NBA: The Dynasty Crusher (Basketball)

At 10 p.m. on August 18, Zhao Dong's phone rang.

"Zhao, the contract's done! The league approved it—The Mavericks are mine! I'm officially the owner of an NBA team!" Jordan's voice was electric with excitement.

"How much?" Zhao asked calmly.

"Two hundred seventy-five mil!" Jordan said, practically shouting.

"Sounds about right," Zhao replied, his voice casual.

Jordan paused. "Wait... that's it? 'About right'? Man, you sound like you knew it already."

Zhao chuckled. In his previous life, Mark Cuban bought the Mavericks for $280 million. Jordan's price was right on target.

If they'd done this just a couple years earlier, when Zhao and Lindsay bought the Jets, the deal would've cost around $30 million. Prices had exploded since then—proof of how absurdly inflated U.S. assets had become.

But more importantly, Zhao knew Jordan wouldn't be making another comeback. In his past life, Jordan had returned for the Wizards because he was misled into thinking he'd be the majority owner—only to find out he'd been played. That wouldn't happen now. Jordan owned the Mavericks outright. There was no reason to suit up again.

And honestly, Zhao didn't want him to. That second comeback? It had stained his legacy more than it helped it.

---

Over in the NBA, the trade freeze had lifted, and the Knicks had already shaken things up.

Ben Wallace went to the Lakers. Zhizhi Wang landed with the Mavericks. Bill Wennington headed to the Pistons. Hu Weidong joined the Wizards. Rick Brunson moved to the Grizzlies, and Charlie Ward packed for Houston. Anyone who wanted out was gone.

Even "Big Bar" officially inked a deal with the Bulls, entering the league with a bang.

By late August, GM Ernie Grunfeld sent Zhao Dong the latest roster.

Guaranteed contracts:

Zhao Dong, Danny Fortson, Charles Barkley, Kevin Willis, Gary Trent, Latrell Sprewell, Manu Ginóbili, Jerry Stackhouse.

"Zhao," Grunfeld called him later that night. "We've got a problem. Wang's gone, and Big Ben too. Our interior is thin. Barkley's age is catching up, and we don't know how he'll look next season. You may have to anchor the paint."

Zhao didn't flinch. "No problem. I'll play wherever the team needs me."

He meant it. Back when Patrick Ewing was the man in the post, Zhao had to shift outside just to get touches. But now? The Knicks were his team. Inside, outside—it didn't matter.

"Alright then," Grunfeld said. "You and Fortson start at the four and five. Barkley and Willis come off the bench. Trent's still our best option at the three, but I'm hunting for another forward. Backcourt stays the same: Sprewell and Stackhouse start, Ginóbili runs with the second unit. Sound good?"

"You handle the lineup," Zhao said with a smile. "I just show up and win games."

Grunfeld laughed. "Music to my ears. I've already had a few vets reach out. I'll keep pushing to strengthen the front line."

"What about ownership?" Zhao asked. "Dolan willing to pay the tax?"

"You know Mr. Dolan—he doesn't flinch. If the team needs it, he'll write the check."

"Good," Zhao said, relieved. "If Dolan ever cuts corners, I'm walking. I'm not sticking around for mediocrity."

The current eight-player core already had them over the cap. A luxury tax bill was inevitable—but worth every cent.

---

August 19 – Beijing

Zhao Dong got a call from Leslie Cheung.

"Zhao, I'm holding a concert in Beijing on September 8th!" Leslie announced.

"Congrats, Brother Rong! How's everything going?" Zhao grinned.

"Couldn't be better," Leslie laughed.

"Great. I'm looking forward to it. Save me a few extra tickets—I'll bring a crowd."

"No problem," Leslie promised.

Two days later, Leslie arrived in Beijing to prepare. The venue? Workers' Stadium—16,000 seats, sold out within days.

Zhao hosted a dinner for him the night he landed, and naturally, the topic turned to Anita Mui.

"She's doing better," Zhao said. "Thankfully, it wasn't cancer. She's almost fully recovered, but still needs rest to avoid relapse."

Leslie's eyes lit up. "That's amazing!"

"Her sister… well, her situation is stable now. Ten years is a long time. Full recovery is unlikely, but we've managed to ease the condition."

Leslie sighed. "Her sister's the only one who's ever truly cared for her. The rest of the family…"

Zhao leaned in. "You once told me—if you were both unmarried by forty, you'd marry her. You still remember that promise?"

Leslie smiled warmly. "We talk often. I'll fly out after the concert."

---

September 3 – New York

"Zhao, we've just finished negotiations with both Lewis and Holyfield. It's just a matter of signing now. What's your decision?"

Ringo Wells' voice crackled over the line.

Zhao didn't hesitate. "End of this month. Book the fight."

"Got it," Wells said. "For the record, Holyfield currently holds the WBA and IBF belts—two of the big four. Lewis has the WBC and the IBO title, which doesn't carry as much weight. Who do you want in the ring?"

"Holyfield," Zhao said firmly.

"Copy that. I'll get the contract signed today."

When Holyfield received the news, he was ecstatic.

Back in March, he and Lewis had fought to a controversial draw at Madison Square Garden—twelve rounds of intense boxing. Most fans and analysts thought Lewis had dominated, but the decision went Holyfield's way, thanks to a suspicious ruling from referee Jeanette Williams.

Public outrage was immediate. Media outlets screamed foul. Accusations of bribery flew left and right. Holyfield had always denied any involvement, but the stain remained.

Now, he had a chance at redemption.

Beating Zhao Dong wouldn't just be a payday—it'd silence the critics. Zhao had already defeated Tyson, and though he wasn't a career boxer, his reputation was legit. If Holyfield could beat him, it would cement his legacy.

Of course, he wasn't putting all his chips on Zhao.

His team had also been negotiating with Lewis for a possible rematch. Either way, Holyfield wanted one more belt before the year ended.

On the other side of the world in London, Lennox Lewis was fuming.

Zhao Dong's decision to fight Holyfield meant Lewis wouldn't face either of them this year. No high-stakes rematch, no shot at redemption, and no payday.

On September 4th, the official announcement hit the sports world:

Zhao Dong vs. Evander Holyfield – World Boxing Championship.

The news sent shockwaves through the global media. Zhao was stepping back into the professional ring—and this time, it wasn't a fading Tyson he'd be facing. Holyfield wasn't just a big name—he held two of the four major heavyweight belts. The stakes were real.

In just his second professional match, Zhao was going toe-to-toe with one of boxing's most decorated champions.

The global media, fans, and pundits gave their verdicts—and most weren't betting on Zhao.

The criticism was blunt. He had no time to train. His skill level, exposed in the Tyson fight, wasn't world-champion caliber. And Holyfield? He was known for his frustrating, hug-heavy clinch game. Unlike Tyson, who fought openly and took hits, Holyfield could grind his opponents down with relentless body pressure.

Reporters in New York hunted down Tyson for comment.

"I was too impulsive last time," Tyson admitted. "Zhao kept provoking me—I lost my composure, and that's why I lost. If we ran it back, it might be a different story."

He grinned. "I've been training hard. I want to fight him again and get my payback. But for this one? I'm picking Holyfield. He won't fall for Zhao's trash talk. Zhao will get frustrated, and maybe he'll bite his ear too."

At home, watching the interview, Holyfield nearly jumped out of his seat.

"This idiot!" he barked. "Whose side is he on?!"

---

The New York Times landed a phone interview with Zhao through his manager, Ringo Wells.

"Zhao, between Lewis and Holyfield, why'd you choose the latter?" the reporter asked.

Zhao's answer was blunt. "Because Holyfield's getting old. If I don't fight him now, I might not get the chance."

The reporter paused, stunned.

"…Right," he muttered awkwardly, clearly caught off guard.

"How confident are you going into this fight?" the reporter continued. "Who do you think is more dangerous—Holyfield or Tyson?"

"Holyfield," Zhao answered.

"You think he's stronger?"

"Tyson's been out of professional training for years. He's lost a step. Holyfield's still sharp. And style-wise, I match up better against Tyson. He fights clean. Holyfield clinches. I hate that style."

"Will that hugging tactic throw you off?" the reporter pressed.

"I'll control myself," Zhao said.

"And if you can't?"

Zhao laughed. "Then I won't bite his ear—I'll kick him over."

---

The next day, The New York Times ran a front-page feature:

"Clearly, Zhao Dong was joking—but his distaste for Holyfield's clinch-heavy tactics was obvious. He sees it as cheap and unbecoming of a champion."

Later that day, Holyfield clapped back in a live New York interview.

"Tactics are part of boxing. If it's within the rules, it's fair game. Zhao's calling it weak? That's loser talk. And for the record—"

He leaned toward the camera, eyes burning.

"Even if I was old, even if I was bedridden, I'd still beat you."

Despite the media frenzy, Zhao stayed focused. His daily training now included rigorous sparring sessions and technique work. He was still a long way from Holyfield's level—but progress was progress.

September 8 – Beijing

The air buzzed with anticipation.

That night, Leslie Cheung's concert at Workers' Stadium had the city on fire. More than 16,000 fans filled the venue. Dozens of Hong Kong stars showed up backstage in support. Even the Four Heavenly Kings were there.

And in a rare show of unity, Alan Tam agreed to perform a duet with Cheung—ending years of quiet rivalry.

Zhao Dong had requested 100 tickets from Leslie in advance. Some were for friends, most were for his neighbors in Sanbulao Hutong. For ordinary families, the ticket prices were steep—even cheaper than Faye Wong's concerts, they were still a luxury.

For the kids and young adults in the neighborhood, Zhao Dong's gift was everything.

At 6:30 p.m., after dinner, Zhao loaded into a convoy of five minibuses. Riding with him were Lindsay, several bodyguards, and nearly a hundred people from Sanbulao.

Lindsay looked around the cramped interior of the minibus, stretching her long legs awkwardly.

"This is the first time I've ridden one of these," she said, amused. "Bigger than a Rolls, but still tight."

Zhao grinned from the front seat.

"Everyone aboard? Let's move out!" he yelled like a conductor.

"All here!" someone shouted back.

"Hold up!"

A girl poked her head out. "Brother Dong! Brother Dacheng isn't on yet!"

Zhao scowled. "Who said everyone was on?!"

Laughter broke out inside the bus.

Moments later, the door opened, and Zhao Dacheng stepped on with Xu Qing by his side.

"Oh, they really made it official?" Zhao muttered under his breath.

Dacheng glared. Xu Qing blushed.

"Don't you have your own ride?" Zhao asked loudly.

"For events like this, we stick together," Dacheng said smugly. "Just because you grew up in a courtyard doesn't mean you don't need some discipline."

Zhao rolled his eyes. "Seriously…"

Xu Qing greeted him politely. "Hello, Zhao Dong."

Zhao nodded, then motioned to Lindsay. "This is Liu Wei."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lindsay," Xu Qing said nervously, not catching the joke.

Lindsay gave a polite smile, glancing at Zhao. He smirked.

Zhao Dong didn't even need to introduce her.

Lindsay's name and face were already known to anyone in China who kept up with the news.

Xu Qing, however, felt a bit awkward. She had seen Zhao Dong before he became the legend he is today—hell, she'd seen him naked when they were kids. But Lindsay? The billionaire business queen, the most powerful woman in China's investment circles? That was pressure.

"Sister Qing, just call her Liu Wei," Zhao Dacheng whispered smartly.

"Huh? Oh—hello, Liu Wei," Xu Qing quickly corrected herself, realizing the subtle difference in address could change the meaning of their relationship.

"Hello." Lindsay stood up gracefully and offered her hand with a polite smile.

She didn't address Xu Qing as "Sister Qing." That title belonged to Zhao Dong, who grew up with Xu Qing in the same courtyard. Lindsay didn't. Besides, Dacheng and Xu Qing weren't official yet—there was no rush to call her sister-in-law.

"Sister Qing, take a seat."

Zhao Dong pointed to the seat next to Lindsay while he and Dacheng stood in the aisle. Some of the nearby kids offered up their spots, but the two declined.

By the time they arrived near Gongti, the streets were packed. It took all five minibuses a while just to find parking.

Scalpers spotted them instantly.

"Brother, looking for tickets?"

"How much?" asked Xiaomao, a sharp kid from Sanbulao Hutong.

"This much," the scalper said, flashing one finger on his left hand and eight on his right.

"1,800? Then give me a hundred," Xiaomao smirked.

"You messin' with me? Eighteen thousand," the scalper snapped.

"Alright, alright. Move it along," Zhao Dong said, brushing past them.

"Bro, we already got tickets—and better seats than yours," Xiaomao added proudly, flashing his pass.

One by one, the other young guys raised their tickets, grinning.

The scalpers were stunned.

"Damn, why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Hey… that girl looks like Xu Qing!" another scalper whispered.

"That? And look at that guy—hat, sunglasses, tall, built. That's gotta be Zhao Dong. And the woman beside him? That's Lindsay, right?"

"Holy crap, you're right!"

"Mrs. Lindsay just attended a state banquet two nights ago..."

"With all that money she's invested, of course it was a state banquet!"

The scalpers completely forgot about selling tickets and huddled to gossip instead.

Inside Workers' Stadium, every seat was filled—except the center row near the front.

"Why are all those seats empty?" Princess Ziwei grumbled.

"Shh, quiet. This is Beijing. Plenty of people qualify to sit there," Princess Huanzhu reminded her. "Look around us—these people are clearly big shots."

She was right. The nearby rows were packed with A-listers from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the mainland. Even they whispered about the empty central section.

A few minutes later, Zhao Dong and his group arrived—and walked straight into the reserved middle seats.

"Brother Dacheng! Brother Dong! Sister-in-law!" Several young men in the center stood to greet them.

They were compound kids too, old friends of Zhao Dong, even a few who had scrapped with him back in the day.

"Yo, you guys came too?" Zhao Dong greeted them with a grin and casual fist bumps.

"Wait... is that really Zhao Dong and Mrs. Lindsay?" a girl behind them gasped.

"Damn, it is!"

"She's so beautiful in person!"

The murmurs grew louder.

Zhao Dong chatted with his childhood friends for a few moments, then headed backstage with Lindsay and a couple bodyguards.

---

"Dacheng, aren't we going too?" Xu Qing tugged his arm.

Zhao Dacheng was still laughing with a few of the compound boys.

"We're not close to Zhang Guorong. What's the point?"

"Make connections! You're in the entertainment business now," she said, annoyed. "There are celebrities everywhere—go introduce yourself."

She wasn't wrong. Zhao Dong had invested 10 billion yuan into Dacheng's company, and so far, they hadn't signed a single celebrity. This was a golden opportunity.

But Dacheng shook his head.

"Sister Qing, I'm the boss. I'm not here to chase celebs or schmooze with actors. That's what my people do. I build industries, not fan clubs."

Xu Qing blinked, caught off guard. Was that... logical?

It was hard to argue. In this era, even a film emperor like Jiang Wen didn't get the same treatment as Hong Kong stars. The mainland industry was still in its infancy.

But Dacheng saw things differently. Zhao Dong had drilled it into him: Don't overestimate celebrities. Build systems. Build ecosystems. Actors are just one piece of the puzzle.

---

Backstage was buzzing with Hong Kong royalty. Dozens of top-tier stars had shown up to support Zhang Guorong—including all four Heavenly Kings. Twenty or thirty A-listers filled the dressing rooms.

Then, a new wave arrived.

Hong Kong's real estate giants—Brother Cheng, Brother Tong, Brother Ji, Mrs. Guo—walked in alongside other tycoons and their children. Every major name in the business world had arrived.

"Mr. Li."

"Mrs. Guo."

"Mr. Zheng."

The stars stepped aside instantly and greeted them with reverence.

Zhang Guorong, still in makeup, came out to greet the guests.

"Rongzi, do your thing," Brother Ji smiled. "Don't worry about us."

Zhang Guorong was baffled. Why had these titans flown all the way from Hong Kong to attend his concert in Beijing?

Sure, in Hong Kong, some of them had supported him before. But this… this was something else entirely.

---

(End of Chapter)

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