Wade entered the league in 2003—the same year Zhao Dong retired. Now, five years later, Wade had grown into a superstar, while Zhao Dong stood on the court again at age 31.
The opportunity's here.
Wade's eyes locked onto Zhao Dong as he dribbled up the floor. He was eager to prove himself.
Zhao Dong's answer was simple. Controlling the ball with his right hand, he shielded with his left arm, forcing Wade to the side. Then he drove straight forward, powering through.
Wade tried pressing, but Zhao Dong's strength was overwhelming. He couldn't squeeze past, couldn't even reach around. Helpless, he backed off and slid into retreat, bracing to defend.
The rest of Team USA didn't double in the backcourt. They all knew Zhao Dong's vision and passing—dangerous even if they hadn't played against him before.
Crossing into the frontcourt, Zhao Dong made a quick signal. Prince stepped up to guard him at the top of the arc.
The Americans tightened their defense, ready to collapse three-on-one again. But Zhao Dong didn't bother with hesitation. He lowered his shoulder, attacked directly, and triggered that brutal badge effect.
Crack!
Their shoulders collided. Prince, too slight to withstand the force, crumpled instantly, falling to the hardwood. Zhao Dong stormed past the free-throw line.
Bosh and Anthony, sworn to "kill the god," gritted their teeth and scrambled back to protect the rim. Both leapt together, bodies tense, determined to stop him.
But Zhao Dong soared higher, ball cocked in his right hand. His explosive burst increased another notch—his collision force impossible to match.
Ugh!
The contact knocked both Bosh and Anthony aside like rag dolls.
Bang!
A violent slam thundered through the rim. The two Americans crashed under the basket, sliding backwards in defeat.
The arena exploded in cheers.
Landing hard, Zhao Dong glanced down at them, eyes cold. "The golden generation of 2003?" He scoffed. "Nothing special."
Bosh and Anthony clenched their jaws, furious at the contempt. But there was no answer—they had been overpowered clean.
"You're still too green if you think you can beat me," Zhao Dong added with disdain. "I can take you with one hand." He turned his back on them and jogged back to defense.
The two exchanged a glance, fire burning in their eyes.
---
Team USA attacked. China stayed in their 3–2 zone, focusing on cutting off the perimeter. Zhao Dong positioned himself in the middle, near the free-throw line.
Bang, bang, bang…
Deron Williams bulldozed past Liu Wei, advancing to the top of the arc. On the right wing, Wade shook free from Wang Shipeng and called for the ball.
Deron swung it toward him.
"Snap!"
Zhao Dong had already anticipated it. In a flash, he darted into the passing lane, his big hand intercepting clean.
"Steal! Zhao Dong picked it off—fast break chance!" Su Qun shouted, his voice breaking with excitement.
Deron and Wade sprinted back desperately, but they couldn't close the gap. The "old" god was still too fast.
Bang!
Zhao Dong rose and smashed another dunk, the arena erupting into deafening cheers.
Coach K jumped to his feet. "Watch your passes! Deron, Zhao Dong's faster than you think—don't forget that!"
Deron nodded, shaken. He couldn't believe it—31 years old, and still too quick to catch. Terrifying.
This time, he played cautiously, shifting to the right wing instead of the top of the arc to stay away from Zhao Dong's reach.
But shifting to the strong side only triggered China's defense to tilt as well. Zhao Dong's presence still loomed, cutting off angles, making every pass dangerous.
"Rookies!" Zhao Dong barked across the court, his voice booming over the noise. "Didn't you want to kill the god? I'm right here! Come on, show me what you've got!"
"Go!" a Chinese fan roared from the stands.
"Go! Go!"
The chant caught like fire, spreading until the entire arena shook with thousands of voices.
The American players couldn't understand the words, but they felt the surge of energy—the whole stadium turning into a tidal wave of pressure. Their focus wavered, if only for a heartbeat.
Liu Wei suddenly pressed Deron, catching him off guard. Flustered, Deron staggered back a step, spinning to protect the ball.
That was all Zhao Dong needed. He pounced instantly, doubling the trap.
Deron realized too late—an extra defender was already on top of him.
"Steal! Zhao Dong strips it again!" Su Qun shouted in disbelief.
Bang!
Zhao Dong thundered home another flying dunk. The arena shook with cheers.
On the sideline, Coach K shook his head, eyes narrowing toward the bench.
Deron Williams clearly couldn't handle Zhao Dong.
He scanned his options. Paul and Deron had never faced Zhao Dong before—neither had the experience to cope. That left only one answer.
"Jason," Coach K barked. "You know him best. You're back in. Control our possessions."
Kidd rose, nodding, though his expression was reluctant. "I understand."
At 35, four years older than Zhao Dong, Kidd had planned to play a supporting role in Beijing. He hadn't expected to be forced into the spotlight, tasked with battling his old nemesis again.
During the next dead-ball stoppage, Kidd checked in, with LeBron replacing Prince at the same time.
Zhao Dong spotted Kidd and smirked. "Old Kidd, you again? Can you still run? How about a hundred-meter sprint?"
Kidd gave a helpless grin. "Zhao Dong, go race Bolt. I don't have your legs."
Zhao Dong laughed. "Bolt? No way, I'd lose that one." Then, seeing James re-entering, he added with a wide grin, "Ah, the real reinforcements are here. Looks like I'll have to get serious."
"Don't bluff, Zhao Dong!" Jordan shouted from the sideline, unable to hold back. "You've been going all out since tipoff!"
Magic Johnson stood as well. "Yeah, stop pretending!"
Zhao Dong only smiled. "Then watch closely."
---
China inbounded from the sideline. Zhao Dong caught the ball and immediately accelerated.
This time, his badge effect triggered instantly—his first step explosive, his drive unstoppable. His speed was even sharper than before.
James slid into position, eyes locked on him. Guarding Zhao Dong was his mission now.
But the moment Zhao Dong crossed half court, James felt the truth—he couldn't keep up. Within two strides, he was already a step behind.
Wade rotated to help, cutting across. But Zhao Dong barreled straight at him without flinching.
"Damn it!" Wade thought, his mind flashing back to Zhao Dong's NFL days—those brutal collisions, two opponents crushed in one game, three killed across a season. Fear spiked through him. If he trucks me here, I'll die.
Instinct won. Wade dodged aside, heart pounding, feeling like a freight train had just roared past.
Inside, Bosh and Anthony scrambled back, eyes wide. Zhao Dong's charge was like a shockwave, his momentum crushing their will before he even reached the rim. They remembered the same NFL stories.
Up close, maybe. But this far? If we collide now, it's suicide.
Both made the same decision as Wade—get out of the way.
Bang!
Zhao Dong smashed another dunk through the rim, rattling the basket. The crowd erupted into chaos, fans roaring themselves hoarse.
This time, it wasn't just a score. It was humiliation.
From start to finish, Zhao Dong hadn't even bothered to change direction. And not one American dared to challenge him.
"This is cheating! Absolute cheating!" Jordan shot up from his seat, furious. "What does he think this is, the NFL? He's going to kill someone out there!"
Magic Johnson buried his face in his hand. "How do you defend this? Once he's charging, who dares step in front?"
Coach K signaled for a timeout, pulling his shaken players off the court.
Zhao Dong strolled past the American bench with a cold smile. "Still dreaming about killing the god? Rookies, your only choice is to surrender. Otherwise, you'll regret it."
The bench fell into silence—coaches and players alike, staring back at him wordlessly.
Jordan and Magic exchanged helpless looks and sat down heavily.
Then Zhao Dong turned, pointed his thumb at his own chest, and declared loud enough for the arena to hear:
"Remember this—I'll always be above you. I'll always be the height you can never reach. I will always be your god."
The words stabbed like daggers. Every American player on the bench nearly coughed blood in frustration.
---
(End of chapter)
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