Snap!
The ball was in Zhao Dong's hands. In the very next instant, his decision was revealed to the entire stadium. He planted his right foot, exploding forward with Hill's signature first step.
"Return! Zhao is bringing it back!" commentator Russell Nevida shouted with excitement.
"Charge!"
More than 80,000 fans instantly remembered Zhao Dong's electrifying 100-yard return from the first preseason game. Their roar shook the entire Meadowlands, the unified chant echoing like thunder inside Giants Stadium.
Zhao Dong accelerated—then accelerated again. Five steps and he was already bursting out of the end zone.
Three defenders had closed the gap to within six yards. At their combined speed, only two strides remained before collision. They were three sports cars with their pedals slammed to the floor, engines screaming, steel set to crash.
Three against one. Who wins?
Every fan in the house held their breath.
The first safety, the fastest of the three, was one yard ahead of the others. Positioned on Zhao Dong's right flank, he was the key. If Zhao Dong could take him out, the first blockade would be gone.
But Zhao Dong noticed something—both cornerbacks behind the safety had subtly slowed. A second line of defense. Even if he bulldozed through the first man, the other two would still have him lined up.
It was too late to hesitate. His body was already committed. He lowered his shoulder. The safety launched himself forward.
Bang!
The sound was like a sports car colliding with a semi. The violent crack echoed through the stadium. Zhao Dong staggered back two steps, head buzzing for an instant before clearing.
He'd trained for this—boxing, neck-bridge drills, anti-whiplash work. His neck muscles were thick and hardened, built to stabilize his head and prevent concussive tremors. NFL veterans often paid the price for collisions like this, but Zhao Dong's preparation and resilience carried him through.
The safety wasn't so lucky. At impact, his body recoiled violently. His ribs screamed under the pressure, his chest cracking with audible protest. A lightning bolt of force surged straight into his skull—his cerebellum rattled, dizziness overwhelmed him, and before he even hit the turf, his lights went out.
Zhao Dong had been driven back nearly to the goal line—but the collision had bought him space. The two remaining defenders had overpursued.
He cut hard to the right.
The cornerbacks shot past like missiles, crashing uselessly into the end zone behind him.
"Yeahhh!" The stadium erupted.
"Beautiful! Zhao shakes off three defenders! He's charging! Alone on the run—accelerating—he's still charging! He's at the 20-yard line…" Russell Nevida's voice broke into a scream.
Zhao Dong roared past the red zone, his stride opening to full speed. With his combination of size, speed, and raw power, defenders started thinking twice about how to bring him down.
The Patriots, glancing at their fallen safety, realized he wasn't moving. The image stuck in their heads. No one wanted to be the next victim.
One cornerback came from the side, avoiding head-on contact, diving for a flank tackle.
Zhao Dong juked, balance and flexibility on display. He slipped past with a violent sidestep. The defender whiffed completely, slamming face-first into the turf.
Another cornerback and a linebacker rushed in, but Zhao Dong danced again—shifty cuts, top-tier agility. Both were left grasping at air.
"Charge! Charge! Charge!"
The chant rolled across Giants Stadium like an earthquake. Fans were on their feet, fists pumping, the noise volcanic.
"60 yards… 65 yards… Zhao breaks through again! He's at the 75-yard line—only one man left!" Nevida screamed until his throat cracked.
"Be careful!" his partner Wells Michael yelled.
At the 75-yard line stood Newman Dakar—nicknamed The Man-Eating Shark. The Patriots' enforcer. The last line of defense.
Dakar crouched low, eyes locked on Zhao Dong, bloodthirsty grin plastered on his face.
He led the league in sacks. His tackling skills and experience were among the best—top three, no question. Standing at the 75-yard line, Newman Dakar, the Man-Eating Shark, shifted his feet subtly, never planting too firmly. He wasn't about to meet Zhao Dong head-on. No, his plan was a side tackle, clean and decisive.
Dakar was a monster: 191 cm tall, 140 kilos of pure power. Even Karl Malone—the Mailman himself—would've looked small standing next to him.
He had absolute confidence. This tackle would end the run, end the noise, end the hype. To him, Zhao Dong wasn't an opponent, just an outsider who didn't belong.
But Zhao Dong saw through him instantly. He recognized the angle, the hesitation, the setup. If Dakar wanted a side grapple, fine. Zhao Dong adjusted, lowering his shoulder and charging straight at him.
"Damn it…" Dakar muttered under his breath as he realized what was coming.
Deep down, he never respected Zhao Dong—not as a player, not even as a man. In the slums he grew up in, Chinese kids were easy targets. That prejudice ran through his veins like it was bred into him. To him, Zhao Dong should've taken the "safe" route, avoiding the collision. That's what the weak always did.
But Zhao Dong shattered that illusion the moment he changed direction. And now Dakar's instincts, honed by years of brutal football, screamed the truth:
This wasn't going to be a tackle. This was going to be a train wreck.
Bang!
The collision was apocalyptic. Even in a sport built on violence, 80,000 fans winced and shut their eyes at once.
Dakar, the so-called shark, never had time to use his vaunted grappling technique. He was blasted backward, a groan escaping his lips as his massive frame plowed through the turf, carving a groove several yards long.
Inside his helmet, blood sprayed from his mouth and nose. His body went limp, consciousness gone. Internal bleeding. Serious.
Zhao Dong staggered three steps, nearly collapsing face-first.
"Damn…" he hissed. Pain seared through his chest—maybe cracked ribs. His head swam, dizziness threatening to unbalance him. The force was mutual: Dakar outweighed him by 25 kilos. Even with his raw speed, even with his durability, Zhao Dong wasn't walking away clean.
But he held on to the ball.
System, recover chest and head—minor injuries! he shouted in his mind.
Warmth surged through his body, knitting pain into nothingness. His balance steadied. His legs churned again.
He accelerated, staggering into stride, and then he was gone—breaking into the red zone, charging toward destiny.
"Touchdown!"
Zhao Dong slammed the ball into the grass of the end zone. Giants Stadium erupted like a bomb going off.
"Touchdown! A 108-yard return touchdown!" Russell Nevida screamed, his voice cracking. "Zhao has just made NFL history!"
The crowd went wild, a wall of sound crashing down on the field.
"Unstoppable! Zhao Dong just bulldozed through the entire Patriots defense—alone! He flattened Newman Dakar, the top sack leader in the league, left him bleeding on the turf!"
"This is the Tyrannosaurus! Indestructible! Unstoppable! His charge is unlike anything the NFL has ever seen!"
Even the veteran commentators, usually restrained, were shouting like fans.
"Yes! Yes! That collision—good God, that might be the most terrifying hit in NFL history! Dakar thought Zhao Dong wouldn't dare face him head-on, but Zhao proved otherwise. Newman Dakar isn't qualified to stop him—he's only qualified to be carried off on a stretcher!"
On the field, chaos. The referees blew the whistle, suspending the game. Both Dakar and the earlier safety lay motionless, medical staff sprinting toward them.
Two stretchers came out. One for the safety. One for the Man-Eating Shark.
The Patriots had been mauled. The Tyrannosaurus had left his mark.
(End of chapter)
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