In the Knicks' locker room, Coach Don Nelson was laying down the game plan.
"We're two and a half months deep into the season," he said, glancing around the room. "We've run through every lineup, every tactic—it's time to lock things in."
Over those past weeks, one thing had become crystal clear to him—Camby just ain't it when it comes to locking down the paint. Too fragile. Too soft. He gets bullied by physical bigs and brings almost no heat on offense. That ain't playoff material.
Nelson still liked small ball, sure—but not at the cost of defense. This was the Knicks, built on grit and grind, iron-clad defense. That identity runs deep. Van Gundy and Thibs on the coaching staff wouldn't go for scrapping D, and neither would Zhao Dong.
So he made the call—it was time to ramp up Ben Wallace and Danny Fortson's minutes.
But between the two, Fortson's foul trouble was a killer. Sure, dude could pull down 7.8 boards a night, but he racked up whistles and techs like he was collecting badges. His on-court efficiency couldn't touch Big Ben's. Wallace was more disciplined, better on steals, and a beast on help defense.
Time to unleash him.
"Ben, once you snag that board, look up the floor for a long pass. If that ain't there, find the outlet right away," Coach Nelson instructed.
"Yes, Coach," Big Ben nodded, eyes lit up.
It was his first time starting—and only his second season in the league. He kept it cool on the outside, but inside? Dude was hyped.
Only problem? His passing game was weak. Real weak. Not just full-court bombs— even short-range dimes got shaky if someone so much as raised a hand.
"Put in work, man." Oakley gave him a light slap on the shoulder.
"Yeah," Ben nodded seriously.
"Yo Ben," Zhao Dong chimed in with a grin. "That 'fro looking fresh today."
He knew Ben used to cut hair back in the day to scrape together ball money. Dude said his only standard for a wife was that she had to be fire with the clippers.
"Heh." Big Ben rubbed his head, a proud little smile sneaking out.
Twenty minutes later, the starting five hit the hardwood.
When rivals meet, you don't need trash talk. Just that locked-in stare-down. Tension in the air, thick enough to slice.
Two minutes after tip-off, Zhao Dong stepped onto the court last—and the crowd at MSG lost their damn minds.
"My baby bro's really grown up," said Zhao Dacheng, watching from the sideline near the Knicks bench. "He's not the same dude who used to get beat up all the time."
The place was rocking. Almost 20,000 strong chanting his name—it hit different in person than it ever could on a screen.
Up in the VIP section, Lin Meizhu turned to her guest.
"Weiwei, they chanting for Dongdong, right?"
"Yeah, that's him," Lindsay—real name Liu Weiwei—nodded with a smile.
She carried her mom's surname, but few folks knew her Chinese name.
"This team... it's Dongdong's squad. And the Heat? His ops."
Lin Meizhu blinked. "Didn't you say he bought a football team or something?"
"It's not about owning it, it's just how we say it. Dongdong's the leader, the face of the team—this is his squad."
The game jumped off with Big Ben and Luke Longley going up for the tip. The Heat took the rock.
They spread the floor. On the right wing, Tim Hardaway took Charlie Ward off the bounce—two nasty crossovers and he was gone. Slid right into the paint.
Dude's one of the baddest point guards in the league—top ten easy. As soon as he broke the perimeter, the Knicks' D collapsed in tight.
He kicked it to the weak side, finding Leonard open for a jumper.
Clang. Missed it.
Big Ben snagged the board like it was a paycheck, elbows up like Oakley taught him.
Zhao Dong was already off to the races on the left wing.
Ben scanned the court while swinging his elbows wide—textbook protection—and spotted him. That's the go-to fast break look: if Zhao Dong's out there, feed him.
Big Ben let it fly—two-hand overhand pass.
"Aw hell!" he muttered.
He'd put too much gas on it.
Zhao Dong had just crossed halfcourt and had to hit another gear to catch up.
"Oh no, he ain't catching that!" cried Zhang Heli from the broadcast booth.
Zhao Dong sprinted like a rocket down the right wing. The ball bounced hard near the baseline. He leapt—full extension, flying right past the edge.
The photographers and cameramen behind the basket scrambled.
Dude was sprinting twenty meters and flying full-speed—looked like he was about to tackle half the press.
But he snagged the ball mid-air, rotated in the air, and dropped to his back.
"Here!" Alan Houston was already on the move, hands up on the right wing behind the arc.
Whoosh!
Zhao Dong fired the rock, both hands, perfect angle.
Then he slid backwards straight into the reporters, wiping out two of them as they all hit the deck behind the baseline.
"Ahh! Don't fall!" Lin Meizhu gasped in the suite.
She'd watched her son hoop plenty, but seeing it up close like this—it hit harder. She was shook.
Houston caught the pass clean.
Leonard was two steps away—too late.
He pulled up. Splash.
Swish!
That net snapped. MSG exploded.
"YEAHHHH!" the crowd roared.
"Yo, you good, big bro?"
Houston and the others ran over, looking worried.
"I'm straight."
Zhao Dong got up and jogged back to the court like nothing happened.
"My bad, boss. I spread that pass way too far," Big Ben scratched his head, looking embarrassed.
"Extra half-hour of pass drills after every practice," Zhao Dong ordered coolly.
"Bet."
Ben nodded quickly.
Heat possession.
Coach Nelson wanted to sharpen Big Ben, so he had him guarding Alonzo Mourning one-on-one.
Mourning, aka Zo, was no joke—top five center in the league. Strong as hell. And even though Ben Wallace was built like a tank, he still wasn't at his peak. Strength-wise? Almost equal. But Zo had the edge in height, experience, and footwork.
Mourning caught it in the low post and started backing Ben down. Two hard bumps. Then, spin move—fadeaway jumper.
Clang!
Zhao Dong knew Zo's game like the back of his hand. He timed it perfectly, flew in, and smacked the shot off the glass.
Zo's low-post iso game? Not on the level of the big four centers. Dude didn't really pass out of the post either—always playing solo while the rest just stood around. Add that to weak rebounding compared to the top dogs, and you see why he always got overshadowed.
Zhao Dong understood that, so he came over with the help D.
The block sent the rock flying. Zhao Dong and Big Ben locked down Zo right after, and Ben snagged the ball.
Alan Houston and John Starks were already sprinting. Zhao Dong didn't hesitate, launched a one-handed dime downcourt right into Starks' path.
Clean catch.
Starks drove hard, veered left, pulled the defender with him. Then boom—kick-out pass to Houston.
Two steps, layup—bucket.
Back to the Heat.
Tim Hardaway —broke past Charlie Ward, pulled up for a mid-range jumper.
Zhao Dong was just inside the left wing three-point line. He watched the arc of the shot and before it even went in, he was gone. Blew right past Mashburn.
Step—swish behind him.
"Push it!"
"Get back!"
Van Gundy and Pat Riley were shouting from opposite benches.
Old man Nelson just stood there with that laid-back smirk, watching Zhao Dong take flight.
Ben was under the rim, now in charge of the outlet pass. This was gonna test his growth. He focused up, controlled the strength this time, but the pass still came in a little off.
Zhao Dong had to make a slick direction shift mid-run—almost lost it.
But once he had it?
Everybody knew.
Heat defenders were behind him, nobody left in front.
He sprinted past halfcourt, hit the arc, then two steps later, reached the free throw line.
He took off.
The entire arena held its breath.
His core strength? Unreal. His balance and flexibility? Elite. But what stood out most? His in-air coordination—perfect. No stiffness, just pure flow.
His body arched back mid-flight, like a human bow stretching to its limit.
Then—BOOM.
The tension snapped.
Zhao Dong turned into a beast. Power exploded out of him like a hurricane. His dunk? Violent. Devastating. You could feel it in your bones.
BANG!
The rim sounded like it got hit by a truck. Everyone in the building got chills. And with the force he brought?
Shatter.
The glass backboard blew up—raining down everywhere. Zhao Dong stood under the rim, fists up, roaring at the fans.
"YEAHHHHHH!"
Madison Square Garden lost its damn mind.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
The commentator lost it on the mic:
"OH MY GOD! FROM THE FREE THROW LINE! TOMAHAWK SLAM! ZHAO DONG JUST DESTROYED THE HEAT'S BACKBOARD!"
Marv Albert jumped in:
"With AUTHORITY! That's one of the most insane dunks I've ever seen! My goodness!"
Matt Goukas shouted:
"A 115-kilo, 6'9" monster just pulled off a free throw line dunk like MJ and shattered the glass! That's next-level power. That's Zhao Dong!"
CCTV's Zhang Heli was speechless. After a long pause, he finally stammered:
"Zhao Dong… He really is the Golden Tyrant in the sky..."
From MSG to living rooms across the U.S., China, Japan, Korea—millions were shook.
This wasn't just a dunk. This was a warning to the league:
The Golden Tyrant had arrived.
"The backboard's toast! My brother's got crazy power!" Zhao Dacheng's eyes damn near popped outta his skull.
"Ay no, he shattered it. Dongdong's gonna have to pay for that backboard now," Li Meizhu sighed from the VIP suite.
"Pfft!" Lindsay couldn't hold it in and started cracking up.
The old man and lady just pointed at their goofy daughter-in-law and laughed right along with her.
"Haha! Ratings just shot up 30%! And still climbing—let's goooo!"
On the NBC live broadcast, Marv shouted excitedly as the update hit his earpiece.
Matt was laughing, hype as ever. "That dunk? That's gonna blow Zhao Dong's name worldwide. That wasn't just a dunk—that was history. That's bigger than Jordan's free-throw line jam."
"Bigger than MJ?" Marv blinked, surprised for a sec, then nodded fast. "Yeah, you right! Mike did it in the Dunk Contest—this man did it in a regular season game… and shattered the damn glass! That's wild!"
With no backup glass ready, the Heat had no choice but to call timeout.
"Yo, Zhao!"
"Coach Riley, what's up?"
As Zhao Dong headed to the bench, Pat Riley pulled him aside.
"Talk to me, man—how'd you do that?" Riley asked, looking shook.
Zhao Dong grinned. "Simple. Fly up, slam down."
Riley just shook his head and chuckled. "That dunk's goin' down in NBA history. Hell, world basketball history. You just made yourself a legend."
"I'm just gettin' started," Zhao Dong said, flashing that confident smile.
As Riley watched him walk off, regret hit him hard.
Damn... if only I knew he'd be this good. Shoulda made a move back then—maybe traded Mourning or even Dell Curry. Ernie Grunfeld would've taken it, I bet.
But the future ain't something you can see comin'.
Zhao Dong strolled past the Heat bench, casually glancing around. Every Heat player that made eye contact immediately looked away like he was some wild beast no one wanted to mess with.
"Wait… that Maizi?"
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar face. Those eyes. He paused, slowed for a second… then kept walkin'.
This wheat wasn't ripe yet. No need to harvest what ain't ready.
"He's terrifying…"
Rookie Tracy McGrady felt like he got hit with a full-body cramp the moment Zhao Dong's gaze locked in. His muscles tensed up, sleep vanished from his eyes, and when Zhao finally walked past, T-Mac exhaled in relief and his legs almost gave out.
"Zhao! That was insane, man!"
Old Nelson gave him a big hug.
"I gotta thank Big Ben for that pass," Zhao Dong said with a grin.
"Hehe." Big Ben scratched the back of his head and chuckled.
"Kid, you keep feedin' him like that, you're gonna be rackin' up assists like crazy. Your stats 'bout to go through the roof!" Oakley smacked Big Ben on the shoulder, making him laugh again.
That dunk didn't just destroy the Heat's backboard—it crushed their morale too.
Once play resumed, Miami just couldn't bounce back.
Final score: 114–85. Knicks ran 'em out the gym. A 29-point blowout.
Zhao Dong clocked out after just three quarters—only played 34 minutes.
Still, he did his thing: dropped 40+ points, logged double-digit boards and assists, and banked 2 attribute points and 2 skill points.
He put the 2 attribute points into flexibility, bumping it up to 94.
The 2 skill points went into low-post moves, pushing that to 93.
The whole game, the Knicks were on a fast break frenzy. Transition offense, clean ball movement, highlight after highlight. The Madison Square Garden crowd was lit, and TV ratings were climbing by the second.
But there was still a hole in their system—point guard play.
Ben and Oakley were decent passers after grabbing boards, but the lack of a true floor general caused too many miscues in transition. If they had a playmaker? That 29-point lead might've been 40.
--
The Next Morning:
New York Times ran with the headline:
"The Most Dominant Performance Paired With a Hurricane Offense—The Knicks Are Taking Off!"
The article read:
"Zhao Dong just delivered a performance for the ages. His offensive dominance rivals Shaquille O'Neal, and he proved it by shattering a backboard. Then he topped it off with a free-throw line tomahawk dunk. The Tyrant's era is rising—Jordan's reign is fading.
With Zhao leading, New York might just be entering its own version of Showtime."
Washington Post headlined:
"New York Tyrant—The Perfect Combo of Violence and Flash!"
"Basketball's most jaw-dropping dunk just happened. Zhao Dong is set to lead a new wave of basketball—equal parts power and style."
New York Sports Daily called it:
"The Most Visually Explosive Dunk Ever!"
American media went nuts hyping it up, and with the U.S. at the top of the cultural food chain, that hype went global real fast.
Zhao Dong's name—and that insane dunk—went viral worldwide.
Millions of fans downloaded the highlight, saved it, and etched that moment into hoops history.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Do you want to read Advanced Chapters?
Visit this link:
Påtreon.com/Fanficlord03
Change (å) to (a)
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Check my Discord!
https://discord.gg/MntqcdpRZ9