"Zhao Dong."
Quarterback Weilin Paul was the first to speak when he saw him at the doorway.
"Zhao Dong!"
One after another, most of the players stood up and greeted him.
Despite their muscles and testosterone-fueled egos, these men weren't stupid. They knew exactly who Zhao Dong was—and more importantly, what he represented. Even the players who harbored resentment or prejudice didn't dare show it openly.
Of course, not everyone welcomed him. Some players ignored him entirely. This wasn't out of courage or racism—it was American arrogance. Many of these men, millionaires themselves, saw no reason to bow to a billionaire. In their minds, they were already equals.
But there were also a few who didn't bother to hide their hostility—three of them, to be exact: one white, two black. Only Willis Venis was white, but the three shared a common bond—deep-seated racial hatred.
Their alliance proved a harsh truth: in the discrimination hierarchy of American sports culture, Chinese athletes like Zhao Dong sat at the very bottom.
Even Mark Zuckerberg's Vietnamese wife had been publicly discriminated against by her own security team. Status didn't matter. These men didn't see Zhao Dong as a billionaire, a world champion, or the owner of elite investment banks. In their eyes, he was still "just Chinese."
---
Zhao Dong entered the locker room and looked around calmly.
"Well, hello everyone," he said, voice neutral but deliberate.
His gaze immediately locked onto Venis and his two allies. Their eyes burned with venom.
Zhao Dong knew that look too well. He had seen it a thousand times before—especially during his days at Stony Brook University. People who didn't even know him, who'd never spoken to him, already hated him. Just because of where he came from.
And now, standing in this locker room, he realized something: the NFL was a different beast than the NBA.
Basketball was global and modern.
Football was insular and American to its core.
The racial discrimination in this league wasn't subtle—it was systemic, unchecked, and proud.
He narrowed his eyes at the three men blocking his path. "You want to fight?" he asked coldly.
Spat!
Venis spit in his face.
---
Zhao Dong's expression darkened instantly.
He didn't wipe it off. He didn't flinch. But the anger burning in his eyes could have melted steel.
Back home in China, he came from a powerful family. Worldwide, he was a superstar athlete. And now, together with Lindsay, he controlled trillions of dollars in global investment assets.
Venis? In his eyes, the man was less than an insect.
---
The three men burst into mocking laughter.
One of them shouted, "Look at our so-called billionaire! A Chinese freak. He took what should've been our money. His wife ruined the U.S. stock market!"
"F*** him!" the other man roared, raising his fist.
---
But Zhao Dong moved first.
Without hesitation, without even wiping his face, he took a quick boxing slide forward and drove his knee straight into Venis's groin.
The move wasn't flashy—it didn't need to be. With Zhao Dong's Level 100 core strength, the impact was devastating.
Venis let out a blood-curdling scream as he collapsed like a crumpled accordion, curling up on the floor and howling in agony. His shriek echoed throughout the facility like a pig being slaughtered.
"AHHHHH!"
---
Outside the locker room, Jets management and coaching staff heard the noise.
"He's in. Zhao Dong just went in!"
"They're fighting!"
They bolted toward the locker room—but none looked surprised. Fights happened all the time on this team. Some players even ended up hospitalized.
---
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong's bodyguards—over a dozen of them—charged inside.
He pointed behind him. "Those two," he said calmly.
The moment the words left his mouth, half the guards lunged forward. The two accomplices didn't even get a chance to react before they were overwhelmed.
Screams followed.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Back in the center of the chaos, Zhao Dong wasn't finished.
He kept beating Venis, even as the man writhed helplessly on the floor. Kick after kick landed mercilessly.
"Dumb bastard," Zhao Dong muttered. "I'm a gentleman. I don't fight—I talk. But today, I'll make an exception."
He was wearing pointed leather shoes. After a few well-placed kicks, Venis looked like roadkill, sobbing and gasping, no longer capable of fighting back.
Back at Stony Brook, Zhao Dong had been alone—beaten and hospitalized more times than he could count.
Not today.
Today, he had a team of guards, a mountain of power, and nothing to fear.
---
The rest of the locker room watched in stunned silence.
No one said a word.
They weren't friends—they were teammates. And in this brutal business, that didn't mean much. No one was going to step in.
---
Just then, the coaching staff burst through the doors.
"STOP IT!" Head coach Edwards bellowed.
Zhao Dong stopped instantly.
His agent, Wells, stepped forward and handed him a handkerchief.
Zhao Dong wiped the spit from his face, then looked down at Venis—bloody, groaning, and barely conscious.
He lifted one foot and planted it firmly on Venis's face. Then, casually, he began wiping the blood off his leather shoes using another handkerchief—first the left, then the right, using Venis's face like a doormat.
The locker room froze.
A chill ran through every man watching.
For the first time, they all remembered who Zhao Dong really was:
A billionaire.
A heavyweight champion.
The husband of one of the most powerful women on Wall Street.
If he killed someone right now, there would probably be a thousand lawyers lined up to defend him.
---
Wells turned to General Manager Maureen Philip, who had just arrived.
"Mr. Philip, those three men just attacked Mr. Zhao Dong. You're free to handle it however you see fit. But I'll be contacting his lawyers immediately."
General Manager Maureen Philip smiled calmly and said, "Calling the police isn't an option. These are internal matters and must be handled internally. That's the rule of the NFL. Anyone who breaks that rule will be sanctioned by the league."
It was both a statement and a warning directed at Wells. The NFL wasn't something outsiders could casually challenge. From teams to sponsors to broadcasters, the league was backed by powerful interest groups. One media scandal could trigger massive repercussions.
As for the three players Zhao Dong had beaten? Philip didn't give them a second thought.
Wells understood. He nodded and said nothing further. He'd been around long enough to know—every league had its unspoken rules. While he was a veteran of the NBA world, this principle wasn't any different in the NFL.
—
Head Coach Herman Edwards walked over and examined the groaning bodies on the locker room floor. His expression darkened quickly.
Venis was a mess: his groin was swollen like a club, one testicle ruptured, six teeth knocked out, four broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and two long gashes on his scalp. His head looked like it had been smashed by a brick.
It wasn't a beating. It was a message. Zhao Dong hadn't held back. He had aimed to cripple him.
The other two weren't much better—over a dozen fractures between them. If Zhao Dong's bodyguards had arrived ten seconds later, there might've been three corpses on the floor.
Coach Edwards turned to Philip, shaking his head helplessly. "We can't use them anymore. They're practically ready for retirement."
As soon as the words left his mouth, some players in the locker room brightened with excitement. With three players gone, more spots were up for grabs—including a possible starting role.
Philip blinked and looked at Zhao Dong. Can't you be a little more... restrained?
But he simply sighed and nodded. He then turned to his assistant and said, "Get the team doctors. Prep to transport them to the hospital."
As he stepped outside with his assistant, he gave further instructions.
"When they regain consciousness, make sure they sign a non-disclosure agreement. Warn them—no interviews, no talking to the press. If they leak anything, they'll face legal consequences. No compensation. And assign someone to monitor them around the clock."
"Understood, sir," the assistant replied.
The matter was handled swiftly. The three players were stretchered out and given a strict verbal warning before leaving the training base. The management team took full control of the narrative, locking down the situation before the media could get wind of it.
---
Coach Edwards and the staff were already feeling the pressure. Losing three players before the season even began—especially Venis, the starting defensive tackle—was a big hit. They'd have to reshuffle quickly and find replacements.
Thankfully, the Jets had a deep enough roster. A backup would be elevated—but none could match Venis's strength.
His nickname, "The Three-Eyed Monster," wasn't for nothing. He was an elite player, and his substitutes were nowhere near his level.
General Manager Philip also began working the phones, trying to negotiate a trade for a new defensive tackle. But time wasn't on his side. Most teams had already finalized their rosters. The chances of landing a top-tier player were slim. His most realistic option was to promote someone from within.
---
Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside the locker room shifted.
After Zhao Dong decisively destroyed the three troublemakers, no one dared provoke him again.
In fact, many players quickly aligned themselves with him—not just out of fear, but for opportunity.
With his influence, background, and wealth, Zhao Dong was no longer just a teammate. He was becoming the new axis of power in the Jets' locker room.
Players like Paul Weilin, the starting quarterback, and Chris McGill, the starting center, began to rally around him. Soon, over 30 players had formed a new group—Zhao Dong's circle. It was now the largest and most powerful faction in the team.
Zhao Dong, seated with a group around him, smiled and said, "Trust me, following me never leads to losses. In the NBA, many made fortunes just by being close to me. I'm sure you've heard the stories."
"Zhao Dong, can we invest with you?" one player asked. "The U.S. stock market's been a mess lately—I've lost a ton."
Zhao Dong grinned. "Anyone who follows me will have the opportunity. That's a promise."
A cheer rippled through the group.
Even veterans like Weilin and McGill looked excited.
Unlike the NBA, NFL salaries weren't always massive. Commercial deals were rare unless you were a superstar. For most players, an investment opportunity with Zhao Dong was a golden ticket.
If it meant Zhao Dong became the team's top player? They had no objections.
---
The remaining twenty or so players stayed on the sidelines.
They heard everything. Some were envious. Some were tempted.
But pride—and prejudice—held them back.
These were the types who still believed the Earth was flat, who saw themselves as kings of the world and looked down on Zhao Dong simply because of his race. All they could do was stew in silence—envious, bitter, and left out.
---
Zhao Dong smirked. "In a few days, my private yacht will arrive in New York. Worth $500 million. The most luxurious yacht in the world."
He paused, then added, "I'll invite you all for a party."
The room erupted.
"$500 million? My God!"
"That's insane!"
"We're in!"
Even the most composed players couldn't help but react.
—
Coach Edwards smiled quietly to himself.
He had been a former assistant coach, with no real authority in the Jets. Now, with Zhao Dong effectively stabilizing the locker room in just one day, things were looking better than ever.
If Zhao Dong could help maintain unity? That was a win in his book.
Philip felt the same. Seeing Zhao Dong effortlessly unite most of the team, he nodded in approval.
Zhao Dong had invested heavily in the Jets before—upgrading facilities, improving staff benefits. He had always been a generous and visionary boss.
If he became the spiritual leader of the team? It would make management much smoother.
Of course, Philip also knew that in the NFL, it was nearly impossible for someone to become the absolute boss of the locker room. There would always be players driven by ego, testosterone, and blind pride.
---
"Zhao Dong," Philip called out, "have you chosen your jersey number yet?"
Zhao Dong thought for a moment. "Has anyone taken number 1?"
"No," Philip replied. "It's still available."
"Then I'll take it."
"Done," Philip nodded. "I'll have the staff arrange it immediately."
---
And with that, official team training began.
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