"Get out of here, kid! You wanna fight?"
Frustration boiled over. The Patriots were trailing, two starters already injured, and their center had been seething. He snapped—charging forward and shoving Zhao Dong with both hands.
The big man weighed 160 kilograms. O'Neal and Karl Malone would've looked small next to him. Zhao Dong was driven flat on his back.
"Fuck!" Zhao Dong spat, springing up. He cocked his fist and whipped a brutal backhand hook into the center's midsection. Bang!
The Patriots lineman staggered back three steps, clutching his stomach.
"You cheap-shotting bastard! Zhao Dong, you sucker-punched me!" he groaned.
NFL pads protected shoulders, chest, hips, knees—everything but the stomach. And Zhao Dong's punch was like being hit with a sledgehammer. The man couldn't even muster strength to stand tall, only cursing through clenched teeth.
Bang!
Before he could recover, Herb Hanks stormed in and flattened him with a hit of his own.
Zhao Dong, adrenaline surging, didn't hesitate. He turned and booted Brady, dropping the future NFL legend onto the grass.
That was all it took. Both sidelines erupted. Players on both teams dove into each other, fists flying, helmets clashing, chaos exploding like a powder keg.
---
"Beep! Beep! Beeeep!"
The referee's whistle screamed, but it was drowned out by the melee.
Security sprinted from the tunnels, swarming the field. In the NFL, brawls weren't rare—there were dozens every season. Stadium staff had rehearsed this exact scene.
"Haha!" Russell Neveda couldn't contain himself in the booth. "Look at this mess! But folks, remember—be like Zhao, stay a New York gentleman!"
"Pfft—" Wells Michael burst out laughing on-air.
The crowd loved every second. 80,000 fans roared approval, TV viewers grinning at the spectacle. Some fans expected fights every game—like hockey, where refs even stood by as mediators.
---
And then Zhao Dong's personal bodyguards rushed the field.
Twelve of them. They weren't about to sit by while their man fought a hundred opponents.
Jets coaches and players leapt from the bench trying to hold them back, but the dam broke. Across the field, the Patriots' bench surged too.
For a terrifying moment, it looked like a full-scale war—more than a hundred men about to clash.
But security moved fast. They yanked players apart before benches collided, stopping the chaos from becoming something out of a riot.
"Get off! Off the field!" Zhao Dong waved frantically at his bodyguards. "This is a game, not a street fight!"
---
The referees huddled, whistles shrilling. After minutes of sorting out the madness, penalties were handed down.
Nobody was hurt—thanks to all the pads—but the Patriots were ruled guilty of instigating. Ten-yard penalty.
Moments earlier, Zhao Dong had sacked Brady at the 14. Now the Patriots were shoved all the way back to the 4-yard line. Second down and forever.
---
"Bullshit!" Belichick exploded on the sideline, screaming at an NFL official. "That damn Zhao started it!"
The league rep only smirked. "Coach, you can file an appeal after the game. Maybe he gets suspended."
Belichick rolled his eyes. Deep down, he knew—his center threw the first shove.
---
As the Patriots regrouped, the Jets smelled blood.
Zhao Dong stood tall behind the Lion, eyes locked on Brady just two yards away. He bellowed loud enough for everyone in the stadium to hear:
"Tom! I'm coming for you again! This time I'm taking the ball back for six—touchdown return, touchdown return!"
The Jets' defense, juiced with adrenaline, joined in the chant:
"Touchdown return! Touchdown return!"
The Patriots' offense, backed up against their own end zone, fumed. Provoked, rattled, they shoved and jawed at the line, trying to keep composure. Another whistle blast, more scolding from the refs, and the ball was set.
---
"Set—hut!" Brady barked.
The snap came. The center whipped the ball into Brady's hands, and the trenches erupted again in a storm of collisions.
The Lion tore open a seam, smashing through double coverage. Zhao Dong saw daylight—his lane to Brady opening like a gate.
Zhao Dong's strength was undeniable. At his size, he wasn't just powerful—he was explosive, quicker and stronger than most starters in the league. His physical gifts were terrifying.
He burst through the gap, leapt onto the offensive line, and locked his eyes on Brady.
The Patriots quarterback had the end zone right behind him. He knew the Lions up front were monsters. He knew the pocket could collapse at any second. As Zhao Dong came tearing through, Brady instinctively retreated deeper into his own end zone.
This play had been drawn up as a pass. The Patriots wanted to flip pressure into opportunity. If star wideout Beyer Johnson could shake free, Brady might even turn this into a touchdown bomb.
Johnson sprinted downfield, desperately clawing for separation. Brady's eyes followed him. He saw daylight—two yards of cushion between Johnson and the defender. The throw was there.
If Johnson grabs this, it's nothing but green turf—ninety-five yards to the house.
Brady cocked back. But then—out of the corner of his eye—he saw a shadow. The rush of wind.
"Oh no—"
Before the thought was finished, Zhao Dong smashed into him, leveling him into the turf.
---
"Ahhh!" Brady's body thudded in the end zone.
The stadium erupted like a bomb had gone off.
"Got him! Zhao takes down Brady again!" Russell Neveda's voice cracked with excitement. "That's sack number two, and it comes in the end zone!"
"Safety!" Wells Michael roared. "Jets score two, and they get the ball back! 16–0! What a day from the Tyrannosaurus!"
---
The scoreboard flipped: Jets 16, Patriots 0.
The rules were clear: a sack in the quarterback's own end zone was a safety. Two points for the defense, and possession.
Brady lay on his back, dazed. The Patriots' morale hit rock bottom. Their comeback hopes were gone. By the end, the scoreline read 61–19. A massacre.
---
"This was an absolute rout for the Patriots," Neveda declared postgame.
"This defeat," Wells Michael added, "started with that 108-yard return by Zhao Dong in the opening quarter. That single play knocked out their safety, and it cost them the Shark—their defensive anchor. From that moment, New England's defense was crippled. Then Zhao Dong sacked Brady not once, but twice. The Patriots never recovered. Today's victory belongs to the Tyrannosaurus."
Neveda nodded. "Brady was off all day. Seventeen incompletions, multiple mistakes. After that second sack, he was rattled. It looked like his head was still spinning from Zhao Dong's hit."
"Only 135 passing yards," Wells confirmed. "That's not Brady's normal level—not even close. The Jets deserve credit, but make no mistake, this wasn't New England at full strength. Losing the Shark changed everything. Unless they find reinforcements, the Jets will have their number again."
Finally, Wells turned hopeful. "Now, the focus shifts. This Jets team has a real shot at the division. If they keep this up, we could be looking at a Super Bowl run."
---
Then Neveda's tone shifted. "We've just received word from the hospital. Patriots safety Myron is out of danger. But the Shark—his injuries are far more severe. Doctors are still working on him. We may be looking at a tragedy."
Wells bowed his head. "He's a warrior. No matter what happens, the NFL will always be proud of him."
---
After the postgame celebration, Zhao Dong returned to the locker room. Steam rose from the showers as he pulled up the System interface.
Every objective checked green. Another "serious injury recovery" chance added to his rewards.
It was critical insurance. If he hadn't already burned two minor recoveries during the game, he might not have finished the contest at all.
Now he sat with one serious recovery and zero minor ones remaining.
"System, can I trade the serious recovery for minor ones?" Zhao Dong asked.
"Yes," the System replied. "One serious recovery equals five minor recoveries."
"What about the other way around?"
"Ten minor recoveries equals one serious recovery."
"Swindler!" Zhao Dong cursed with a grin.
Still, he confirmed the trade. In seconds, his inventory updated: one serious recovery, five minors.
Stats rolled in: two opponents injured, twenty-seven effective hits, forty-six total collisions.
He exhaled, then froze.
The number flickered. The total updated.
136 collisions.
Zhao Dong stared, stunned.
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