After breaking through the safety's defense, Zhao Dong cut diagonally toward the red zone. Only one defender remained between him and the touchdown—defensive tackle Neotielin.
Neotielin was a beast. He didn't flinch at Zhao Dong's charge. Instead, he surged forward, looking to deliver a side tackle. His thinking mirrored that of the infamous "Man-Eating Sha." A side tackle wasn't too risky for him, but the chances of injuring his opponent were sky-high.
"Damn it!" he cursed as Zhao Dong suddenly changed direction, lowering his shoulders and rushing straight at him.
In that split second, Neotielin thought of the Shark's fate.
But it was already too late.
The collision came like thunder.
"Bang!"
The impact rippled like a shockwave. Neotielin was blasted two yards back, crashing onto the turf. Zhao Dong staggered from the hit, but powered through, stumbling forward past the fallen defender.
"Ooooh!"
The stadium erupted. Over 70,000 fans rose to their feet, their wild roars echoing like a storm.
"Two Easy Recovery!" Zhao Dong growled under his breath.
The dizziness clouding his head and the ache in his chest disappeared instantly. Regaining balance, he sprinted across the line and smashed the football into the end zone.
Touchdown.
The crowd's roar hit a deafening peak.
---
On the other side, panic spread.
"It's over! Neo's dead!"
"Get the doctor!"
As Jets players piled on Zhao Dong in a wild celebration, Panthers players rushed to their fallen teammate. Neotielin lay motionless, eyes closed, as trainers sprinted onto the field.
Underneath the celebratory pile, Zhao Dong's system suddenly flashed before his eyes:
"Congratulations to the host. The Savage Charge talent badge has been upgraded successfully.
Level 2 Effect: When in motion, explosive power increases by 5–15%.
Note: This badge has three levels. Upgrade requirement for Level 3—knock down opponents 3,000 times with Savage Charge, seriously injure 10 opponents, and kill 100 opponents."
"...What the hell? Kill?" Zhao Dong froze.
He had barely reached 230 collisions before this upgrade. The only explanation—Neotielin was dead.
---
The referee halted the game. The Panthers' medical team and staff swarmed in, performing frantic CPR. Jets players returned to the bench, where Zhao Dong sat, guzzling water and wiping sweat.
"This effect is insane…" he muttered, reopening his system and grinning at the badge description. Extra acceleration on every start—that was a game-changer.
Ten minutes later, the announcement came.
Neotielin didn't make it.
The stadium fell silent. All 70,000 stood, heads bowed for three minutes of mourning.
---
When the silence lifted, the broadcast booth cut in.
Lance Victor: "What a devastating blow for Carolina. They've now lost three of their four defensive stars. Neotielin was their anchor. Without him, that defense drops a tier instantly. The Jets' offense just gained a huge edge."
Luca Michael: "Exactly. The balance of power is tilting toward New York."
In the stands, NBA legends traded uneasy glances.
Jordan: "Good thing our court's a lot smaller. Otherwise, we might've been crushed by Zhao Dong already."
Barkley: "No kidding."
Kobe: "Damn… he knocked me back once. Looking at Neo, I'm just glad I'm still alive."
---
On the Panthers' sideline, grief and anger churned. Offensive tackle Carl Maddon finally snapped.
He shot up, fists clenched, and roared:
"That bastard did it on purpose! He changed direction and went head-to-head—he wanted to kill Neo! We can't let this go. We have to avenge him!"
His words ignited the bench. Half the team shouted in agreement, rage boiling over. Even some coaches, devastated at losing a season's cornerstone, gave in to anger.
But cooler heads pushed back. Head coach Roll Wellington—supported by management—quickly stepped in, calling for security to calm things down.
Minutes later, the referee whistled the restart. The special teams trotted out. New York nailed the extra point.
20–10. Jets by ten.
As Carolina's offense took the field, Carl Maddon snarled, charging out with fire in his eyes.
"I'm going to crush him!"
Several teammates echoed behind him.
"Karl, we're with you!"
The game wasn't just about football anymore. For the Panthers, it had become war.
Star quarterback Rom Chelster knew he was in trouble tonight. He wasn't the kind of player who liked making waves, but there was one problem he couldn't avoid—Karl Marton. Neither Chelster nor the Panthers' coaching staff could keep Marton under control once he was on the field.
The two teams lined up at the Panthers' 20-yard line.
"Tyr—Zhao Dong, you wait!" Karl Marton growled through clenched teeth, glaring at Zhao Dong from just a few feet away.
"You're a traitor."
Zhao Dong just smiled and didn't bother replying.
That's when the Lion barked back, "Then you'll have to deal with me first."
Karl Marton sneered at him, lowering into his stance, ready for the collision.
The Panthers came out in a shotgun set, the quarterback lined five yards behind center.
"Set… hut!" Chelster's sharp cadence rang out as the center snapped the ball.
Bang! The trenches exploded with violence.
The Lion launched with all his strength, slamming into the middle of Marton and the Panthers' center. But Marton, powerful and only ten kilograms lighter, held firm and bulldozed him to the turf.
With the Lion out of the way, Marton locked eyes on Zhao Dong. He was ready to pounce.
But before he could take a step, his vision went black. A massive shadow tore across the line—
Boom!
Zhao Dong unleashed everything. His second-level Wild Collision badge kicked in, letting him turn speed into power. Light against heavy, fast against slow—he smashed into Marton head-on and sent the 150-kilo lineman tumbling. Zhao Dong staggered forward but broke through the line cleanly.
"What the hell?! Impossible!" Marton gasped from the turf, stunned.
On the Panthers' sideline, the coaching staff was just as dumbfounded.
In all their years, none of them had ever seen a middle linebacker willingly take on a star offensive tackle straight up—let alone win. Zhao Dong outweighed most linebackers, sure, but he was still giving up more than 30 kilos to Marton. And he had just flattened him.
Quarterback Rom Chelster's heart skipped. Zhao Dong was coming for him again. In the first quarter, Zhao Dong had already forced a fumble—and even worse, his vicious hit had taken teammate Neotielin out of the game for good. Chelster was shaken, and the shadow of Zhao Dong loomed over him.
Panicked, Chelster tried to scramble, but his footing betrayed him. He stumbled—
Crack!
Zhao Dong barreled into him, planting him into the turf.
"Beautiful!" roared commentator Lance Victor. "Zhao Dong with another sack! Chelster is taken down at the 13-yard line. That's a seven-yard loss—Panthers now facing second and 17. Big, big trouble!"
The stadium erupted.
---
Forty seconds later, the Panthers lined up for second down. They clawed back three yards, but third down left them staring at 14 to go—practically a death sentence. Sure enough, Chelster's third-down pass missed its mark.
Fourth down. Punt team.
The Panthers lined up at their own 16.
This was their second punt of the quarter. The last one had ended in disaster when Neotielin got lit up. The situation looked eerily similar, and punter Ham felt the weight.
To bolster protection, the Panthers sent their starters back out—including Karl Marton.
On the Jets' side, Zhao Dong trotted back as the main returner.
Karl sidled up next to Ham, voice dripping venom. "Listen up, kid. Don't kick it too far. Put it around the 50 or 60. Give him a shot at a return."
Ham froze. "Karl… what are you planning?"
Marton's eyes burned. He pointed across the field at Zhao Dong. "Don't worry about it. Just drop it where I said. Let that bastard catch it."
"You—you're trying to take him out?" Ham whispered, horrified.
"I said don't worry about it," Marton snapped, turning away.
Ham swallowed hard. His gut screamed no. Everyone knew Zhao Dong had powerful backers, even whispers about Wall Street money behind him. If Zhao Dong were seriously injured—killed—there would be hell to pay. The kind of hell that didn't stop at the locker room door.
"Like hell I'm dying for this idiot," Ham muttered under his breath.
The snap came. Ham stepped forward, swung his leg—
Boom! The ball rocketed into the air, sailing high and deep. Too deep. It carried at about a 55-degree angle, arcing clean over Zhao Dong's head and bouncing past the end line.
Karl Marton spun, furious. "Are you deaf? Didn't you hear me?!" He charged at Ham, raging. "I said drop it short!"
Marton had wanted Zhao Dong pinned between his acceleration and Zhao Dong's stationary position. With 150 kilos of rage slamming into him full speed, Marton thought he had a chance to end him. Instead, Ham had blown it.
Ham shrugged, voice shaking but defiant. "Sorry, Karl. I'm not dying with you."
Without another word, Ham walked toward the bench, leaving Marton fuming on the field.
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