Lindsay wasn't just trying to mess with Jordan's head anymore.
Ever since that bag of cash got exposed in the shooting incident in late June, she'd already set her sights on big sports brands like Nike. Now? She was making moves—serious ones. She'd begun quietly buying into Nike stocks and spreading word around, all to lure in more hot money to follow the wave.
Orders were sent immediately.
Her fund kicked into full gear, aggressively sweeping up shares. Nike was the main target, but Adidas, Reebok, Puma—none of them were safe. She was on a rampage.
And just like that, the vultures swooped in.
The hot money trailing Lindsay like sharks picking at leftovers didn't hesitate. They pounced on Nike and Adidas stocks. Share prices for both surged like crazy, catching fire in minutes.
Panic spread inside boardrooms.
Nike and Adidas execs were in full crisis mode. Getting targeted by Wall Street's financial wolves meant only one thing—being torn apart.
In the front row of the event, Michael Jordan sat pale-faced, tension all over his expression. He'd just gotten word from Nike. Funds had started pouring in, the Storm Fund was on the move, and his financial empire was now staring down a serious threat.
Sitting beside him was Karl Malone.
The Mailman had already made up his mind—not to deal with Zhao Dong off the court. Nah, if they were gonna settle anything, it would be on the hardwood.
Inside the locker room, Zhao Dong was lounging, chilled out, until the door burst open.
"Hubby?"
It was Lindsay.
"What's got you so hyped up?" Zhao Dong asked, catching that smug little grin on her face.
"Everybody out," she said, motioning the staff and bodyguards to step out. Once it was just the two of them, she slid in close, wrapping herself around his arm.
She leaned in and whispered with a wicked smile, "The Nike plan is officially in motion."
Zhao Dong smirked. "I'm leaving it to you."
When it came to investments, Zhao Dong didn't like meddling in the day-to-day stuff. He used his knowledge from the future to steer the ship, but Lindsay? She was the real beast in the financial game.
Twenty years down the line, Nike would be worth over $150 billion, pulling in more than $10 billion in quarterly sales. Adidas? Just a tenth of that. Yet combined, the two brands would dominate half the global sneaker market.
If Zhao Dong Sports—now branded under Zhao Dong—could acquire both, they'd become untouchable. A future empire with billions in annual sales locked in.
Lindsay's eyes lit up with determination. "We can't keep playing defense. I'm sick of them trying to play us from the shadows."
"Cool," Zhao Dong replied casually. "Let's crush 'em."
"But…" she added thoughtfully, "if too much hot money follows and we don't scoop up enough shares, we might not be able to complete the acquisition."
Zhao Dong waved it off. "Then screw it. If it doesn't work out, forget the takeover. With Silver Demon's tech, we'll crush them either way."
"That's what I was thinking!" Lindsay said with a grin. "Just launching the acquisition will scare them into buying back shares from the market. We go long first, then short. Drain them dry. That'll mess up their cash flow and force them into defense."
"Perfect," Zhao Dong laughed. "Bleed 'em out first. Then buy them out. Bankruptcy, one by one."
Lindsay nodded excitedly. "Yeah!"
The two of them broke into laughter—like a pair of little foxes scheming in the dark.
Meanwhile, chaos erupted inside Nike's headquarters.
"President! The stock price just jumped 15%! Buyback efforts just started, but at this rate, we won't have enough capital!"
"Keep repurchasing!" Phil Knight shouted, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Apply for a damn mortgage loan if we have to!"
Everything had happened so fast. Wall Street didn't even leak a rumor about it. They were caught totally off guard.
But even if they had known, what could they have done? Physical companies like theirs were no match for Wall Street's elite funds. It was like trying to outrun a cheetah in flip-flops.
By nine o'clock, the warm-ups were done. It was showtime.
"Tell the host to hurry the hell up. I can't wait to knock his head off!"
Mike Tyson paced his lounge like a beast caged too long, the red cape on his back fluttering like flames. His roars echoed off the walls.
His crew was all chill. Even his agent, Frank Warren, looked like he was watching a charity match. None of them believed Tyson could lose to a basketball player.
Hell, they weren't even counting rounds.
They were counting seconds.
"Michael Tyson, the most devastating heavyweight boxer in the world…"
In the ESPN commentary booth, Michael Buffer was breaking down Tyson's record, voice full of respect.
Tyson's name alone brought deafening cheers from the UK crowd. The boxing fans loved their monster. Just hearing his name gave people chills.
"Zhao Dong, also known as the Golden Tyrant
Michael Buffer read out Zhao Dong's intro. The applause that followed? Weak, scattered.
Basketball wasn't big in the UK. The NBA was barely a whisper over there. In fact, Zhao Dong's fame probably ranked below a third-string forward from League One.
Back in the locker room—
"Time's up."
A staff member popped his head in and gave the signal.
Swish!
Tyson ripped his red cape off and stomped out like a rabid beast being let off its leash.
"Miek! Go kill that fool! Show him what a real fighter looks like!"
"Smash him, Mike! Make him regret ever touching a pair of gloves!"
"Make him bleed! Let him feel that signing ceremony shame in his bones!"
Outside the tunnel, some of boxing's most iconic legends were waiting—British champ Lennox Lewis, George Foreman, even Holyfield, who still had flashbacks from the time Tyson bit off part of his ear last year.
They were all there to watch Tyson destroy a basketball player.
"My pride can only be washed away with his blood!"
Tyson roared like a damn Tyrannosaurus Rex.
That moment during the signing ceremony—Zhao Dong kicked him over in front of everyone. Then came the media slander, the ridicule, the shame. For Tyson, that humiliation stung worse than prison time.
At the other end of a dark, narrow corridor, Zhao Dong stood still, calm as ever.
On the other side of those curtains? Another world. The deafening roar of the crowd sounded like a hundred jet engines going off at once.
Behind him were Lindsay and his boxing team, looking tense as hell. Compared to Tyson's squad, they weren't nearly as confident. Everyone was yapping reminders like it was their first time coaching a fight.
"Zhao Dong, remember Tyson's habits. He loves baiting his opponents with jabs to draw your guard, then boom—comes in with a strong rear-hand straight," one coach barked.
"And if he gets close, he'll start throwing those damn hooks. Right-left combos, quick as lightning. Don't get caught in that rhythm!"
"Your accuracy still needs work. So defend smart—tight guard. Don't leave gaps!"
Coach John was practically drenched in sweat, yelling the same lines he'd repeated for weeks.
"But listen—when he hits you, hold your ground! You've got the best chin in the league. Just wait for your opening and drop that six-hundred-pound hammer. Doesn't matter if he's made of iron, one clean punch and you're sending him to sleep."
Suddenly, the crowd noise shifted.
"Ladies and gentlemen... please welcome... the Iron Mike... MIMIMIMIMIMIMIMIMI—MIKE TYSON!"
As the hype man's voice echoed, two beams of white light blasted through the darkness toward the north entrance. A split-second later, a beast charged into view.
"OHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
The crowd erupted.
Tyson came out throwing air punches like a savage, the whole stadium losing its mind. The volume spiked like the roof was about to blow off. Cameras flashed everywhere—pop, pop, pop!
"AND NOW... give it up for the NBA's own superstar... GOLDEN TYTYTYTYTYTYRANT—ZHAO DONG!"
The lights turned south. Zhao Dong walked into the spotlight with quiet focus.
Pah... pah... pah...
The applause? Sparse.
"Man, you about to get your head cracked by the Iron Mike!"
"This ain't your playground, Chinaman! Go back to the NBA where you belong! Maybe pick up a ping pong paddle, 'cause this ring's for real ones!"
Tyson's fans weren't shy. Booing. Yelling. Throwing every kind of disrespect they could.
Zhao Dong? Cool as hell. Just threw back, "Anyone cussing me out is a f**king idiot."
He stepped toward the ring. As he passed, he saw familiar faces—some from Hollywood, but more from the league.
O'Neal, Reggie Miller, Shawn Kemp, Garnett, Payton... More than a dozen top NBA names had flown out to watch the show. The season had been on hold way too long. Everyone was bored out of their minds.
Zhao Dong nodded to a few of them, then made his way toward Michael Jordan and Karl Malone.
"Yo, MJ, you look kinda pale. You sick or something?" he asked, smirking.
Jordan scowled, shooting a glance at Lindsay standing behind Zhao Dong.
"Damn gigolo," he muttered. "You really don't know what your girl's been up to?"
Zhao Dong grinned. "So I heard Tyson's mad at me. Wants to end my whole career. You wanna help me smooth things out?"
Jordan raised an eyebrow. "You? Fix it? You got beef with him just like I do."
Zhao Dong shrugged. "Easy fix—just knock him out."
Jordan sneered. "More like he's gonna knock you out."
Zhao Dong tilted his head. "Ten million on it. You in?"
"Hell no." Jordan turned away instantly.
Like hell I'm betting with you, he thought. Your girl might tank Nike one day. I'm not that dumb.
"Coward," Zhao Dong said, shaking his head in fake disappointment.
Jordan was fuming now, nostrils flaring—but with Lindsay there, he wasn't about to pop off. All he could do was mentally curse Zhao Dong into the ground, calling him a bloodsucking parasite.
Then Zhao Dong turned to O'Neal, who was chatting near Karl Malone.
"Shaq, seriously? You trying to pull the Mailman to the Lakers now? Even if y'all win a title, it'll be a damn leaky dynasty."
O'Neal's face scrunched up fast. "Yo, that wasn't me! He wants to come! I didn't ask for that!"
Like a cat who just got its tail stepped on, Shaq went into full defense mode. If he got labeled a ring-chaser, that stain would stick forever.
Karl Malone stood quietly, face pale as hell while the two clowned on him like he wasn't right there.
But inside, he was steaming.
Fine, he swore silently. Next season, I'm teaming up with Iverson. We'll knock the Knicks out of the playoffs, and I'll shove that smug smile off your face, Zhao Dong. You'll see.
By the way, best case scenario—we make it to the Finals and smack the hell outta the Lakers and Shaq. That'd be sweet.
Up in the ring, Tyson stood alone, arms crossed, already pissed. He was watching Zhao Dong still joking around with people below the stage. His face darkened with irritation. He couldn't take it anymore and barked at the referee, "Man, I'm getting cold over here! Tell him to bring his ass up!"
The referee glanced at the time. It was about right. He gave Zhao Dong the nod to head up.
Five minutes later, everything was set. As the bell rang, the first round officially began.
"Box!"
The ref waved his hand down and shouted.
Tyson instantly jolted to life and lunged forward.
That was his signature style—pressure, pressure, pressure. He always moved forward, shaking his upper body as he advanced to dodge any potential counters.
Back in his prime, Tyson's reflexes, balance, flexibility, and coordination were elite. Straight up world-class.
But now? He was thirty-two. Past his peak. Ever since that 1991 prison case, his edge had dulled. The lack of consistent training during those years had left a mark.
Tyson wasn't stronger than Zhao Dong anymore—he was weaker. Zhao Dong had top-tier physical attributes too, with only his balance falling a little short of elite.
But what Tyson lacked in raw attributes, he made up for with insane experience and polished skills.
That's why his forward pressure was so bold, full of confidence. The energy he came with was wild—aggressive as hell.
Even before he threw a punch, his presence was overwhelming. He radiated that killer instinct, forcing pressure onto Zhao Dong like a tidal wave.
This was Tyson's specialty—dominate mentally before physically. Get in your head, make you second-guess everything, then destroy you.
"Yeahhh!"
Just his first few steps had the entire stadium erupting.
Zhao Dong kept his right fist raised high, guarding his head. He jabbed with his left twice, trying to keep Tyson back.
Tyson was only 180 cm with a wingspan of the same. Zhao Dong stood at 205 cm with a 220 cm wingspan. Massive advantage.
If Zhao Dong had better boxing fundamentals, he could've easily kept Tyson at range and shut him out of the pocket.
But he didn't. That's why Coach John told him to focus on a defensive counterattack strategy.
Those two jabs? Just testing Tyson's reactions.
Right away, Zhao Dong noticed how unpredictable Tyson's bobbing and weaving was. His punches whiffed.
Tyson capitalized. The moment Zhao Dong missed, he blitzed forward and got right into his striking zone.
Zhao Dong quickly reset, pulling his left back into guard, covering up with both hands. He slid a step back defensively.
As he retreated, Tyson sent two devastating hooks straight at him. Luckily, Zhao Dong had stepped back in time, and his guard held.
But Tyson didn't let up. He kept coming, like a damn freight train.
"Ahhh!"
The crowd lost their minds as Tyson went full beast mode.
"Back up! Don't let him trap you!" John yelled from the corner.
"Careful, honey!" Lindsay shouted nervously from the sidelines.
On ESPN, Kevin Harlan was amped. "Iron Mike is pressing the action! Tyson's got Zhao Dong on the back foot! He's trying to pin him into that corner..."
"Only ten seconds in and Zhao Dong's already about to get trapped near the post. If Tyson corners him, it's lights out—Tyson's KO power is deadly in that position!" Kevin added.
Zhao Dong could feel the bottom corner creeping closer with every step back. Tyson's pressure was relentless. He hadn't landed yet, but the intensity was suffocating.
Zhao Dong's heart pounded. His spirit burned hotter with every step, fury building up like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Bang!
He finally hit the bottom post with his back.
The crowd went feral. Eyes widened, adrenaline spiked, and people jumped to their feet, screaming.
"Beat his ass!" Karl Malone shouted from the VIP seats.
"Let's go! Light him up!" Jordan yelled, fired up.
"Got your ass now, softie!"
Tyson was pumped too. But instead of throwing hands, he lowered his guard completely—arms down, chin exposed—taunting Zhao Dong with head feints right in his face.
Straight up disrespect.
"OOHHHH!"
That taunt sent the stadium into a frenzy. Decibel levels spiked through the roof, echoing like a sonic boom.
But then, Zhao Dong did something that left everyone speechless.
He dropped his guard too.
Just like that, the entire stadium froze like they'd been splashed with ice water. The noise level plummeted instantly.
"...Oh my God," Kevin whispered.
"Is he crazy?!" Teddy shouted.
Even Tyson was caught off guard.
Then—it happened.
Zhao Dong exploded forward, launching a wild series of uppercuts with zero defense. Just pure raw aggression.
Tyson instantly responded, throwing his own deadly uppercuts. It was a brutal, no-guard brawl, two monsters clashing at point-blank range.
Bang!
Zhao Dong missed with his left uppercut.
Tyson's right uppercut landed flush on Zhao Dong's cheek—just shy of the chin.
It was a heavy shot. Tyson had struck first.
Zhao Dong's head snapped back violently, his vision blurring for a second.
But the punch wasn't enough to knock him out.
Zhao Dong roared in defiance, immediately countering with a right hook.
Bang!
Tyson dodged slightly, but couldn't avoid it fully. The punch crashed into the left side of his face, twisting his head sharply. His cheek deformed from the impact, and spit sprayed out like mist.
Tyson's nicknames weren't just for show—"The Baddest Man on the Planet," "KO King," "Iron Mike."
And yeah, "Iron Mike" for a reason. The dude could eat punches like metal.
But even he had to admit—Zhao Dong's power was no joke.
"Shit, that was heavy…"
The warning signs started flashing in Tyson's head.
But there was no time to think. Zhao Dong was already swinging again, eyes wild, fists flying in an insane uppercut barrage.
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