At noon on the 22nd, a New York TV station aired a live sports segment that sent shockwaves through the city.
Leopard Ruhl stared into the camera, his tone sharp and cold.
"I don't know why he came to the NFL, but he shouldn't have. This league isn't the NBA. This place is pure, and he's polluted it."
Beside him, Black Panther Ringer Howard's eyes flashed with fury.
"He and his wife brought nothing but bad luck to this country. Ever since they came to New York, the stock market's been tanking. His wife wrecked our financial market. I lost a fortune—nearly went bankrupt. I hate them. They're parasites, sucking the blood out of us. They should be investigated… and arrested—"
The station abruptly cut the feed. Even in a city built on scandal, the producers weren't willing to air the rest.
---
Zhao Dong, meanwhile, had kept his promise to the Lion. After the Patriots game, he invited the entire team aboard his yacht, the Dongweihao, for several days at sea.
By now, the Jets had cleaned house. Every racist troublemaker in the locker room had been traded, cut, or silenced. With Zhao Dong personally sweetening the deals, the team had become one of the most stable locker rooms in the league.
Lindsay and the kids stayed home—Zhao Dong didn't want her stomach jostled by the waves.
She hadn't seen the Panthers' interview, but her assistant, Miss Meilin, had received the video directly from the TV station. Dolan's network didn't dare offend Lindsay.
"Miss Linlin, has that retired Giants star been sentenced yet?" Lindsay suddenly asked, remembering what Zhao Dong had mentioned weeks ago.
"You mean Lawrence Taylor, madam? Not yet. The lawyers haven't reported back—it's probably still in process."
"That's fine," Lindsay said, her voice sharp. "Tell them to deal with this together. New York needs gentleman-like sports stars, not racists."
"Yes, madam. I'll inform them immediately."
By four that afternoon, Miss Meilin had the lawyers' report. They were already gathering evidence on the two Panthers, but it would take time.
---
On the 24th, the Dongweihao docked back in New York. Training resumed immediately.
Even on the yacht, players hadn't slacked. A full gym on board allowed dozens to lift and condition at once. Between the workouts and the sea air, morale had never been higher.
---
By the 28th, derby day had arrived. Jets vs. Giants. Sunday Night Football.
Before sundown, tens of thousands of fans poured into Giants Stadium. By seven o'clock, more than 80,000 seats were filled, with thousands more left outside.
To appease the ticketless masses, the Giants erected giant video screens outside the stadium so fans could watch.
Inside, the colors told the story. For every Giants fan in blue, there was a Jets fan in white. The city was split down the middle.
---
In the stands, arguments turned heated.
"We'll win tonight! Zhao will crush your defense!"
"Dream on! He's not getting past the Blood Slaughterer!"
"Keep talking. Next year, Zhao will join the Giants—New York's real team."
"Please. You won't even make the playoffs. We're going to the Super Bowl!"
Words turned into shoving matches, and shoving turned into small fights. Security broke them up, but the atmosphere was electric. The fans' adrenaline matched the players'.
---
In the Jets' locker room, players strapped on pads while coaches finalized game plans. Security filled the corridors outside, some even carrying riot shields. Everyone knew this derby could get ugly.
Zhao Dong's bodyguard detail had been doubled. Lindsay wasn't taking chances.
Though called the "visiting locker room," it was really the Jets' old home space. Both teams had fixed rooms in Giants Stadium, adding another layer of tension.
As Zhao Dong laced his cleats, his phone buzzed. Miss Meilin.
"Sir," she said briskly, "the lawyers have enough evidence to bring both Panthers down. Illegal gun mods, drugs, street racing, domestic violence, tax evasion—the works. The police are on their way to the stadium."
Zhao Dong smirked. "Good. But tell them to wait until after the game. No distractions tonight."
"Yes, sir."
---
Across the hall, the Giants' stars were preparing.
"Reynolds," Ringer Howard growled, "how do we deal with that Chinese guy tonight?"
Leopard Ruhl, his hair dyed in wild colors more outrageous than Rodman's, sneered.
"Simple. Find a way to kill him."
In the Giants' locker room before kickoff, the Black and White Panthers were plotting.
"If he's lined up at wide receiver, hit his legs when he jumps for the ball. Step on his feet if you can. If he's at linebacker, use the chaos to drive an elbow into his helmet. Just don't make it too obvious," Ringer Howard growled. "As long as we take him out, we can win. Whatever the price, it's worth it."
Ling Howard nodded eagerly, eyes flashing as he looked around the room.
Some teammates nodded along—thugs cut from the same cloth. But others pretended not to hear. They weren't crazy. Crossing a Wall Street titan like Zhao Dong wasn't just dangerous—it could end careers. Maybe lives.
The Panthers didn't care. As far as they were concerned, only Zhao Dong stood between them and fame. Beat him, and they'd own New York.
---
At exactly eight o'clock, the New York Derby kicked off.
The Jets won the toss and chose to receive. Special teams jogged onto the field, the crowd buzzing like a live wire.
Zhao Dong, lined up deep as the primary returner, took his spot.
In the broadcast booth, Russell Neveda leaned into his mic.
"I wonder—do the Giants even dare kick it to him?"
Wells Michael chuckled.
"Not if they're smart. Zhao has already trucked Dakar. Who wants him running 100 yards downhill?"
The stadium roared as the Giants' kicker launched the ball sky-high.
Bang!
"Oh! They gave him a shot?" Wells shouted, shocked.
---
Zhao Dong tracked the ball, backpedaling into the end zone. Behind him, the Giants' coverage team sprinted down like wolves, forming a heavy wall.
"Return! Return! Return!"
Tens of thousands of Jets fans thundered in unison, the sound rattling the steel beams of the stadium. Everyone wanted the same thing—a 100-yard return touchdown to silence the Giants on their own turf.
Snap!
Zhao Dong caught the ball cleanly. One step, two steps—and he was gone.
He exploded forward, streaking out of the end zone. Three Giants defenders converged: one straight ahead, two closing from behind, forming a trap.
Zhao Dong sprinted directly at the man in the middle—then, at the last second, cut hard to the right.
The crowd gasped.
Most players would've snapped an ankle or shredded a ligament trying to change direction at that speed. But Zhao Dong's balance, flexibility, and sheer power let him bend physics. His knees and ankles were iron.
The middle defender lunged helplessly past, like a bull charging air.
"So beautiful!" Neveda exclaimed—then his tone flipped in an instant. "Oh no!"
---
Zhao Dong had broken through the first wave and was preparing to cut again—when suddenly, disaster struck.
The defender on the right tripped. Not by accident. He stumbled directly into Zhao Dong's path.
Bang!
Zhao Dong clipped his legs, somersaulting violently across the turf. He tumbled six, seven times before crashing to a stop.
"Ohhh!"
Eighty thousand fans cried out in shock.
At that speed, a trip like that could end a career. Maybe worse.
Beep!
The referee's whistle cut through the chaos, halting play.
"Damn it!"
On the Jets' sideline, General Manager Maureen Phillips exploded. "That was intentional! That bastard did it on purpose! I swear he's finished!" His voice cracked with panic—if Zhao Dong was seriously hurt, the Jets' season, and his own job, were in jeopardy.
"Doctor! Get in there, now!" Roger Hanks, head of Zhao Dong's bodyguards, shouted, pale with rage.
Across the field, the Giants' bench erupted in cheers. The Black and White Panthers grinned like predators.
Then their smiles froze.
Because Zhao Dong… was already climbing to his feet.
"No way. He's not hurt?"
"Unbelievable. I told you Zhao doesn't break."
The Jets' sideline erupted in relief and wild cheers. The Panthers cursed under their breath.
Roger Hanks let out a shaky laugh. "Lucky son of a gun. Otherwise I'd be putting a bullet in that clown tonight."
Zhao Dong, teeth bared, stormed toward the guilty defender. His fury was unmistakable.
"You bastard!" he roared, ready to tear him apart.
(End of Chapter)
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