"Could it be… Dakar didn't make it?" Zhao Dong muttered under his breath.
That was the only explanation for the sudden surge in his System's "brutal collisions" count. Nothing else fit.
He shut off the hot water, wrapped himself in a towel, and walked out of the shower in a daze.
Head Coach Edward's phone rang. He answered, listened for a few seconds, then sighed heavily.
"Hello? …What? …I see. It's his misfortune. God will bless him in heaven. May he rest in peace."
He hung up with a solemn expression.
Zhao Dong didn't need to guess. He already knew. Dakar was gone.
Sure enough, Edward turned to the team and announced:
"Gentlemen… I've just received word. Newman Dakar, the Man-Eating Shark, could not be saved. He has passed away."
The locker room went silent. The celebration died instantly.
Edward looked straight at Zhao Dong. "Zhao, this kind of tragedy is rare, but it's happened before in this league. Don't carry the burden on your shoulders. You understand?"
Zhao Dong nodded gravely. "I understand."
But inside, he whispered to himself: I don't feel any burden at all.
---
In the visiting locker room, grief quickly turned to rage.
"Zhao is a butcher!" one Patriot shouted.
"We'll avenge Dakar!" another snapped.
"Let's go find him right now!"
Dozens of players shouted, fists slamming into lockers. Several even tried to rush toward the door.
Bill Belichick's roar cut through the chaos like a whip:
"Calm down! We're athletes, not gangsters! Newman was injured in a legal hit—it happens in football. Zhao isn't responsible, and you damn well know it."
He jabbed a finger at them. "If you go after him now, you'll be crushed by his bodyguards. The whole country knows those men were handpicked by Mrs. Lindsay—they're professionals, trained killers. They might even carry permits. You want to throw your lives away?"
The room quieted. Anger faded into nervous silence. Most of them hadn't even been close to Newman Dakar. Teammates, yes. Friends? Not really. None were willing to die for him.
Outside, security had already been alerted. Guards lined the tunnel between the two locker rooms, making sure nothing spilled over.
---
A short while later, the postgame press conferences began.
The first question came fast.
"Zhao, what do you have to say about Dakar death?" a New York Times reporter asked.
Zhao Dong lowered his eyes, his voice heavy.
"I just learned the news. I am very sorry. Because of a collision with me, an outstanding football player has passed away. That's heartbreaking. Although it was a normal football play, it's an outcome no one ever wants to see. I hope Newman Dakar rests in peace."
He wiped his eyes, though no tears came. His face carried the weight of the moment.
Another reporter jumped in, ignoring the order.
"Zhao, after this tragedy, will you think twice before making a full-speed hit again?"
Zhao Dong's eyes narrowed. His voice dropped into steel.
"Football is a great sport. On that play, I was ready for anything—even if the result had been my own death. Every player in the NFL accepts that risk. That's the spirit that inspires millions of young athletes to dream of playing here."
He leaned toward the microphone.
"Every year, tens of thousands of college players fight for a chance at the NFL. Are they afraid? No. There are no cowards here. So yes—if the opportunity comes again, I will attack with everything I have. Anyone who stands in my way will be destroyed. Life or death isn't my concern."
The room gasped. Then the press hall erupted into applause and cheers.
---
The next morning, headlines across America screamed the same words:
"DAKAR DEAD — NFL IN SHOCK."
Public debate reignited. Some called for new safety rules. Even congressmen joined the chorus. But resistance was strong. Football was violent by nature—and that violence was part of its appeal.
The truth was simple: if a player couldn't handle it, he'd go play basketball, baseball, or hockey. The NFL remained the ultimate stage for America's toughest athletes. Its influence dwarfed the other leagues.
And everyone knew one reason why: the brutal, bloody, breathtaking style of the game.
The violent, hard-hitting style of play gave athletes a rush like nothing else. The sheer intensity made hormones surge, adrenaline pump, and for many players it was addictive. They couldn't give it up, even if they wanted to.
And those who thrived in it formed one half of the opposition.
The other half, of course, were the vested interests—the league officials, networks, and sponsors who profited from the NFL's brutality.
Zhao Dong didn't bother himself with those debates. His mind was elsewhere.
Through the first three games, he'd learned something: with his elite all-around physical abilities and the special "Wild Collision" talent badge, his strength was beyond even his own expectations. His skills were already well-developed according to the System; what he lacked most was real in-game experience. But he wasn't underestimating himself anymore.
Now it was time to think bigger.
The Jets had brought in the Lion, and the difference was immediate. Without the Lion's dominance up front, Zhao Dong wouldn't have gotten to Brady as easily last game. Another piece or two could change everything.
If the team can land a star wide receiver or a top quarterback before the trade window closes… then the Super Bowl is possible. Even in my rookie year.
But Zhao Dong's long-term plans stretched beyond football. His four sons were already three years old. In another three or four years, they'd start elementary school. There was no way they would grow up pledging allegiance to the Stars and Stripes.
His and Lindsay's business empire was rooted in China, not America. Staying in the United States for his NFL career was only temporary.
He had already decided: three to four more years in the league, then back to China. And right on time for the 2008 Beijing Olympics, where he planned to compete one last time before officially retiring.
---
A day later, with new headlines exploding, the tragic story of Dakar death faded from the front pages.
One of the biggest new hot spots? Zhao Dong himself.
New York Sports Daily:
> "In just four preseason games and three regular season games, the Steel-Armored Tyrannosaurus has proved one thing: if he could dominate the NBA, he can dominate the NFL. Dakar tragic death proved it with his life."
The New York Times:
"Zhao, Thor, and the Lion—three stars joining forces. The Jets are only a quarterback and wide receiver away from becoming true Super Bowl contenders."
The Washington Post:
"If the Patriots cannot replace Dakar with a trade, they will likely repeat last season's collapse and miss the playoffs again."
But hype is fleeting. Within a day, the focus had shifted again.
Now the New York media were building up the Jets' next game.
---
It would be the Jets' final game of September—Sunday Night Football on the 28th. A primetime, nationwide broadcast.
And it wasn't just any game.
It was the New York Derby. Jets vs. Giants.
Though the teams shared Giants Stadium, they played in different conferences and only met once every four years, unless fate brought them together in the Super Bowl. Their last clash had been four years ago.
This year, anticipation was electric.
In the New York metropolitan area—one of the most competitive sports markets in the world—this derby had been circled on calendars for months. Ticket prices were triple the usual rate, and still sold out in minutes.
Traditionally, the Giants had the bigger fanbase, stronger media backing, and the better historical record. But this time was different.
Because New York had Zhao Dong.
The city's most famous sports star, now in green and white, had swung the tide. Media coverage tilted in the Jets' favor. Fans lined up behind him. The Giants still had plenty of support, but for once, they were playing second fiddle.
---
On paper, the Giants weren't much better than the Jets. They lacked an elite quarterback and didn't look like contenders. But they had two stars:
Reynolds Ruhl, the white wideout known as the Panther.
Ringer Howard, the explosive black defensive end nicknamed the Black Panther.
Together, New York fans dubbed them the "Black and White Panthers." Both ranked among the top ten in the league at their positions. Both were local icons.
And both had a problem with Zhao Dong.
As fellow New York stars, the comparisons were inevitable. But since Zhao Dong's arrival in the NFL—and the media storm that followed—their shine had dimmed. His popularity dwarfed theirs. His dominance on the field made them look small.
Resentment turned to rivalry. Rivalry turned to hate.
Fueled by subtle racism that ran deep in American sports, the Panthers' dislike of Zhao Dong boiled over into open hostility.
The media, never missing a chance to stir hype, fanned the flames. Headlines and talk shows stoked the rivalry. And the Panthers finally snapped—firing shots directly at Zhao Dong in interviews.
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