Chapter 287

March was finally here, and the real grind had just begun.

Thirteen games in February? That was nothing—child's play. The real test came now, with the March schedule ready to squeeze every ounce of energy from the Knicks.

Nineteen games in just one month. That's six more than they had in February, and the load wasn't just heavier—it was brutal.

Starting with an away game against the Bulls on March 1st, followed by back-to-backs on the 2nd and 3rd, it was a death march through the Eastern Conference.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

March would see three brutal three-in-a-row back-to-back sets, and another two sets of consecutive back-to-backs. Physical fitness? Stamina? This month would reveal who had it and who didn't.

That evening, the Knicks arrived at the United Center—Jordan's house.

Starting Lineups:

New York Knicks: Ben Wallace, Kevin Willis, Zhao Dong, Hu Weidong, Chauncey Billups

Chicago Bulls: Charles Oakley, Rasheed Wallace, Tracy McGrady, Michael Jordan, Jason Kidd

This was the game of the night. Hell, the game of the week. Maybe even the month.

Broadcast live by NBC and CCTV, with rights picked up in dozens of countries, the NBA's global push was clearly paying off.

Inside the NBC broadcast booth, Marv Albert was animated.

"Michael Jordan's back tonight after missing four games with that elbow injury from Karl Malone. Without him, the Bulls went 1–3. Now they're sitting at 8–5, sixth in the East."

Matt Goukas added,

"In those four games, Coach Phil Jackson experimented with two different lineups—Mobley starting in one, McGrady in the other. McGrady definitely performed better, averaging 20.5 points, 4 boards, 3.5 assists, a steal, and 1.5 blocks per game. Great two-way output."

"Mobley wasn't bad either," Marv nodded. "In 26 minutes as a starter, he dropped 15 points and picked up 3 assists with two steals."

Goukas leaned in.

"You know, looking at this Knicks squad, I feel like they're stacked inside but thin on the perimeter. If they had traded McGrady for Fortson earlier, I think that would've been a better balance."

"Fortson's got his strengths," Marv chuckled. "He plays that bruising mailman role. Makes sense the Knicks held on to him."

Meanwhile, in the visiting team's locker room, Zhao Dong sat in front of his locker, quietly staring at the invisible screen only he could see.

For the eighth time this season, he opened up the system.

Back in the first game, it had issued a simple task and given him a pathetic two skill points. Then—nothing. Like it just went offline. Total silence.

"Hey, system," he muttered mentally. "Jordan's back tonight. My biggest rival. Got anything to say?"

'Jordan's past his prime. No rewards available.'

"Bullshit."

Just before 7:40 p.m., both teams started heading out of the tunnel.

Zhao Dong caught sight of Jordan immediately.

"Yo, MJ! How's it feel getting elbowed by the Mailman?"

Jordan looked cold as hell.

"I'm not letting that slide."

A Band-Aid covered the corner of his right eyebrow. Dude looked like he just walked off a battlefield.

"You gonna fight him?" Zhao raised a brow.

"You think I'm some reckless dude like you?" Jordan replied, deadpan. "We settle things with basketball, not brawls."

"So what, you're gonna dunk on him till he cries?" Zhao grinned.

Jordan snorted.

"The Mailman wants a title. I'm gonna make sure he doesn't even make it out of the second round."

"Please," Zhao scoffed. "I've already whooped him in two Finals. You acting like you're the final boss."

Jordan's jaw tensed.

"The Philadelphia sitting second in the East right now. If standings hold, we'll see them in the second round. You really think I won't take them out?"

Zhao's smirk widened.

"You looked real tough rolling on the floor after that elbow."

"When did I roll around?!"

Jordan glared, clearly triggered.

"Who the hell's got brute strength like you anyway?"

Next to him, Oakley was trying to stifle his laughter, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

---

Across the country, in San Antonio, the lights were low inside Gregg Popovich's house.

He and Tim Duncan were watching the pregame coverage together, both focused on the screen.

Popovich poured a glass of red wine and raised an eyebrow.

"Tim, you think the Bulls got a scheme tonight that can keep Zhao Dong locked down?"

"Phil Jackson's a championship coach," Duncan replied calmly, holding out his glass. "I'd like to think so."

Pop gave him a look.

"Let that wine breathe. You're not drinking grape juice."

Tim took a sniff, then a slow sip.

"Whether they can stop Zhao or not, I believe we can take the Knicks. No doubt."

Popovich glanced at Duncan again.

This kid—no, this man—had grown fast.

He'd entered the league with all the tools, but under the shadow of Zhao Dong's emergence, Duncan had pushed himself harder than anyone expected. He trained all offseason—twice as much as most rookies.

And Pop still didn't know Duncan's true ceiling.

The guy never pushed himself to the limit. He always held something back.

---

At 8:00 sharp, the tip-off went up.

Willis outjumped Rasheed Wallace, and the Knicks got first possession.

"Hey, are the Bulls in a zone tonight?" CCTV's Zhang Heli raised his voice in surprise. "McGrady's in the middle—looks like a 2-1-2 zone!"

Beside him, Sun Zhenping nodded.

"Looks like they're trying to force Zhao to settle for mid-range shots. Smart move."

"Mid-range is the most reliable form of attack anyway," Zhang Heli added with a grin.

Zhao Dong was out on the left wing, parked at the three-point line without the ball.

He scanned the defense. Oakley was high up on the low block, body positioned to cut off any drive or mid-range jumper. McGrady was lurking near the left elbow, ready to pinch in.

A double-team trap was coming the moment Zhao made a move.

And if he somehow got past both Oakley and McGrady, Rasheed Wallace would be waiting on the backside—full-on triple-team coverage.

Right in front of him, one step away, stood the man himself: Michael Jordan.

Zhao smirked.

"Yo, old man, where's your walking stick?"

Jordan's face didn't flinch.

"I'm dropping 50 on your head tonight."

Zhao laughed.

"You dropped 69 and still lost."

That jab cut deep.

Jordan's expression cracked. His defense faltered for half a second.

That game—where he scored 69 and still walked off the court with an L—was a wound that never healed. The one game everyone used to question his clutch gene.

Just as Jordan's defensive stance cracked, Zhao Dong exploded into motion.

He launched his first step with explosive power and, on purpose, bumped shoulders with Jordan mid-stride. The contact knocked Jordan slightly off balance—just enough to slow him down.

This wasn't a foul under the Zhao Dong's Rule—because Zhao Dong wasn't holding the ball at the time. It was off-ball movement, so the bump was just a legal, physical collision.

Jordan staggered, his defensive position gone in a flash. He didn't even get a chance to recover, much less chase.

At that very moment, Billups' pass came in—perfect timing. Zhao Dong caught it in stride and slashed down the left wing.

McGrady was waiting at the elbow, Oakley on the left block. As soon as Zhao Dong caught the ball, both defenders closed in, trying to trap him.

But right then—Zhao Dong slammed the brakes.

His speed dropped sharply. The sudden deceleration screamed pull-up jumper incoming.

"There it is!" Zhang Heli's voice rang out in excitement.

That's the deadliest part of Zhao Dong's mid-range game—the pull-up. With one step of separation between him and the defenders, Oakley and McGrady couldn't crowd him. His explosive stop-and-pop had completely shaken off the trio guarding him.

Both defenders instinctively shifted to contest the shot.

But they got baited.

Zhao Dong suddenly exploded again, pounding the ball left-handed and cutting hard past Oakley's right. His body shifted downward, and he blew by in a blink.

"Damn, sudden change!" Zhang Heli shouted, shocked.

"Three in a row!" Sun Zhenping was practically yelling.

Zhao Dong knifed into the paint. Rasheed Wallace was just arriving under the rim. Zhao Dong grabbed the ball tight with his left, rocketing straight at him.

Wallace, standing in the legal collision zone, bit down hard and leapt to meet him.

"BOOM!"

Zhao Dong detonated over him at full speed. The Bulls' rim shook like it had been hit by lightning.

"BEEP!" The whistle blared right after the dunk.

"INSANE! Zhao Dong just destroyed three defenders and dunked on Rasheed Wallace like a damn freight train!" Marv Albert shouted, fired up.

"The Bulls' interior was spaced out too far trying to guard his jumper. Once he got through, they had no time to recover," Matt Goukas analyzed.

"Exactly. Oakley got burned and couldn't rotate in time. Wallace had no help. And you can't leave Zhao Dong one-on-one under the rim like that," Marv added.

"If they shrink the paint, he hits the mid-range. If they stretch out, he blows by everyone. That's the problem. You can't pick your poison when every option kills you," Matt laughed.

"They might need to make a new rule just for him—maybe let teams double-team him even when he's off-ball," Marv joked.

Under the hoop, the ref pointed straight at Wallace and signaled the foul. Wallace, still on the floor, raised his hand with clenched teeth.

Zhao Dong looked down at him, then turned toward Jordan.

"Everything you do is pointless."

His voice was cold, his eyes sharper than ever. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked to the free-throw line.

Wallace's face flushed with rage. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

Jordan walked over, resting a hand on Wallace's shoulder.

"Don't let him get to you. That's what he wants. I've been there," Jordan muttered quietly, his voice calm but serious.

Back on the other end, Kidd used a slick hesitation to blow past Zhao, throwing up a perfect lob for McGrady, who soared over Big Ben and slammed it home.

Jordan turned and pointed at Zhao Dong.

"That one's for you, kid!"

Zhao Dong just narrowed his eyes. "We'll see."

Knicks ball.

Zhao Dong got it again and drove into the lane. This time, Oakley and McGrady were ready.

Oakley slid over just past Jordan's hip at the edge of the paint, cutting off the drive. As Zhao Dong changed direction again, McGrady rotated early, and Wallace backed up, forming a tight three-man wall under the rim.

But Zhao Dong wasn't forcing anything.

Instead, he zipped a no-look pass right through traffic to the weak side.

Hu Weidong had timed it perfectly, slipping behind Wallace. He caught it in stride, took one step—

"BANG!"

—and hammered it home.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" Zhao Dong shouted, turning to Jordan. "You see that?!"

Jordan just snorted, jaw tight.

Two dunks in a row by Chinese players—and one was right in Wallace's face. Rasheed was about to snap.

He glared at Hu Weidong, fists clenching again—but Zhao Dong stepped in and jabbed a thumb at his own nose.

"You act up again, I'll make sure you don't walk off the court," Zhao Dong said, voice low, eyes full of menace.

Wallace's face burned red. He was trembling, barely able to control himself.

Just as he was about to lose it, Oakley wrapped an arm around him from behind.

"Chill out, Rashid. You're not built for that fight. Solve it on the court, not with your mouth."

Wallace clenched his jaw, caught a glimpse of Zhao Dong's killer stare—and lowered his head, walking off toward the bench.

"Perfect execution! Zhao Dong drew the double, then timed the pass for Hu Weidong to cut in clean," Sun Zhenping praised.

"It's all about timing. Zhao Dong always attacks right when the Bulls' interior starts stepping out of the paint. That delay in their rotation leaves just enough space under the rim for him—or his teammate—to finish strong," Zhang Heli said.

"By the time they react, he's already at the rack. And if you let him get into that legal collision zone, it's a wrap. He's too damn explosive!"

On the next possession, Kidd made another elite pass—this time hitting McGrady on a cut down the baseline.

Another aerial alley-oop. Another explosion at the rim.

The United Center erupted.

Bill Walton chuckled. "From this season on, Kidd and McGrady are running alley-oops like clockwork. That inside cut play? The young McGrady basically took Jordan's old role, slashing hard and going strong to the rim."

Matt Goukas laughed. "Yeah, and with MJ barking and hyping it up, McGrady's become a damn fan favorite here."

Next Knicks possession.

Zhao Dong stood at the left wing, just behind the three-point line. Instantly, the entire Bulls defense went on high alert—every single guy on the floor had their eyes locked on him.

"Is he gonna just charge in again?" Oakley thought, his body tightening.

"Mid-range jumper or a straight-up drive?" McGrady wondered, focusing in hard on Zhao Dong's every move.

Jordan didn't bother guessing. He just locked in and played him tight, sticking to Zhao Dong like Pippen in his prime—full-on, no-room defense.

Zhao Dong suddenly faked right. Jordan was ready to shadow him, but Zhao slipped a forearm into Jordan's gut to slow him down. Jordan tried to grab his arms and tangle him up, but Zhao used his strength and powered through.

He broke free.

As he cut toward the wing, the ball hit his hands in stride.

Oakley and McGrady stepped up to challenge. Zhao hit a nasty crossover, snatching the ball and dragging toward the baseline.

"Oh no!"

Oakley slid down to cut him off—but just as he moved, Zhao Dong spun hard, split the gap between Oakley and McGrady like a damn ghost, and burst straight through the double.

"HE'S BREAKING IN!"

Zhang Heli jumped up in his seat, voice shaking with excitement.

Rasheed Wallace had just followed Willis out to the perimeter and was on his way back to the paint. Too late. By the time he made it into the restricted area, Zhao Dong was already airborne.

Dude jumped over a meter high—an absolute freak—and soared down on Rasheed with pure force.

"BANG!"

Zhao Dong detonated a one-handed hammer over Rasheed Wallace.

The entire arena fell silent as Rasheed got sent crashing to the floor. The impact was brutal—he slid back over two meters. His chest heaved as he struggled for air, eyes rolling back.

The United Center was dead quiet, except for Rasheed's rough breathing echoing through the court.

"YES! Zhao Dong just bodied Rasheed Wallace again!" Zhang Heli shouted in triumph.

Over on NBC, Marv Albert was hyped. "Compared to the last time these two teams met, Zhao Dong's been way more versatile tonight. He's attacking the rim with a purpose, throwing his weight around and wrecking defenders."

Matt Goukas added, "Man's always been a problem in the paint. His pressure inside collapses the defense, opening up space for the shooters, or just straight-up hurts teams like the Bulls."

"Willis started tonight, so when he pulled Rasheed out to the perimeter, Oakley had to help. With no one under the rim, Zhao Dong's got a free lane," Marv continued.

Goukas nodded. "And now you see the issue—the Bulls gotta be careful. The schedule's too damn packed. Someone's gonna get hurt if they keep trying to contest him at full force. They need to save their bodies for the playoffs."

"This dude's like a damn wrecking ball," Marv laughed. "Is Rasheed really gonna wanna step up again after that?"

Goukas smiled. "Lucky for them the Bulls are running a zone. When Zhao Dong drove, he kept shifting directions—wasn't going in a straight line. That slowed him down just enough so the hit wasn't as lethal. Otherwise, Rasheed might've left the court in a wheelchair."

Matt laughed. "Exactly why the league legalized zone defense—nobody wanna die out here!"

Timeout—Bulls bench.

Back on the bench, Phil Jackson gathered the squad.

"This year's schedule is brutal," he said calmly. "In the next couple of months, fatigue's gonna pile up. We need to be healthy for the playoffs. No hero ball defense—don't take him head-on."

"He might get injured too," Rasheed muttered, still winded.

"Idiot," Oakley snapped.

"I know Zhao Dong better than anyone. He's built different—damn near invincible. Remember what he did to Karl Malone? Or when he lit Tyson's ass up? That's why people call him Iron Man. Dude's body is made of steel."

"Even Tyson—Tyson!—couldn't leave a mark on him," Oakley continued. "So what makes you think a little elbow and chest bump's gonna stop him? Hell, if you died from that dunk, he wouldn't even have a scratch."

Jordan nodded. "We gotta be smart. That bastard's driving into the paint all night like he's hunting for blood. We can't afford to get injured."

He turned to Rasheed. "Don't play dumb, man. You go down now, we're toast."

Oakley added, "Even if we meet the Knicks again in the playoffs, we gotta play him smart—side defense only. Forget stopping him completely—that's not happening.

"Remember the last Eastern Finals? Ewing and Rodman both got hurt dealing with Zhao Dong. No one left inside. MJ had to start posting up. That can't happen again."

Ewing sat nearby, face stiff.

"We need to push for that rule again—double-teaming guys off-ball just to slow him down," he said grimly.

Oakley glanced over. Ewing hadn't played a single minute this season—still recovering, just like last year. He was banking on one last playoff run.

"Patrick, you gotta let that stuff go," Oakley said, his voice low. "Zhao Dong didn't mess up your trade, man. He had no reason to do that."

Ewing opened his mouth but didn't speak. Instead, he looked away.

Oakley shook his head. He'd tried. He really had.

He and Ewing had been through wars together—years of battles, brotherhood, sweat, and blood.

But with Zhao Dong? The connection ran deeper now. Not just chemistry—profit. He got two rings playing with Zhao Dong. More than that, most of his money was tied up in Zhao Dong's Storm Fund.

That fund made him rich.

So yeah—he was riding with Zhao Dong now.

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