Chapter 255

In the 9th minute of the first quarter, the score was 24–15. The Knicks were up by 9.

Zhao Dong was cooking in the low post, going a perfect 6-for-6 from the field and knocking down all six free throws. Eighteen points in nine minutes—dude was outscoring the entire Jazz squad by himself.

After dropping 9 straight to open the game, Utah tried the foul strategy, but his perfect free-throw stroke made that game plan look stupid.

Karl Malone, who was supposed to match up with him, only took three shots—missed them all—and had just one point from the line.

During the official timeout, Marv Albert was hyped:

"When Zhao Dong sets up in the post, his bag is so deep and his first step so quick that even zone defense can't hold him."

Matt Goukas added, "Yeah, and the three-second rule just makes his inside game even deadlier. You throw in some smooth team ball, and that efficiency is off the charts."

"To put it plain," Marv chuckled, "Karl Malone's gettin' cooked, and so are the Jazz."

"It's clear the low-post scheme Nelson drew up for Zhao Dong is paying off," Matt continued. "Utah clearly hasn't figured out how to protect the paint under the new rules. Their interior D is straight-up getting shredded."

Marv wasn't holding back: "The league keeps tweaking the rules to slow Zhao Dong down, and now that he's been restricted to the low post, the Jazz still look lost. Let's be honest—they're frauds. They don't deserve a ring."

Matt's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Karl Malone's getting punked on both ends. If he doesn't show something soon, he's exactly what Zhao Dong says he is: a fake superstar, a role player, just a dude cleaning up easy buckets."

"Regular-season beasts," Marv smirked. "Come playoff time, especially the Finals? They just fold."

---

Back in Utah, the fans were heated.

"These guys are so damn annoying!"

"I thought Marv Albert had our back, pushing for those rule changes—but now? He's a snake."

"Matt Goukas is just a New York lapdog!"

"Two clowns, man."

"Malone! Hit 'em with the mid-range! Show 'em who the hell you are!"

Jazz fans were losing it, furious at the commentators trashing their team and their franchise guy.

"Yo Karl, wake the hell up!"

"Are you even a real superstar?"

"Get your head in the game and show Zhao Dong you ain't no scrub!"

"You scared of him or what?"

"You're an embarrassment. Retire already!"

"I swear I'll burn your jersey if you don't step up!"

At Delta Center, the boos weren't subtle. Fans in Karl Malone jerseys were yelling straight-up abuse at him.

On the bench, Malone looked over, confused and stung.

"…Why the hell are they booing me?"

He had tried—he really had—but Zhao Dong was just unstoppable right now.

Coach Jerry Sloan leaned in with a serious tone.

"Karl, you gotta toughen up. Even if your shots ain't fallin', we need you to defend."

"Don't be scared of him. This is still basketball. Unless you're going for his head, he can't do a damn thing back."

John Stockton grabbed Karl by the shoulders, his voice sharp and urgent:

"What have we been working for all these years, huh? Just to roll over and play the loser against that dude? Hell no! We want the chip!"

"You're acting soft, man. That's not you. Get your damn edge back!"

---

Back on the court.

Timeout over. Both squads sent out a mix of starters and bench guys.

Jazz ball.

Jeff Hornacek came off a screen and drilled a three—his first of the night. One for three now.

24–18. Knicks ball.

Zhao Dong went back to work in the low post, but he wasn't just sitting in one spot—he was moving non-stop, using his speed to break Utah's defensive rhythm.

After shaking Karl Malone off him, Zhao slid up to the free-throw line, caught the rock, spun, and rose for a mid-range jumper.

BAM!

Before he could let it go, Malone came flying in and straight up trucked him. It was like an NFL hit—shoulder lowered, body crashing through him.

Zhao Dong hit the floor hard, chest tightening under the weight and impact.

"Zhao?!"

On the sideline, Lindsay jumped up in shock, face pale.

Yao Ming and Wang Zhizhi shot up out of their seats too, stunned.

"YEAHHHH!!"

The Delta Center erupted.

"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT!"

"KARL MALONE, BABY! TAKE HIS HEAD OFF!"

"LET'S GOOOO!"

The Mailman's fans were foaming at the mouth, losing their minds.

Matt Goukas was stunned. "What the hell was that? Karl just hit him like an NFL linebacker! Is he trying to take Zhao Dong out for real?"

"They're not playin' no more," Marv said, voice rising. "This ain't hoops. This is war."

"Damn it!"

"Get yo' ass back!"

Oakley and Big Ben saw red. They sprinted over and bodied Malone to the ground.

"Boss, you good?" Big Ben asked, eyes wide.

"I'm straight."

Zhao Dong looked pale at first, but got to his feet with the help of his enforcers. He glanced at the sideline and gave Lindsay a reassuring nod. She slowly sat back down.

Zhao Dong turned to Malone and said coldly,

"Welcome to the Finals, Karl. Hope you survive Utah."

Malone's eyes burned red like a pit bull.

"I'm gonna kill him with his own moves," Zhao Dong muttered.

Oakley and Big Ben looked like they were ready to throw hands again, but Zhao Dong held them back.

Malone didn't flinch. Fists clenched, he stared down Zhao and growled,

"Come on, then."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Looks like the old Karl might be waking up."

Marv nodded. "He's been getting owned by Zhao Dong these past two seasons. That legal team Zhao built last year? Scared him straight. But this crowd turning on him might've just lit a fire."

"No one wants to go out like this again," Matt added. "Last year's L was already brutal. Back-to-back L's in the Finals? That's legacy damage."

"But this isn't basketball anymore," Marv said seriously. "That hit? That's NFL level. Could've ended badly. If the refs don't shut this down, someone's getting hurt tonight."

"I agree," Matt said. "In football, you got pads. Here, you got nothing. That hit's gotta be punished."

On the floor, the refs hesitated… then just called a common foul.

"That's ridiculous," Marv snapped. "They're letting Malone get away with it."

"Home-court whistle," Matt said. "If they called it straight, Utah's entire defense would fall apart."

"That was a clear flagrant one. At the very least a T. No call? That's dangerous," Marv said sharply.

Zhao Dong walked up to the line and knocked down both free throws.

26–18.

Utah ball.

Malone ran up the court again. Zhao Dong stopped short on purpose, giving him just enough space.

"Now!"

Stockton saw it and zipped the ball in.

Malone caught it clean—then BAM.

Zhao Dong charged in and drilled him right back. Shoulder down, all power, like an NFL defensive lineman smacking into an O-line block.

The raw power exploded on full display in front of the whole arena.

Zhao Dong came flying in like a supercharged jaguar and bodied Karl Malone to the floor in one brutal motion.

"Bang!"

Just like Zhao Dong earlier, Malone slammed down hard, cracked the back of his head against the hardwood, and slid a good three meters. He skidded right in front of the Jazz bench and even wiped out Jerry Sloan and an assistant coach like they were bowling pins.

"Ugh!"

His head hit so hard it felt like sparks flew out. The impact nearly collapsed his whole chest. Every ounce of air in his lungs got squeezed out in an instant, and the weirdest chicken-cluck kinda sound came out of his throat.

"Ohhh!"

The crowd exploded with a huge gasp.

"Told y'all this was gonna be a problem!"

Matt Goukas stood up, pissed.

"Am I gonna die?"

That was the only thought running through Karl Malone's mind.

"Whew…"

The next second, his chest finally rose and air rushed back in. It felt like he just got pulled outta the grave. He gasped like crazy, color finally coming back to his ghost-white face.

"Cough, cough, cough…"

But halfway through catching his breath, a rough cough messed up his rhythm again.

Zhao Dong stood up from over him, glanced at Malone—who looked like he just saw the gates of heaven—and didn't even say a word. He just yanked his shorts back up and walked away like nothing happened.

"Cough, cough, cough…"

Malone was still hacking hard, his ribs screaming with pain, like something big had fallen on him and crushed his whole chest.

"Medic!"

The ref sprinted over, took one look, and urgently waved for the Jazz's team doctor.

He was already regretting not ejecting Malone earlier. If something serious happened here, his career might be toast.

"Doctor!"

Coach Jerry Sloan scrambled up, looking panicked. Seeing Karl's condition, he spun around and yelled for help.

The team doctor rushed in, checked Malone, and let out a breath.

"Just a side stitch from the shortness of breath, no major injuries. But that collision was crazy. If it happens again, we might not be so lucky. If you've ever watched NFL games, you know what I mean. Broken ribs, busted sternums, popped lungs, concussions, ruptured organs—any of that can happen."

Then he looked straight at Karl Malone.

"Look, you're not built like Zhao Dong. Dude's explosive as hell. If you try to match him like this again, you might not walk off the court. I'm serious."

Jerry Sloan's face was tight.

"Karl, I told you to play tough, not go full kamikaze. Stop with the nonsense and play real defense. Let him know you're a man that way."

Malone nodded slowly. That hit scared him. It felt like a damn car crash. His whole body was sore, and his chest had gone numb. He wasn't sure if he could even stay in this game.

Then the team doctor added,

"Final recommendation—Karl's done for tonight. He hit his head hard. He needs to get to a hospital, ASAP."

Back at the Knicks bench, Zhao Dong sat with his teammates while their own team doctor gave him a quick checkup.

Lindsay stood nearby, worried sick. She looked like she was about to cry.

"Baby, don't ever do that again! You'll get hurt. You know players retire every year in the NFL from those kinds of hits, right? One guy messed up his lungs last season and he's living on a ventilator now!"

Her face had gone completely pale.

"I got you, I got you." Zhao Dong nodded quickly.

The team doctor beside them kept warning all the players,

"This ain't the NFL. You guys don't have gear. One wrong move, and it's lights out. Even NFL players with full pads get wrecked all the time. You think y'all can take that? Hell no."

Over on the Jazz side, they subbed out Karl Malone and called for an ambulance.

Without their core, the Jazz fell apart. Final score? Knicks 95, Jazz 75. A 20-point beatdown.

Zhao Dong once again clocked out after three quarters, just like in Game 1. With Malone out, he didn't press the offense, so his stats were chill—just another light 20+ triple-double.

After the game, during post-match interviews…

"Zhao Dong, that rugby-style collision that knocked Karl Malone outta the game—have you thought about how dangerous that was? Do you think this win is even fair?"

One Salt Lake City reporter barked in an aggressive tone.

Zhao Dong glared.

"Is every Salt Lake media dude this blind and biased?"

"You—"

The reporter looked ready to explode.

Zhao Dong kept his tone ice-cold.

"Malone elbowed me in the back of the head, and y'all said nothing. He broke someone's ribs this season, and y'all stayed silent. He's thrown elbows his whole career, and you've all been quiet. Today, he was the first one to bring that NFL-level contact into the game—and you're blaming me? Y'all got no shame. Zero."

A bunch of local reporters looked pissed. They'd never seen an NBA player argue this hard with the press on the spot.

Zhao Dong looked around, calm and sharp.

"I'll say this right now to all your faces. Just to show how fake you are. As long as I'm in the league, the Jazz and Karl Malone ain't winning a single ring. Not one. We're enemies for life."

That last line set off a firestorm with the local media. But Zhao Dong had already dipped from the interview zone.

Salt Lake City? Man, that media influence don't even leave Utah. Who cares.

Later that night, at the Jazz's own press conference…

"A lifelong enemy is a lifelong enemy. You think we're scared of him?"

John Stockton fired back angrily after hearing Zhao Dong's comments.

---

June 6, 9:00 AM.

The Bulls officially announced a contract buyout with Patrick Ewing. The $40 million owed over two years was cut down to a $31 million payout.

Ewing was now a free agent, and the Bulls had just opened up $40 million in cap space. Suddenly, the whole free-agent market went crazy. Agents started blowing up the Bulls' phones.

"Ewing's in the final stretch of his career. Only three of the four super centers are left now."

"Ewing's shot at revenge? Gone. And now he's been dumped—again."

"Zhao Dong just declared himself a lifelong enemy of Karl Malone and the Jazz."

"That line might've just shut down Utah's championship window for the next decade."

"No top player trying to win a ring is gonna sign with the Jazz anymore."

The media couldn't stop talking about it.

Magic Johnson weighed in:

"Zhao Dong's words are gonna hit the Jazz hard. He's only 20, already a monster, and he can keep this peak going for another 10 years. Any player thinking of joining Utah will have to deal with that roadblock. Good luck winning a title."

Larry Bird dropped his take too:

"Mark my words. The Jazz are gonna collapse after these Finals—just like the Bulls."

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