, the Jets were the home team, and the 66,000-seat stadium was rocking. The atmosphere was lit—buzzing so loud you had to yell just to be heard.
Even though it was January and a snowstorm had just swept through, the moment Zhao Dong stepped out of the tunnel, a wave of heat and energy smacked him in the face.
His mood? Instantly hyped.
"Hurry the hell up, we're late!" Barkley shouted, weaving through the crowd.
"Yeah, and it's all your fault, Chuck! If you hadn't ordered that damn extra steak, we'd be on time!" Larry Johnson barked back.
"Man, Oakley ate one too!" Barkley protested.
"I finished mine before you even picked up your fork."
Oakley shot a glare at Barkley, clearly not in the mood for jokes.
As they pushed through the chaos, someone recognized Zhao Dong.
"Hey! That's Zhao Dong!"
"Yo! Iron Man just pulled up!"
"Haha! Look who it is! Our Jets boss is here!"
The crowd around them started hyping him up.
"Boss!"
At that moment, a group of Jets execs rushed over.
"Boss, want to head to the VIP box?" Jets President Walter asked, trying to usher him away from the noise.
Zhao Dong just grinned and pulled out a thick stack of tickets.
"Nah, I bought these myself. I'm sitting in the stands."
The executives could only laugh and shake their heads.
"Alright then. Enjoy the game."
"Go handle your business," Zhao Dong waved them off.
As they headed to their seats, the teasing from the announcers started.
"Oh, look who finally decided to show up!" one commentator joked.
"Guess our owner doesn't care much for this huge rivalry matchup, huh?" another chimed in.
"Haha, hey, give him a break. He just knocked out Iron Mike in the ring! Word is, both Lewis and Holyfield wanna square up with our boss next!"
Cameras zoomed in on Zhao Dong and his crew as they looked for seats. Within seconds, his face popped up on the massive stadium screens—dozens of them scattered around the arena.
The crowd erupted.
More than 60,000 fans screamed as they spotted the Knicks' squad.
Three minutes later, they finally sat down—sweating despite the freezing weather.
"Yo, Zhao Dong."
"Hey, what's up."
The guy next to him was a middle-aged Jets fan, face painted with the team logo. They struck up a chill conversation.
"You ever thought about joining the Jets, man?"
"Maybe someday, when the NBA ain't fun anymore."
"Oh yeah? I don't know how you'll do out there, but I'd love to see it."
"Haha, I think there's a spot waiting for me on that oven tray."
"What position you thinking?"
"Forwards. Whether I'm crashing heads on offense or locking someone up, I love the impact. I like to hit."
"Nice! I've seen you bulldoze people in the NBA. Hope you start stacking bodies on that field someday too."
The game was about to begin, so they wrapped up the convo.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome… the New York Jets!"
Boom.
A roar exploded through the stadium as the Jets stormed the field in white jerseys and steel helmets. They came charging out like wild horses breaking loose.
"YEAHHHHH!"
Zhao Dong stood up with the crowd, arms in the air, voice hoarse from yelling already.
"LET'S GOOOOO!"
The noise? Unreal.
The stadium felt like it was shaking. It didn't matter if you were a celebrity, a billionaire, or just a regular dude from Queens. In that moment, everyone was just a fan.
Even the Iron Man himself.
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