"System, can I level up my handles and driving skills?" Zhao Dong asked.
"No. You need to upgrade your core fundamentals first," the system replied.
Without hesitation, Zhao Dong chose the first option and dropped six skill points to upgrade his step-back jumper to Level 95, unlocking his seventh Gold Badge Skill.
Gold Badge Effect: Increases shooting stability by 30%, and boosts the chance to shake off defenders by 40%.
"Not bad. That's a 10% better escape rating than the turnaround fade," he nodded with satisfaction.
He then used his last skill point on lob shots, bumping it up to Level 81.
While Zhao Dong was locked in on improving his skillset, the media was going crazy over last night's dunk. It blew up so hard, it even pushed down the headlines about him making the All-NBA First Team.
"The Jazz's most humiliating moment! We want revenge!" — Salt Lake City Sports Times
"Only Karl Malone is missing!" — New York Sports Daily
"A mid-air split — the Dunk of Death!" — The Washington Post
"A death dunk over two men — an aerial ballet blooming above the Jazzmen's heads!" — London Daily News
"The pride of Asians!" — Tokyo Daily
"The pride of the Chinese people!" — People's Daily
Countless media outlets reposted these stories. In no time, Zhao Dong's fame exploded. He had officially made the leap from a global basketball star to a world-class sports icon.
At noon, his agent Ringo Wells called up, buzzing with excitement.
"Zhao, Time magazine wants you on the cover!"
"Schedule it for later. We'll shoot when I got time," Zhao Dong replied flatly.
"Uh… alright, sure."
Wells felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on him. His excitement vanished in a second.
Zhao Dong didn't care about magazine covers. In his past life, Linsanity made the cover too—but he still got thrown out of the league.
That's just how it is. The hype means nothing if you don't have the real skill to dominate. Lin had talent, no doubt. But he wasn't a cut above—he didn't separate himself from the pack. So he got left behind.
Same with the All-Star votes. Even if people noticed you, who's really gonna vote for a Chinese player?
If you're Chinese and trying to stand tall in the NBA, you have to be so undeniably elite that nobody can ignore you.
When you've got that kind of game, the media and sponsors will chase after you like hungry dogs.
---
June 9th. Game 4 of the Finals.
Knicks' GM, Ernie Grunfeld, was drowning in ticket requests. And everybody wanted courtside.
For this game, the average ticket price had doubled compared to Game 3. Front-row seats hit $80,000 and still sold out in minutes.
On the black market, prices skyrocketed to $150,000—and people still snapped them up.
Even the nosebleeds were gone. Nothing was left.
Grunfeld ended up slashing the ticket allotment for the visiting fans. He only gave the Jazz 500 tickets. Not like folks from Salt Lake City could drop that kinda cash anyway.
At 6 p.m., David Stern arrived at Madison Square Garden with the championship trophy. Alongside him were team owner James Dolan and a few league execs.
Stern was beyond thrilled. The Knicks' market was insane. Game 4 was supposed to be a potential blowout, but ticket demand and hype had blown the roof off.
Even if the Jazz were about to get swept, the ratings were looking top-tier.
Zhao Dong had three front-row tickets, and naturally, a ton of people tried to hit up Wells to buy them.
Wells shut it down. Zhao Dong wouldn't budge. No matter the price, he'd rather leave the seats empty than sell.
---
7:00 p.m. — Starting Lineups Announced
Utah Jazz:
C: Chris Morris
PF: Karl Malone
SF: Bryon Russell
SG: Jeff Hornacek
PG: John Stockton
New York Knicks:
C: Ben Wallace
PF: Zhao Dong
SF: Charles Oakley
SG: Allan Houston
PG: Chauncey Billups
Zhao Dong walked out with a mic and stared into the roaring crowd.
"I know what you're all waiting for. And I'll tell you now…"
He raised his voice and shouted:
"Tonight… we're sweeping these boys and locking up that chip!"
"Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!"
"Champions! Champions!"
MSG erupted. Nearly 20,000 Knicks fans lost their minds.
Only about 500 Jazz fans were in the arena. The rest were loyal Knicks heads or straight-up Zhao Dong diehards.
Commentary Booth — NBC Broadcast
Marv Albert and Matt Goukas were calling the game.
"The Jazz are missing both their starting and backup centers. Their strength's taken a serious hit, and this sweep is basically a wrap," Matt said.
"Only question left is—do the Jazz have any fight left in 'em?" Marv added. "Can they still show why they were a #1 seed?"
CCTV Broadcast
Zhang Heli smiled and said, "The Jazz were the best team in the regular season. But here, they've been completely outclassed.
The key issue? Karl Malone got neutralized by Zhao Dong. And when a guy ain't afraid of Malone's infamous elbows and can go right at him, that's a true nemesis.
Honestly, any team built around Karl Malone will get shut down by Zhao Dong."
8:00 p.m. — Tip-Off
Big Ben (Wallace) won the tip. Knicks ball.
The Jazz got back quick. Karl Malone dropped to defend the low post, but Zhao Dong didn't follow.
He stopped at the left wing, beyond the arc.
That alone caught the Jazz out of position.
They stuck with a 2-1-2 zone, with guards covering the wings, Russell near the free-throw line, and two bigs down low.
But now Zhao Dong was matched up with Jeff Hornacek, a shooting guard.
Mismatch city.
Zhao Dong locked up Jeff Hornacek with his left hand and threw up his right, calling for the rock.
Billups didn't think twice—he fired a crisp two-hand chest pass.
Zhao Dong caught it one-handed, flicked it behind his back, switched to the left, and slid one step left. He dodged the closeout clean, rose up smooth, and let the three fly.
Hornacek scrambled to contest, leaping hard—but all he got was elbow. No shot disruption at all.
"Swish!"
Splash. Nothing but net.
"Yeah!"
First bucket—three-pointer. The crowd popped off.
"Haha! The Jazz got baited that time!" Zhang Heli chuckled from the booth. "They thought Zhao Dong was gonna post up, but he stayed outside. The Jazz were sitting in a 2-1-2 zone, and the perimeter pressure just wasn't there. Straight mismatch. That three was way too easy—felt like an open gym shot. If Zhao Dong's in rhythm, he might drain nine outta ten like that.
"But I think they'll adjust quick. Watch 'em swap the matchup—put small forward Bryon Russell on Zhao Dong at the wing and slide Hornacek down to defend near the stripe."
Jazz came back down for their possession.
Knicks stuck to man-to-man.
Karl Malone tried to get free against Zhao Dong's D, but nothing opened up. Hornacek got a look from deep, let it fly—but clanked it. Oakley snatched the board.
"Right here!" Billups called out, asking for the outlet.
Today's game plan was different. With a solid lead in the series, old coach Don Nelson wanted to have some fun—run small-ball and push the pace.
Zhao Dong was all for it. That's why he started on the perimeter tonight.
He was already past half court, glancing back to check if the ball was coming.
Stockton had Billups wrapped up and was denying the pass hard. That's when Oakley stepped up, laid a mean screen, and freed Billups.
Billups scanned the floor and spotted Zhao Dong already sprinting to the arc—no one within two steps of him. He grabbed the chance and slung a fast bullet pass with both hands.
Zhao Dong dashed toward the right elbow, caught it clean, took one power step into the paint—and launched.
Russell had just gotten back, wasn't even set. He slid sideways, trying to recover.
Boom!
Zhao Dong detonated a tomahawk jam over the top. His body whooshed past Russell's line of sight, the wind off the dunk hitting him square in the face.
"Yeahhh!"
MSG erupted.
"OHHH! Tomahawk slam in transition! The Golden Tyrant's putting on a damn show!" Matt Goukas shouted in excitement.
Zhao Dong landed under the hoop, eyes locked on Russell.
"Yo, man. You just gonna stand there? You killin' my vibe. That dunk's meaningless if you don't even jump. Next time, meet me in the air—let me put you on a poster. That's how you make it art!"
Russell clenched his fists, face tight.
"Man, screw you!"
But there was nothing he could do.
"Click, click, click…"
Baseline cameras snapped like crazy. A few sideline reporters even shoved mics toward the floor, hoping to catch the trash talk.
"Speak up, Zhao Dong!" one reporter egged him on.
"Gentlemen! Please control yourselves!" the ref sighed, waving the media back. "This is still a professional game."
Score: 0–5. Jazz ball.
Zhao Dong locked up Karl Malone again—still no clean looks.
Stockton ran a high pick-and-roll with Russell, shook free, and attacked the lane, veering toward the right wing.
Oakley was pulled out of position. With the three-second rule, the paint was empty. Big Ben was still rotating from the left low block, just now cutting into the lane.
Russell caught the pass from Stockton mid-stride and rose up for a dunk.
"BANG!"
Big Ben closed the gap like lightning and stuffed the dunk at the rim.
"WOO! What a block! Ben Wallace with the skyscraper rejection!" Marv Albert roared.
Zhao Dong, trailing the play, scooped up the loose ball. Malone tried to wrap him up, but he dumped it off to Billups and took off on the break.
But this time, the Knicks' fast-break rhythm was off. Zhao Dong had to start from under the basket, trailing the play.
As he reached the free throw line, Karl Malone stepped up to cut him off.
Zhao Dong pulled up, back to the hoop, and called for the rock.
He caught it clean—left hand on the grip. Right foot was his pivot. Left foot slid.
Then—boom—he spun right hard.
Malone bit.
Zhao Dong stopped on a dime, cut left instead, stepped back with his left foot, rocked the ball to his left hand, then dropped low, snatched it with his right, extended that off-arm to hold Malone off, and exploded into the paint with one killer step.
"Bang!"
Russell came flying from the top to trap—but ran straight into Malone.
Jazz backup big man John Morris had already rotated under the rim. But when he saw Zhao Dong charging in like a damn freight train, he froze.
Zhao Dong rushed at Karl Malone, took a big step, then a small one. Even though the momentum wasn't all there, he still launched himself toward Morris without hesitation.
With a 98 vertical and the boost from the Silver Demon, the lift was real—even without a full run-up, he soared a full meter off the ground. He was head and shoulders above Morris, flying in with straight-up bully energy over the restricted area.
The next second, he smashed into Morris mid-air.
"BOOM!"
The rim shook like an earthquake just hit.
"YEAHHH!"
Zhao Dong threw down a savage posterizer that lit Madison Square Garden on fire.
"BANG!"
Morris crashed hard to the floor.
He landed flat on his back, his whole body rocked. His face turned pale, heart pounding outta his chest, and the pain in his spine had him clenching his teeth.
"Did you see that? That's a straight-up violent poster, man! That's the definition of pure power! No doubt—Zhao Dong just picked up the torch from Shawn Kemp as the league's new king of the violent dunk! He's the most dominant dunker in the NBA right now!"
The courtside commentator was losing his mind.
"Forty million! We just hit 40 mil again! That's the second time ratings cracked that number since the Eastern Conference Finals!"
Matt Goukas yelled from the NBC broadcast booth.
0:7. Jazz ball.
As soon as they inbounded, Jerry Sloan called for a timeout.
"The Tyrant's came out too hard! The Knicks are swarming, man, and the Jazz ain't even warmed up yet. This might be a sweep, I swear."
Marv Albert shouted with hype, "But yo—Zhao Dong's been going nuclear with these dunks. That's why ratings are blowing up! This is what happens when your superstar becomes the face of the league!"
"Or maybe everybody just wants to see him dunk over Karl Malone's head," Matt laughed.
"Hahaha..." Marv cracked up right with him.
Timeout over. Jazz ball.
Malone pulled out to the right-wing three-point line, setting a pick for Jeff Hornacek.
Zhao Dong wasn't letting that slide. He instantly jumped into a double-team on Hornacek.
He didn't follow Malone—dude was chilling at the arc. No real threat out there.
Zhao Dong slid back fast and got up in Hornacek's face.
At the same time, Allan Houston joined in the trap. From behind, he poked the ball loose, snatched the steal, and took off downcourt. Stockton chased, but Houston dished it left on the break.
Zhao Dong came flying in right behind him, caught the pass, and went straight up.
"BANG!"
Another thunderous jam!
Stockton couldn't get out the way. He took the full hit under the basket and dropped like a sack of bricks.
Luckily, Zhao Dong came in a little more controlled this time—less force. But even then, Stockton's small frame couldn't handle the impact. He hit the floor and started gasping like a fish outta water, eyes wide, chest heaving.
"John, you good?" Karl Malone ran over, panicking.
"Ugh...uhh...uhh…" Stockton wheezed, trying to catch his breath.
"Remember this—don't ever step in my lane again. Next time, I'll send you flying outta the arena," Zhao Dong warned coldly, pointing toward the baseline.
The Jazz squad—including Malone—stared at him like they were looking at a demon. No one dared talk back.
"That was a bad screen call," Marv analyzed. "Zhao Dong's movement was too fast. Stockton had no advantage at all—Zhao's got him beat in size, strength, everything."
Matt nodded, "Facts. That pick-and-roll with Malone at the three-point line ain't it. Coach Sloan gotta fix that."
"Exactly," Marv agreed. "Karl Malone's got no three-ball. You leave him out there and double someone else—just like Zhao Dong and Houston did. Even if they switch, Stockton still loses that matchup.
If the ball goes to Malone, what's he gonna do? Shoot from deep? Nah. He can't create off the dribble either. Only option is to pass out, which makes it easy for a double to force turnovers."
Matt added, "Look, if Zhao Dong's locking him up, the Jazz gotta shift focus to perimeter play. Even if they don't get great mismatches, at least they can get a clean jumper or two.
Malone should head inside, crash the boards, grab second-chance points. He's not getting touches anyway—might as well play that blue-collar role Zhao Dong said he fits."
"Pfffft!" Marv burst out laughing, shoulders shaking. "You're cold, man!"
0:9. The Jazz couldn't get anything going.
Their offense was ice cold, morale was shot, and the Knicks were playing like they smelled blood. This was domination—violent offense, suffocating defense, total control.
"Damn," sighed Chinese broadcaster Zhang Heli. "Look at that... Jazz got no rhythm, no fight. Knicks are straight up bullying them."
"Puchi! Hahaha…" Sun Zhenping couldn't hold in his laugh.
Jerry Sloan stood there with a blank expression, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over him.
Right now... he started to understand what Zhao Dong meant about Karl Malone.
Is a player really a superstar if he can't create his own shot? If he can't attract a double team? If he can't carry the team when nobody else can score?
Once the Mailman's elbows stop scaring people, what's he got left?
Can he go 1v2? 1v3? Can he take over when the team's cold? Nope. He's gotta wait for someone to feed him.
"Sigh..."
Sloan slumped back onto the bench.
Beside him, Jazz GM Tim Howells quietly shook his head. Sloan's body language told him everything—coach had mentally checked out of this one.
But honestly? He had too.
They all knew the Jazz weren't winning this series.
Just yesterday, owner Larry Miller told him the decision had been made—Karl Malone was getting traded. The rebuild was coming.
An hour and a half later, as the whistle sounded, Madison Square Garden fell into carnival.
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