"Asshole!"
Karl Marton exploded, hurling Ham backward and throwing punches at him.
"He's beating his own teammate! Has he lost his mind?" The crowd roared in shock, stunned by what they were seeing.
Players from the Panthers sprinted over, yanking Karl Marton away before the situation escalated further.
"Marton must have had some kind of plan. Maybe the punter didn't follow it. Don't forget—Marton and Neotilin are tight. Just last month, the two of them nearly beat a teammate half to death in the locker room. It even made the news."
"How's a Panthers team like this supposed to beat the Jets?"
In the commentary booth, Luka Michael and Lance Victor both sighed, shaking their heads.
By the second quarter, the Panthers had no choice but to bench Marton to keep the situation under control. From the sideline, his furious roars echoed across the field.
At halftime, the scoreboard read 27–13. The Jets were ahead by two touchdowns and a field goal—more than enough breathing room.
---
Halftime Show
Since Michael Jackson revolutionized the halftime show in 1993, the Super Bowl stage had become the most coveted in music. Artists didn't get paid for performing, but every superstar still fought for the chance.
This year's featured act was Janet Jackson, sister of the King of Pop, paired with Justin Timberlake.
While the stadium buzzed, Zhao Dong sat quietly in the locker room, uninterested in the spectacle. He already knew what was coming.
Janet and Justin performed Rock Your Body, and as predicted, the infamous moment happened—Justin tore off part of Janet's top, exposing her on live TV. The crowd gasped, the nation was stunned.
From that moment, the NFL would never broadcast a halftime show without a five-second delay.
The fallout, however, was brutal. Janet faced a storm of public outrage, her career sinking under the weight of scandal. Justin? Untouched—protected by the shield of being a white male.
In the Jets' locker room, players crowded the TV, shouting in disbelief. Zhao Dong alone sat calm and unmoved.
---
Third Quarter Begins
The Jets' first drive of the second half stalled, forcing a punt. The Panthers' offense took the field, desperate to close the gap.
After ten minutes on the bench, Karl Marton was finally sent back in.
The Panthers set up their most dangerous weapon: star quarterback Rom Chelste linking with wide receiver John Stockworth. Their long-pass chemistry had carried Carolina all season.
Zhao Dong crouched behind the defensive line, eyeing the shotgun formation. Something was off. At the last second, he shifted positions, switching with the strongside linebacker.
"That coward!" Karl Marton's eyes burned red as he spotted the move.
On the Panthers sideline, the coaching staff erupted. "What the hell is he doing?!" But it was too late—no communication could reach the field in time.
"Set! Hut!"
Rom Chelste barked out the snap.
The line surged. The Panthers' tight end squared up against Zhao Dong. But the 275-pound defender exploded forward like a missile. His badge-level burst of power blew the tight end backward as if he weighed nothing.
Chelste saw the blur coming and panicked, trying to step away from the pressure.
Too late.
Zhao Dong adjusted once, twice—faster than a quarterback should be able to react—and then, BAM! he leveled Chelste into the turf.
"Sack!"
"TWO sacks for Zhao Dong!" Luka Michael shouted from the booth. "That first-step explosion is unreal!"
"Exactly," Lance Victor added. "The Panthers' tight end is 125 kilos, but Zhao Dong made him look like a paper bag. That sack pushes Carolina back to the 14-yard line—second and 16. With the Panthers' shaky morale, this is trouble."
The commentators exchanged grim looks.
---
Legends Watching
Up in the stands, NBA stars sat in disbelief.
Michael Jordan shook his head. "How the hell is his first step getting faster? He's almost 27. Shouldn't his body be maxed out already?"
Barkley chuckled. "Just treat him like what he is—a monster. The God of Basketball can't explain this one."
Jordan shot him a glare, then sat back, frustrated, saying nothing more.
Forty seconds later, the second attack began.
This time, Zhao Dong lined up once again at the center-back spot.
"This bastard… he's not gonna switch again, is he?" Karl Marton glared across the line, muttering curses under his breath.
He twisted his head toward the middle linebacker behind him and barked, "Make the call already! Hurry up!"
This was their last chance to shift. Right now, he still had time to swap with the tight end, but any more delay and it would be too late. On the offensive line, shifting across two positions cost precious seconds—and that window was closing fast.
"Let Karl play guard."
The voice of the Panthers' coaching staff crackled through the headset.
The middle linebacker obeyed immediately, signaling Marton to swap with the right guard.
Sliding over, Marton now stood to the left of the guard, the tight end on his right. From here, he could cover both sides—at least, in theory, the safest setup.
But Zhao Dong was watching the referee closely, his mind ticking with the rhythm of the count. Just as the official's whistle lifted to his lips, Zhao made his move—sliding to the weak side, switching spots with the right linebacker at the last possible second.
"Damn it!"
The entire Panthers sideline erupted in fury. Players on the field, coaches on the bench—faces twisted red with frustration, ready to explode.
Karl Spurs, veins bulging on his forehead, spat venom. "Cowardly Chinese bastard!"
"Change again!"
From the booth above, commentators Luca Michael and Lance Victor shouted in unison.
"Attack!"
Quarterback Rom Chelste barked the snap count, voice sharp like a whip.
The ball was hiked. Zhao Dong exploded forward, his burst instantly boosted by his badge ability. He was a blur—faster, meaner, stronger than anything the line expected.
Like lightning, he cut past the colliding wall of blockers and streaked into the pocket.
Too fast. The Panthers' receivers hadn't even cleared their routes. Chelste was trapped. He couldn't set his feet, couldn't release—he had no choice but to scramble.
But in raw athleticism, Zhao Dong was on another level. Chelste's legs churned, but Zhao's pursuit was merciless.
Bang!
On his third desperate step, Chelste was drilled into the turf. Another sack.
"Zhao Dong again!" Lance Victor roared, his voice nearly cracking. "That's his third sack of the game! And look at the spot—the Panthers are only seven yards from their own end zone! It's third down, and they've gotta gain twenty-three yards to reset the chains—or they're punting again!"
Luca Michael chuckled darkly. "Be real, Lance. With how shaken they are, twenty-three yards on third down? That's a fantasy."
Sure enough, on the next play, the Panthers managed a meager five-yard gain. It wasn't nearly enough. Fourth down. Punt team incoming.
The special teams units jogged onto the field. This was it—one last chance to flip field position.
The punter lined up deep, standing at the four-yard line. Ninety-six yards from the end zone, one hundred six from the back line. The pressure was crushing.
"The farther back you are, the more leg strength you need," Lance explained. "And the higher the risk of error."
Everyone remembered the mistake from earlier—that shanked punt had been catastrophic. Neotielin had died because of it. The weight of that failure hung heavy on the punter's shoulders.
"In this situation," Lance added, "most punters will play it safe—kick it out of bounds. Don't risk another disaster."
But Luca wasn't convinced. "Hard to say what Ham's mindset is right now. He knows his error caused Neotielin's death. Then Karl Marton roughs him up on the sideline—"
"He beat him," Lance corrected, dryly. "Two guys couldn't even stop Marton."
The booth burst into nervous laughter.
Karl Marton had rejoined the punt team. Before stepping onto the field, he leaned into Ham's face, growling for him to angle the kick toward Zhao Dong.
Ham didn't respond. Even beaten black and blue, he'd rather risk Marton's fists than Zhao Dong's wrath.
Still, Marton wasn't letting it go. His glare burned a hole in Ham's helmet as they lined up. Screw me again, Marton swore silently, and I'll kill you myself.
The whistle blew. Ham charged, swung his leg—boom—ball sailing into the night sky.
His plan had been simple: drive it hard toward the right sideline, away from Zhao Dong. Pin the Jets deep.
But his nerves betrayed him. He pushed for distance, for perfection, and came up short. The ball veered, but not enough—it landed in bounds.
And Zhao Dong was already moving.
He tore across the field like a predator, sprinting from the far left wing to the opposite sideline. He was at the landing spot before the ball even touched earth.
The Panthers' other return man didn't dare contest it. He backed off.
The ball thudded down at the Jets' 32-yard line—straight into Zhao Dong's hands.
Panthers' coverage men were charging hard, desperation in every stride. Marton among them, huffing, pounding the turf, but his bulk slowed him down. He was the third rusher in line, nearly eight yards behind the lead man.
By the time he closed the gap, Zhao Dong already had the ball secured—eyes locked downfield, ready to turn the field into his hunting ground.
(End of chapter)
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