Zhao Dong chose to attack again. He didn't call for a safe fair catch. The moment he touched the ball, the Panthers' first runner launched a brutal interception straight at him.
"Dodge!"
Lance Victor shouted from the sideline.
Zhao Dong made a lightning-quick cut, slipping past the first and second runners in one motion. His body shifted with explosive agility, and in the blink of an eye he was sprinting forward again, eating up yardage.
But the third runner, Karl Marton, came barreling in from five yards away. There was no escape this time—this was going to be a head-on collision.
Zhao Dong braced, digging deep, pushing his body to its absolute limit, hoping to trigger the highest badge effect from his system.
Bang!
The hit echoed like a car crash. Both men slammed into each other and were thrown backward.
Karl Marton's eyes widened in disbelief as he staggered. "Impossible…"
He had been sprinting at full speed, carrying a massive amount of force into the collision—yet he didn't overpower Zhao Dong. Instead, the reaction force sent him reeling. The next instant, dizziness clouded his vision. A sharp pain stabbed his chest like a dagger twisting in his lungs. Blood gushed violently from his mouth and nose as he collapsed to the turf.
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong felt his head spin, his chest aching. He knew he'd been hurt, but before he hit the ground, he instantly activated his recovery skill.
"Recover from two minor injuries!"
Thanks to his injury-immunity ability, what could have been a devastating blow turned into something survivable.
Beep!
The referee's whistle shrieked. He immediately signaled to the sideline for the Panthers' medical staff and called security at the same time. His instincts told him—something terrible had happened again.
Zhao Dong rolled over and forced himself to his feet. His Jets teammates quickly ran in, forming a protective wall in front of him to prevent any retaliation from the Panthers.
"Let's go," Zhao Dong said calmly, glancing once at Karl Marton—motionless on the grass—before turning toward the bench. As he walked off, he pulled up his system interface.
Thirty seconds later, just as he stepped onto the sideline, the system's collision counter suddenly spiked—shooting straight up to 100.
Zhao Dong froze. "He died… again?"
He turned back toward the field, surprised. If this kept up, his NFL career might be finished. Two deaths in one game? No team would dare let him suit up again. But deep down, he knew the truth: the collision was Karl Marton's choice. He had simply absorbed it. The responsibility wasn't his.
Sure enough, the Panthers' team doctor knelt over Karl Marton, then shook his head grimly. "Internal bleeding from a fractured rib piercing the lungs… respiratory failure. He's gone."
Gasps rippled through the stadium.
"The monster Zhao Dong is ruthless!"
"The steel-armored beast strikes again!"
"This is insane!"
The crowd buzzed. Deaths weren't unheard of in NFL history—but two in a single Super Bowl? That was unprecedented.
The game's atmosphere turned surreal. Fans, players, media—everyone's eyes stayed locked on Zhao Dong, waiting to see if he would strike down someone else.
The Panthers had lost two of their star pillars—their best offensive and defensive weapons. Morale evaporated. Nobody dared line up against Zhao Dong anymore.
An hour and a half later, the final whistle blew. The New York Jets secured their second Super Bowl title in franchise history. Zhao Dong was named MVP.
But this wasn't a celebration. With two players dead because of his collisions, Zhao Dong didn't celebrate wildly. After a muted trophy ceremony, he quietly left the field with his teammates.
That night, the Jets hosted a victory party at the hotel. It ran until three in the morning, but Zhao Dong wasn't in a festive mood.
Across the United States—and around the world—media outlets erupted. Every headline screamed about the Super Bowl tragedy. Zhao Dong's two deadly hits dominated global conversation. Even Janet Jackson's infamous halftime scandal seemed like old news compared to this.
Zhao Dong sighed privately. Janet Jackson should probably thank me. But now, it's my turn to face the fire.
Public opinion exploded. Commentators questioned the brutality of NFL rules. Editorials demanded the league immediately revise regulations to prevent such tragedies. And many outlets outright called for Zhao Dong to be banned from the NFL.
The league itself stayed silent that night—likely huddling in emergency meetings, debating how to contain the crisis.
When Zhao Dong returned home, his wife Lindsay immediately dragged him to a private clinic for a full examination. She feared that even if he looked fine, hidden injuries might still be lurking.
The results showed no lasting damage. But Lindsay wasn't reassured. She sat him down, her expression serious.
"Husband," she said firmly, "why don't we go back to China? I don't want to see you play another NFL game. Public opinion doesn't matter—but your safety does. This sport is too dangerous for you, for me, and for our children."
For once, she didn't try to shield him from the media. In fact, she admitted she might even fan the flames if it meant pushing him into retirement.
Zhao Dong scratched the back of his head. Lindsay almost never confronted him like this. Her tone left no room for debate. And he wasn't about to risk their marriage over football.
Besides, he had always planned to return to China before their four sons started elementary school. Doing it a year or two earlier wasn't a problem.
They made the decision together that night. Zhao Dong would retire from the NFL, and Lindsay would begin preparations to relocate their family back home.
It wouldn't happen overnight—the family had built businesses and a large household in the U.S.—but the process had begun.
The first thing Zhao Dong did was call his parents. His mother, Li Meizhu, picked up the phone.
When he told her he was ending his sports career and coming back to China, she practically jumped with joy.
Lindsay called her personal assistant, Miss Meilin, and her housekeeper, Ms. Abel, to inform them of the news—she would be returning to China.
The two women were a little surprised, but not completely unprepared. They had long known that Mrs. Lindsay wanted to leave the United States.
"Miss Meilin, Ms. Abel," Lindsay said with a calm smile, "I'll be staying in China for a long time once I return. Do you want to come with me, or will you stay here? If you choose to leave, I'll give you a generous sum of money and honor one request from each of you."
"Madam, I will follow you back to China," Miss Meilin said without hesitation. She was a distant niece of Mrs. Dolores and had been trained by her. Since Mrs. Dolores and her husband had no children, Lindsay had become the heir. Following Lindsay was both loyalty and survival—it was her best option.
Lindsay nodded, then turned to Ms. Abel.
"Madam, I will also follow you back to China," the housekeeper replied firmly. Abel too had been trained by Mrs. Dolores and had served Lindsay faithfully for nearly eight years. Both her heart and her future were tied to Lindsay.
Lindsay's smile widened. Having both women by her side was ideal—one to manage household affairs, the other to handle external matters.
"Good. Then make the arrangements. We'll leave the United States as soon as possible."
"Yes, Madam." Both women hurried away.
---
Meanwhile, after receiving Zhao Dong's decision, his agent Ringo Wells was left in shock.
"What? Retirement?" Wells almost dropped the phone.
Although public opinion was raging after the Super Bowl tragedy, Zhao Dong bore no moral responsibility. Wells couldn't understand why his client wanted to retire. The backlash would fade with time. But he didn't dare question Zhao Dong directly. If the franchise player of the NFL wanted out, all Wells could do was prepare the announcement.
Two days later, on February 8, Wells informed the New York Jets' management.
The front office was blindsided. They had no direct contact with Zhao Dong, who had already disappeared from public view, so all talks went through Wells.
On February 10, the Dongwei yacht quietly set sail from New York, bound for Shanghai. The voyage would take nearly three months.
The yacht carried no family members. Lindsay was pregnant—there was no way she could spend months at sea. Instead, the ship was filled with antiques and artworks she had collected over the years, most of them Chinese treasures. For people like her, money was just numbers on paper. What mattered was converting that wealth into something tangible, something lasting.
The world was rocked again on February 11 when the New York Jets, the NFL, and Ringo Wells officially announced Zhao Dong's retirement.
Reporters swarmed his Long Island villa, fans camped outside, but Zhao Dong and his family were already gone.
On February 28, after Lindsay finalized personal matters, a private jet lifted off from Los Angeles, bound for Beijing. Alongside her came Miss Meilin, Ms. Abel, dozens of bodyguards, and a full medical team of doctors and nurses—Lindsay's due date was only a month away, and she needed constant care.
At noon on March 1, 2004, Zhao Dong's family landed in Beijing.
The plane touched down at 2:00 p.m. Li Meizhu, desperate to see her four grandchildren, had been at the airport since morning. She'd arrived before nine, eaten not one but two meals at a noodle shop, and still paced the terminal restlessly.
"Why aren't they here yet? I wonder how tall my four grandchildren are now…" she muttered, glancing anxiously toward the exit.
"Mom, you already have two grandkids at home, but you don't fuss over them like this," joked her eldest son, Zhao Dacheng, who had been dragged along for the day.
"I don't fuss over you either," Li Meizhu shot back, rolling her eyes. "Your brother gave me four grandkids all at once, and Weiwei is pregnant again with a baby girl. Your wife Xu Qing doesn't want to have a third child. Is she more precious than Weiwei?"
Zhao Dacheng sighed inwardly. My brother's wife gives birth to quadruplets, and suddenly I'm the underachiever?
"I'm afraid a third child might affect Dad's career…" he tried to explain weakly.
"Nonsense!" Li Meizhu snapped, half-laughing, half-scolding. "Neither of you hold public office. The fines are nothing. Having ten kids wouldn't affect your father one bit. Who are you trying to fool?"
"Mom, six grandsons already—and soon a precious granddaughter. Isn't that enough to keep you busy?" Dacheng grinned.
"Mom!"
A familiar voice rang out.
"Eh? Weiwei? Dongdong? Finally!"
Li Meizhu spun around. Out of the exit came her youngest son and his wife, leading a small army of bodyguards and staff.
"Grandma!"
The four three-and-a-half-year-olds came charging forward, their voices full of joy.
"My four treasures!" Li Meizhu laughed so hard her eyes disappeared. She scooped up one, kissed another, and wished she had four more hands to hug them all at once.
The family quietly slipped away via the VIP channel, avoiding the media entirely, and returned to Sanbulao Hutong.
The bodyguards were soon reassigned into the security division of Tianlong Investment Bank, which required trained personnel with international experience.
Back in the hutong, life grew lively again. Zhao Dong's quadruplets, full of boundless energy, quickly teamed up with their older cousins. The five Zhao brothers of the new generation turned the hutong into their personal playground.
Ever since Zhao Dong's rise to Basketball stardom, basketball had become the neighborhood's obsession. Kids of all ages, boys and girls alike, picked up the game as soon as they could jump. Now the five Zhao brothers had even formed a "Sanbulao Hutong Children's Basketball Team," challenging neighboring hutongs daily and filling the alleys with noise and laughter.
(End of this chapter)
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