The moment Holyfield landed a clean hit on Zhao Dong, he knew something was off—it wasn't solid. There was no weight behind it.
And in that split second, Holyfield's instincts kicked in. He made a rapid retreat, urgently stepping back.
Years of training had drilled that kind of decision into his body. No hesitation. Just pure fight IQ. He knew Zhao Dong would counter—hard.
And sure enough, just as Holyfield moved back, Zhao Dong's right swing punched straight through the air, grazing the tip of his nose. Had Holyfield stayed put, it would've landed flush.
"Beautiful!" Brin shouted from the NBC commentary booth. "Ivan with textbook defense and perfect anticipation—he's about to flip it!"
Holyfield didn't hesitate. Zhao Dong's missed punch left his entire left side exposed. It was time to strike.
With a twist of his core, Holyfield unleashed a right hook—directly into Zhao Dong's exposed left jaw.
Bang!
The punch snapped Zhao Dong's head to the right.
"Zhao Dong just got rocked on the chin!" Brin called out.
"Opportunity!" Wilson barked from the corner, his voice sharp.
Even Jordan, Barkley, and Jackie Chan froze in shock.
The referee's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, watching Zhao Dong carefully. He was ready to stop the fight in a heartbeat.
Unbeknownst to most, the referee had been paid—a large sum. But not to fix the fight. The payment came from Lindsay herself, with one request: keep Zhao Dong safe.
She didn't care if he won. Only that he walked out of the ring intact.
That money was more than the ref had earned in his entire career. And saying no to someone like Lindsay wasn't an option.
---
Holyfield wasn't done.
He rotated his torso and threw a devastating left uppercut, aiming for Zhao Dong's exposed chin.
The referee tensed, ready to leap in—but then he paused.
Zhao Dong was still moving.
Despite the second brutal punch rattling his head, Zhao Dong's body refused to fall. His elite-level core strength kicked in, stabilizing him.
And then—he countered.
Using the torque from his hips and core, Zhao Dong launched a right flat hook with everything he had.
Bang!
Bang!
They both landed.
Holyfield's uppercut connected again—directly beneath Zhao Dong's chin. The blow rattled through his skull like a freight train.
"BUZZ!"
Zhao Dong's vision blurred, his brain buzzed, and he stumbled a step back.
But at the same time, Zhao Dong's hook landed squarely on Holyfield's left temple.
And that was all it took.
---
BOOM!
The crowd let out a unified gasp.
It sounded like a hurricane swept through Madison Square Garden.
Holyfield's head snapped to the side. His legs buckled. Then his body stiffened like a wooden plank being felled by an axe.
He collapsed.
"Ohhhhhh!" The crowd exploded, a wave of sound that shook the roof.
At NBC's broadcast booth, Brin was already yelling, his voice cracking with excitement.
"TWENTY SECONDS! TWENTY SECONDS IN! Zhao Dong took two vicious shots to the chin—AND STILL KNOCKED OUT HOLYFIELD!"
"He just ate Holyfield's best punches and answered with one of the nastiest hooks I've ever seen!" Tom shouted.
Zhao Dong stood still for a beat, panting, his eyes scanning his fallen opponent. Blood had already begun swelling on Holyfield's left temple.
The referee sprinted over, waved Zhao Dong to the neutral corner, and immediately knelt beside Holyfield.
But there was no need to count.
Holyfield was out cold.
The ref straightened up, looked at the judges—and spread his arms wide.
Fight over.
---
"YEEEEAAAAHHH!" Zhao Dong roared, throwing his fists to the sky.
The arena erupted like a volcano.
Although the knockout came fast and unexpected, it hit like a bolt of lightning. The adrenaline in Madison Square Garden reached a fever pitch. Fans screamed themselves hoarse.
Back in the NBC booth, Brin was nearly hyperventilating.
"OH MY GOD, THE REFEREE WAVED IT OFF! HOLYFIELD'S OUT COLD! ZHAO DONG JUST ENDED IT IN ONE PUNCH!"
Tom was still shouting in disbelief. "He ate two clean hits to the face and STILL knocked him out! This man's jaw is made of iron, and his hands are straight from hell!"
"Damn… that was way too addictive."
Zhao Dong pumped his fists into the air, but his smile faded just as quickly. I didn't even break a sweat. It left a bitter aftertaste.
Holyfield had fallen too easily.
But what Zhao Dong didn't realize—or didn't care to acknowledge—was that his punch had been real. And with over 500 pounds of force, no one alive could withstand that kind of impact. Not Tyson. Not Holyfield. Not anyone.
Ringside, the other heavyweight champions were stunned. Confused.
"That's it?"
"It's over?"
The fight had barely started. Some were still finding their seats, expecting a twelve-round war.
"Ivan got careless."
"Yeah. After that hit to Zhao's chin, he should've backed off."
"You can't blame him. If you land a shot like that, do you retreat? No—you finish."
"Normally? Sure. But Zhao Dong isn't normal. The man eats punches for breakfast."
"I'm telling you—retreat would've been smarter. He opened himself up trying to follow through. That was the mistake."
Around the VIP section, the boxing champions started buzzing.
"So… who's gonna fight him next?"
"Me!"
"Me too!"
"What are y'all scrambling for? His next match is a mandatory defense. The WBA and IBF will decide who gets the shot."
"Still. Doesn't mean we can't try to get that slot."
"True. Damn—I forgot."
The scramble was on. Zhao Dong now held both belts—the biggest in the business. If you wanted to be king, you had to beat him.
---
On the canvas, Holyfield groaned.
"Ivan, you alright?" his coach asked, kneeling beside him.
Medics were already there, checking his vitals.
Holyfield couldn't feel pain—yet. His brain was foggy, everything around him spinning violently. Even lying flat, he felt like he was falling. That terrifying sensation was from his cerebellum, which hadn't yet recovered from the blow.
"Damn it..." he muttered.
The regret hit harder than the punch. He should've backed off after landing that first shot. He knew Zhao Dong's chin was legendary.
Worse still—the tactics were flawed. His coach's game plan had failed. Going for a combination against someone like Zhao Dong? Bad idea. No mental prep. No defensive fallback. He'd gone all-in and paid the price.
Holyfield closed his eyes. He hadn't just lost two belts.
He lost them in 20 seconds.
And because Zhao Dong wasn't a full-time pro, there was no rematch clause in the contract. If he wanted another shot, he'd have to wait. And hope Zhao Dong agreed.
Minutes later, Holyfield was stretchered off. The swelling on his temple was massive—possibly a fractured skull.
---
In front of a roaring crowd, the referee stepped forward, raised Zhao Dong's left hand, and declared him the winner.
The lights above Madison Square Garden shimmered on the two gold belts carried onto the ring by the presidents of the WBA and IBF.
"Congratulations, Zhao Dong!" said Hans, the IBF president. "That punch was incredible. You're the real king of power."
He handed Zhao Dong the IBF belt, adding, "We'd like your mandatory title defense within six months. But if needed, we can postpone it to the NBA off-season. We're willing to work with your schedule."
Zhao Dong shook his hand, "Thank you, Mr. Hans."
He raised the gold belt above his head as the crowd erupted again.
Next came John, chairman of the WBA. The crowd noise forced him to shout.
"Zhao Dong! The WBA is honored to see you as our champion. We'll wait for your title defense—just make sure it happens before this day next year!"
He handed over the second belt.
Zhao Dong nodded and raised it too. The noise in Madison Square Garden reached a fever pitch. Fans screamed like they'd witnessed a miracle.
---
Winning a world title came with obligations. A mandatory defense within six months—or risk losing the belt. The opponent would be chosen by the organization.
But Zhao Dong was no ordinary fighter. And the officials knew it.
Both the IBF and WBA were already leaning toward extending the window. Why?
Because Zhao Dong was a unicorn.
---
Though still rough in technique, Zhao Dong had proven that he didn't need finesse. His ability to take hits—and more importantly, deliver them—was unmatched. In just 20 seconds, he had flattened a world champion.
When he beat Tyson, people said it was a fluke. That Tyson underestimated him. That the punch was lucky.
But this? This knockout was no fluke.
And more importantly—it was violent. It was decisive. It was everything heavyweight boxing fans paid to see.
---
That one punch wasn't just a knockout—it was a statement.
Zhao Dong had become the most dangerous man in the sport.
Not because of how many fights he'd won.
But because it only took him one punch to finish any of them.
And with his status as the NBA's top player—his reach, his marketability, his global appeal—Zhao Dong wasn't just good for boxing.
He was a once-in-a-generation gift to the entire sport.
Unfortunately, Zhao Dong was only a part-time warrior in the boxing world.
As dominant as he was, it was unlikely he'd commit to the mandatory title defenses within the standard timeframe. Both the WBA and IBF presidents knew it, but they also knew one thing for sure—they couldn't afford to lose him.
So, the only option?
Delay the clock.
"The King of Heavy Blows!"
That was the headline splashed across the New York Times the next morning.
Front page. Above the fold.
At 9 a.m., Holyfield's camp held a press conference from the hospital. The report was grim—two skull fractures near the left temple and a moderate concussion. The doctors ordered at least three months of rest.
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong had already moved on to his next play.
Just as promised, he assembled a management team for Tyson.
It wasn't complicated. Zhao called up one of the top-tier professional strategy groups, had them run a full-value assessment on Tyson, and within days, a brand and income roadmap was in place.
Though Storm Capital's fund had dissolved, its infrastructure remained intact. Many employees had transferred to Tianlong Investment Bank. Others were simply on extended leave, waiting for the next project.
Storm was asleep—but far from dead.
With one word from Zhao Dong, those connections came back to life. World-class resources were still within reach, and eager talent waited in the wings.
So, he threw a few resources Tyson's way—nothing major. Just enough to jumpstart his rebrand.
And with Tyson's name recognition?
He could make $10 to $20 million a year without throwing another punch.
---
On National Day, Zhao Dong returned to Beijing.
His flight landed at 3:00 a.m., and Lindsay met him at the airport. Rather than head home, the two detoured straight to Tiananmen Square, joining the crowd to watch the flag-raising ceremony.
Officially, it was for Lindsay's "patriotic education."
Unofficially?
Zhao Dong was on orders.
Lindsay was now considered a national asset. The powerful lobbying campaign she spearheaded for China's WTO accession was in full swing, and the early results were promising.
Hundreds of billions in European capital—backed by elite financial groups with global sway—were now aligned with Tianlong Investment Bank.
These groups were giving the lobbying effort teeth in Europe.
To China's leadership, Lindsay was no longer just the wife of an athlete.
She was critical infrastructure.
So Zhao Dong had received a very clear task from Comrade Zhao Zhenguo:
"Make sure Comrade Lindsay keeps up her patriotic education."
---
China's WTO bid still required bilateral trade agreements with 37 countries and regions. Each one had to be negotiated individually.
In Zhao Dong's previous life, China joined the WTO in November 2001.
But now?
With everything in motion, he believed it could happen ahead of schedule.
Why?
Because the world needed China.
---
The last "Storm vs. Wall Street" clash had wrecked U.S. investor confidence. The market had briefly stabilized after interest rate cuts, but the momentum was gone. The market plateaued. Volumes increased. Risk aversion crept in. And the fear of a bear market loomed large.
The U.S. stock market was at the ceiling—and it was beginning to crack.
Then, as Tianlong Investment Bank moved billions into China, global capital followed.
Zhao Dong could see the pattern clearly:
If the U.S. market tanked, global funds would need a new outlet. And with Tianlong leading the charge, China would become that outlet.
But there was a catch.
Without WTO membership, China's trade policies remained restrictive. That would scare off long-term investors.
So, China's WTO entry was no longer just about policy—it was about capital survival.
Even the United States, now staring down a fragile market, had every reason to fast-track China's entry.
America's financial sector was growing too quickly. The manufacturing base was shrinking. And that base needed new markets—and cheap labor.
China offered both.
In fact, in Zhao Dong's past life, the U.S. had been the first to sign a WTO agreement with China—even before Europe.
That deal was done by year's end.
After the flag ceremony, Lindsay went home to rest.
Zhao Dong, meanwhile, caught a flight to Jiangsu to attend Hu Weidong's wedding.
Then came October 13.
News broke across every American outlet.
NBA legend Wilt Chamberlain—the man who once scored 100 points in a single game—had died of heart failure.
Zhao Dong was stunned. "Damn it, I forgot the date. Rest in peace, Wilt," he muttered.
He immediately asked Ringo Wells to send condolences on his behalf.
After staying in China for nearly three weeks, it was time to head back.
The new NBA season was about to begin.
This time, Lindsay would return with him.
More importantly, China's official WTO trade negotiation team, led by President Zhu, would also fly to the U.S., accompanied by the Tianlong lobbying unit.
Lindsay wasn't just along for the ride.
She was now officially appointed as one of the chief economic consultants of the negotiation team.
The youngest national-level consultant in Chinese history.
(End of Chapter)
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