Zhao Dong arrived at the training facility, where he was scheduled for a full-blown physical test. This was the first step in determining if his freakish talents could truly translate beyond the hardwood.
He began with the basics—height and weight.
"205 centimeters... 115 kilos," the trainer read aloud.
The numbers came in stable, as expected. His physique hadn't changed much, which was insane considering the punishment of an NBA season.
Next up was his vertical leap and standing long jump.
"Vertical: 98 centimeters. Long jump: 371 centimeters."
There was a beat of stunned silence before Coach Melos let out a whistle.
"My God, Zhao, your physical conditioning is absolutely elite—like top-of-the-world elite," Melos said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Other coaches murmured in agreement. Even Edward, the stoic head scout of the 76ers, raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised.
There was an old saying in the U.S.: the best athletes don't play in the NBA—they play in the NFL. But Zhao Dong's numbers told a different story. His standing long jump of 371 centimeters was nearly at par with the NFL Combine record of 373.
Still, the coaches weren't too shocked by his jumping numbers. After all, Zhao Dong wasn't just a former MVP—he was the face of the league. The most dominant player since the days of Karl Malone and Shawn Kemp.
Standing in the back, Zhao Dong's agent, Ringo Wells, grinned wide.
"You're looking at the most complete athlete in NBA history," he boasted. "And I'd argue he'd be the same in the NFL. Just wait, you'll be even more shocked after the next few drills."
"Alright, let's keep this going. I'm dying to see what Zhao runs next," Melos said, clapping his hands with excitement.
The 40-yard dash was next.
First run: 4.29 seconds.
Everyone froze.
"No damn way!" Melos yelled. "Do you know what the record is? 4.26! That was by a running back—half Zhao's size! You're what, 205 cm and 115 kilos? If you were just 185 and 105, you'd destroy that record!"
Ringo folded his arms smugly. "Told you. Zhao Dong's built different."
After a quick breather, Zhao Dong took his second run.
Second run: 4.28 seconds.
The numbers were no fluke.
"If this guy stays healthy—and he's only 26? That's scary," Melos said, turning to Edward. "He'd be a cornerstone on any NFL team."
Edward nodded slowly, though his brow furrowed.
"He's a physical monster, no doubt… But he's still raw. Give him two, maybe three years to polish his skills—and by then, he might already be past his physical peak. Injuries might start creeping in too."
"That's the shame of it," one of the assistant coaches muttered. "If he'd switched sports two or three years ago, he'd be tearing the league apart by now."
Ringo's smile dropped. "Zhao's played in the NBA for seven years without a single injury. He's also the reigning world heavyweight boxing champ. Let me be crystal clear—his durability is unmatched. Ten years from now, he'll still be the most athletic guy in the world."
He took a step forward, tone turning sharp.
"And the fact that you're questioning him now? That's an insult. In the NBA, he's untouchable. No one questions Zhao Dong—not his teammates, not the press, and certainly not any of you."
Edward's face turned red, and the media's cameras clicked nonstop.
"I apologize, Mr. Wells," Edward said earnestly. "We weren't questioning Zhao's legacy. He's already accomplished more than most athletes could dream of. It's just... we're trying to assess where he fits in here."
Ringo huffed but said no more. Zhao Dong stepped in with a calm smile.
"It's alright, Ringo. I'm just a player here, like everyone else. I haven't proven anything yet. Being questioned before I show results? That's fair game."
That settled the tension, and they moved on to the shuttle run tests—20-yard, 40-yard, and 60-yard sprints. Zhao Dong smashed them all, posting top-tier NFL results across the board.
Ringo crossed his arms again, eyes glinting.
"I stand by my words—there isn't a single guy in the NFL with Zhao's all-around physical profile."
"He's not wrong," one coach whispered. "This guy is built like a Tyrant."
"Unreal. Best all-around athlete I've ever seen."
"I still can't believe Stony Brook rejected him. What were they thinking?"
A few of the coaches shook their heads in disbelief. Wasting nine years in basketball? To them, it was a tragedy.
Finally, it was time for the strength test—225-pound (102 kg) bench press reps.
This wasn't about max strength. This was about endurance, raw muscle quality, and grit. The NFL Combine record stood at 45 reps. Breaking that was a long shot.
Zhao Dong's upper-body rating wasn't perfect—around an 86—but what he lacked in max strength, he made up for in high-end physical balance.
He started pushing.
30 reps... and still going strong.
"40!" Melos called.
"41! 42! 43!"
All eyes locked in. Zhao's pace didn't slow. There was no shake, no fatigue.
"45! He's tied the record!"
"46! New record!"
The reporters went wild. Shutters clicked like machine guns.
"47… 48… 49…"
Zhao Dong's face was calm, his breath even.
"50… 55… 60!"
He finally set the bar down.
Silence.
Then—
"WHAT?!"
"He doesn't even look winded!"
"This is f**king insane."
Zhao Dong sat up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and cracked his knuckles.
It was like he hadn't even tried.
Edward muttered under his breath, "This… this will shake the entire league. What kind of monster is he?"
"You're the biggest physical freak in the world, Zhao Dong!" a reporter yelled.
That sparked a ripple of laughter across the field.
Even the CCTV crew—Yang Yi and his team—couldn't hold back their grins. It was pride in its purest form, watching one of their own redefine athletic limits on a global stage.
After a half-hour rest, Zhao Dong moved on to more strength tests.
The results?
Bench Press Max: 180 kg
Squat Max: 285 kg
Deadlift Max: 345 kg
Outside of the bench press, those numbers were freakish—absolute top-tier for his weight class.
"Insane…" a reporter murmured, eyes still locked on the numbers. "A 345 kg deadlift at his weight? That's just not normal."
Coach Melos smiled and broke it down for them.
"That's 2.47 times his body weight on the squat and 3 times his weight on the deadlift. That's elite. Most guys can't touch that ratio."
Zhao Dong's core strength was off the charts—something anyone who'd seen him finish a poster dunk over Karl Malone or explode past Shawn Kemp already knew. But this… this was something else.
Edward, scanned the sheet in his hands. His eyes widened as he double-checked the numbers.
These weren't just "good" test results.
This was the most dominant physical profile ever recorded in an NFL-style test. Not just a few top stats—every single category was top-level.
"Damn," Edward muttered under his breath. "We should've had this guy ten years ago."
"No kidding," Coach Melos said, scoffing. "The clowns at Stony Brook passed on him. No wonder their program's trash. Bunch of blind idiots."
After wrapping the physical test, Zhao Dong accompanied Edward and Melos to a partner hospital for a complete physical evaluation.
The results?
Perfection.
Not just good condition—elite condition. The kind of clean report you'd only expect from someone who had never played professionally, let alone a 7-year NBA vet and reigning world heavyweight boxing champ.
No cartilage damage. No joint inflammation. No lingering wear and tear.
It was unheard of.
"How is this even possible?" Edward asked the doctor, stunned. "Seven years as the most dominant player in the NBA—and his scans look like he's never taken a hit?"
The doctor shrugged. "He's a genetic outlier."
Edward stared down at the two reports in his hands—on the left, Zhao Dong's physical test numbers. On the right, his flawless medical evaluation.
All he could think was, what a waste—a generational athlete who'd only now stepped into football.
And yet, it wasn't too late. Zhao Dong was 26, yes—but in this condition, he could play for another decade if managed right.
Granted, the NFL was another beast entirely. Way more violent than the NBA. No one walked away without injury—not even monsters like Iron Mike back in the day.
Still, Edward made up his mind.
Zhao Dong wasn't just another flashy name. He was a full-blown project worth investing in.
Back at the training ground, Edward handed Zhao Dong a test sheet.
"This is the written exam from this year's draft. Everyone takes it. Let's see how you do."
Zhao Dong didn't flinch. An hour later, he handed it in.
Score: 144 out of 150.
Edward blinked.
"Wait… You studied playbooks in your downtime?"
"Of course," Zhao Dong said, casually. "You think I'm just showing up blind?"
Edward gave a rare, impressed nod.
"Alright, let's hit the turf. Time to see what you've actually got in your skillset."
Out on the field, the real test began.
And what Edward found was… fascinating.
Zhao Dong's skillset wasn't elite. It wasn't polished. But it was complete.
He was naturally right-handed, but he could pass accurately with his left.
His ball control was strong—those massive hands weren't just for dunks.
His vision? Exceptional, thanks to his height.
And when he ran? That man hit like a freight train.
What he didn't have was elite passing ability. Short passes were okay—barely second-rate—but anything beyond 10 yards? Forget it.
"You're not playing quarterback," Edward muttered, half-joking.
Still, he kept his mind open. After all, football wasn't just about slinging the ball—it was about moving it.
Edward reminded himself of the three fundamentals of American football:
Only one forward pass per play.
Players ahead of the ball-carrier can't participate in the play.
Once you're tackled, and down—you release the ball. No exceptions.
Which meant one thing—receiving would be key.
Zhao Dong's height and those vice-grip hands should've made him a top-tier receiver.
But in the receiving drills, he was... average.
Nothing special. No finesse. No showtime grabs. Just functional.
Disappointing? A little. But Edward wasn't shocked. Zhao had only trained football casually. He wasn't a product of the gridiron system. He was a freak athlete exploring new territory.
Still, Zhao Dong's potential was undeniable.
After the skill test wrapped, the team returned to the headquarters to meet with upper management and decide on Zhao Dong's potential role.
Would he be a tight end? A fullback? Maybe even a hybrid slot receiver?
One thing was clear—whatever position they chose, Zhao Dong was a weapon.
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