The Jets didn't give the Panthers a choice. They kicked the ball deep, sending it straight out of the end zone. The Panthers' offense set up at the 20-yard line, and both special teams jogged off the field.
Zhao Dong, the Jets' middle linebacker, crouched behind the defensive line, eyes scanning the Panthers' formation.
Shotgun formation.
Their star quarterback, Rom Chelste, stood five yards behind the center, hands loose, eyes sharp.
This setup was built for passing—keeping the quarterback away from immediate pressure. For defenders like Zhao Dong, it made sacks a rarity. He usually thrived when the offense ran closer formations, but now… interceptions were his best shot.
Because sacks, while satisfying, don't flip the field. The ball stays in enemy hands.
The real prize? Interceptions.
There were three levels of defense:
Pass interception—the best result. Immediate turnover, with the chance to return it.
Collision interception—rocking the receiver so hard he drops it, then recovering the ball.
Quarterback sack—killing the play but not stealing possession.
The weakest option was simply tackling the receiver after a catch. That meant the opponent already gained ground.
But defense was a chain reaction. Pressure the pocket, rattle the QB, force bad throws—that was the real art.
"Attack!"
Rom Chelste's sharp shout triggered the snap.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bodies collided instantly. The Jets lined up in a 4–3 formation, and the trenches erupted. Nine linemen and tight ends slammed together like charging bulls. The dull thuds echoed like war drums.
The Jets' defensive line used a single-gap attack, hammering between the Panthers' center and left guard. The Lions' massive nose tackle—160 kilograms of raw power—exploded forward, cracking the pocket open.
Zhao Dong darted toward the gap, instincts ready to pounce—
Then—CRASH!
A black blur smashed into him from the side, flattening him into the turf.
"Damn it!" Zhao Dong growled.
The weight pinning him down was none other than the Panthers' Pro Bowl offensive tackle, Carl Marton. The giant grinned, white teeth flashing through his facemask.
The whistle blew. The Panthers completed a short pass to their tight end, gaining six yards before being stopped. First down ended.
"Get off me."
Zhao Dong shoved the heavier Marton off with effort and scrambled to his feet.
Marton sneered, stepping forward with his chest puffed.
"Chinaman, you'll never win the Super Bowl. Not in this life. You don't deserve it!"
BANG!
He slammed his chest into Zhao Dong, knocking him back a step.
Zhao Dong's eyes flashed. He hated anyone named Karl. And he hated disrespect even more. His fist shot forward, burying a heavy hook into Marton's gut.
"Ugh!"
The 150-kilo lineman doubled over, almost dropping to a knee.
BEEP!
The referee's whistle cut the air as players rushed in.
Zhao Dong spat at Marton.
"You're trash. You belong in prison."
"Shit!" Marton roared, charging again.
Zhao Dong sidestepped, shoving him hard. The mountain of a man toppled sideways, crashing to the turf.
"Get him!" a Panthers player yelled—
WHAM!
Before he could finish, a Jets defender dropped him to the ground.
Within seconds, the Super Bowl turned into a full-on brawl.
---
Up in the stands, Jordan jumped to his feet with a laugh.
"Now I get why Zhao Dong switched to the NFL. Fighting's half the game here!"
O'Neal cupped his hands and bellowed, "Only violent men belong in the NFL!"
Barkley leaned back, chuckling. "Compared to this, every NBA player's a gentleman—even Karl Malone. Well, maybe half a gentleman."
Jordan shook his head. "No, no, not him. Never him."
The 70,000 fans inside the stadium roared with approval, clapping and cheering the chaos. Celebrities in the front rows weren't shocked either—many stood up, laughing and applauding the melee.
After two minutes of chaos, a swarm of security guards finally broke the fight apart. The field was a mess—players shoved, cursed, and flashed middle fingers across the human wall of officials.
Zhao Dong finally understood why the NFL would never conquer the globe—it was too raw, too ungentlemanly. Still, this was the battlefield he chose.
The referee gathered the crew, then made the ruling.
Personal foul—Jets.
Zhao Dong started it.
Five-yard penalty.
The Panthers moved forward, combining the six-yard gain with the penalty to earn a fresh first down at the 31-yard line.
---
The rumble of cleats echoed again as both teams reset.
Across the line, Marton glared at Zhao Dong, his eyes cold and murderous beneath the helmet.
"Damn Chinese, you're dead. I'll bury you today."
Zhao Dong smirked, snorting through his facemask.
"Attack!" Chelste barked.
The ball snapped. The trenches exploded again.
Marton bulldozed through the Jets' left defensive tackle, knocking him flat. Then his eyes locked on Zhao Dong.
But before he could strike—
CRASH!
A massive force blindsided him. His shoulder buckled, his balance shattered.
He collapsed onto the turf.
"Beautiful hit! Zhao Dong just flattened Carl Marton!" commentator Luka Michael's voice thundered across the stadium.
The crowd went wild.
Zhao Dong didn't slip through the gap the Lions had opened for him. Instead, he lowered his shoulder and drove straight into Carl Marton.
At that moment, Marton had just finished knocking over his own teammate and came to a stop. His balance was shaky, his momentum gone, and without acceleration his raw tonnage was far less threatening. Zhao Dong saw the perfect opening.
The collision went exactly as he expected. Shoulder to shoulder, Zhao Dong sent Marton crashing to the turf, bulldozed through the offensive line, and exploded toward the quarterback.
As the sack attempt unfolded, the quarterback felt the crushing pressure and scrambled to dodge. But against Zhao Dong's elite athleticism, it was hopeless. Quarterbacks in the NFL are rarely the best athletes on the field, and this one was no exception. Forced into desperation, he tried to heave a quick pass—
"Snap!"
Zhao Dong's reflexes were lightning-fast. Before the quarterback's arm even came up, he swatted the ball loose and sealed off the lane. In the same motion, he scooped up the ball.
But before he could even think about a return, a Panthers offensive guard thundered down on him, pinning him to the ground.
"Unsuccessful pass! That's incomplete!" Panthers quarterback Rom Chelste bolted toward the referee, yelling furiously.
The ref's tone was cold, unshaken:
"No. 6, the pass motion was completed. That's a turnover."
The penalty was confirmed—the Panthers had coughed up possession. The Jets would start their drive from the Panthers' 24-yard line, exactly where Zhao Dong was buried.
Commentator Lance Victor chuckled. "That's the right call. Chelste's throwing motion was complete. That's a clean fumble recovery for the Jets."
His partner, Luca Michael, added, "And now the Jets are set up just outside the red zone. The Panthers are in real trouble."
---
The Jets' offense trotted on.
"Ball's going to Zhao Dong," Coach Edward said quickly, outlining the play. "You're lining up as a tight end. Watch for their defensive tackle, Neo Tielin—he's a beast."
"Got it, coach," Zhao Dong replied with a nod.
Neo Tielin was no joke—155 kilograms of explosive muscle, lightning-fast for his size, and currently third in the league in sacks. The Panthers paid him seven million a year for good reason.
Both teams lined up at the 24.
The Jets showed a shotgun formation. Zhao Dong crouched at tight end on the right side of the line—the strong side. With three wide receivers split out and only one tight end on the field, the formation screamed pass.
"Watch the Chinese!" the Panthers' middle linebacker barked. "Neo, that's your man!"
Neo Tielin dropped his stance, eyes locked on Zhao Dong. He snorted and growled like a bull ready to charge, not even glancing at the Jets' offensive tackle across from him.
"Hut!"
Center Thor snapped the ball.
The Jets' O-line surged forward. Pads cracked, helmets clashed, and the pocket held firm. Three of Carolina's four defensive linemen were swallowed up—including Neo Tielin, flattened to the turf.
The reason? Zhao Dong.
At the snap, he ignored the strong-side linebacker, barreled straight into Neo, and combined with his tackle to send the star defender sprawling. The linebacker, suddenly without a target, stumbled forward and hit the dirt. The Panthers' scheme collapsed instantly.
Zhao Dong slipped free, bypassed the middle linebacker, and burst into the red zone.
Quarterback Welin Paul fired. Zhao Dong hauled in the pass, spun, and shook off the safety closing in from the left.
But two more defenders—the safeties and a corner—closed in from the right. The middle linebacker recovered and came charging from behind. Zhao Dong was trapped.
Instead of forcing it, he spotted wide receiver Tom Hanks all alone near the 20. Not a defender within five yards.
"Swoosh!"
Zhao Dong rifled a lateral cross-field pass.
"Beautiful vision!" Lance Victor shouted.
Tom Hanks' eyes lit up as the ball spiraled in. He caught it clean at the 20 and turned on the jets.
The Panthers' nearest cornerback lunged, but he was a step too slow. Tom sprinted untouched into the open field.
One last safety dove in desperation, but Tom juked right, cut inside, and sprinted into the end zone.
"Touchdown!"
The stadium erupted—cheers thundering even from neutral fans at Ruilant Stadium.
On the sideline, Neo Tielin seethed. "Damn it! That sneaky Chinese!"
Victor roared into his mic, "What a sequence! Zhao Dong bulldozes Neo Tielin, breaks free, then fires a brilliant lateral that completely shredded the Panthers' defense!"
Luca Michael added, "That play was worth six points alone—and I'd credit at least half of them directly to Zhao Dong."
The Jets' special teams converted the extra point. Scoreboard: Jets 7, Panthers 0.
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