So what if I'm just strolling around the field? My shots are guaranteed to go in.

At the moment the final whistle blew, Barcelona's anthem did not play as usual at Camp Nou.

In the stands with 98,000 people, red and blue flags were being lowered one by one.

No one organized or gave orders, but Barcelona fans were leaving the stadium in a silent and humiliating manner.

They lowered their heads, stuffed their scarves into their pockets, and stomped on the plastic refueling sticks under their feet, surging out of the stands like a tide.

Only four thousand Real Madrid fans remained in their seats.

They waved white scarves, their hoarse voices unable to produce complete songs, but their mouths were still moving, their fists were still waving in the air, and tears were still streaming down their cheeks.

When Lin Fan was pulled out from the bottom of the crowd by his teammates, his number 10 jersey was torn crooked, his hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead, and there was a bloody mark on the outside of his right leg from being rubbed by the grass.

But his expression remained calm—exactly the same as when he walked into the stadium ninety minutes earlier.

Carvajal was still clinging to him, the Spanish right-back's tears and sweat mingling and dripping onto Lin Fan's shoulder.

"How did you know I was there?" Carvajal's voice trembled.

Lin Fan thought for a moment and said, "Because no one is watching you."

Carvajal paused for a second, then burst into laughter through his tears.

He slapped Lin Fan hard on the back of the head, uttered a Spanish curse, and then ran towards the away fans' section to thank the traveling Madrid fans.

Cristiano Ronaldo walked over and put a hand on Lin Fan's shoulder.

The Portuguese man did not cry—his eyes were dry, but what burned in his pupils was more intense than tears.

"Come with me," Ronaldo said.

He led Lin Fan toward the away fans' section. The four thousand Real Madrid fans cheered so loudly they nearly lifted the roof off the Camp Nou as they approached.

Cristiano Ronaldo pushed Lin Fan forward, pointed at the 19-year-old Chinese boy, and made a gesture to the fans in the stands—a signature celebration move of Ronaldo known to fans all over the world.

Then he turned around and said something to Lin Fan.

"From today onward, this stadium will remember your name."

In the mixed zone after the game, all the reporters were waiting for one person.

When Lin Fan appeared wearing Real Madrid's tracksuit, the intensity of the flashes from the cameras almost turned the corridor into daylight.

A dozen microphones were simultaneously thrust in front of him, with questions in English, Spanish, and Chinese mingling together to form a wall of sound.

A reporter from Marca got the first question: "Lin, how are you feeling right now?"

Lin Fan took the microphone. The corridor fell silent. Everyone was waiting for an answer that would be remembered by history.

He said, "The grass is very soft."

The reporters looked at each other in bewilderment.

"The grass at Camp Nou," Lin Fan explained, "is longer than at the Bernabéu. The ball rolls a little slower on it. It took me fifteen minutes to get used to it."

The Marca reporter who asked the question stood there, mouth agape, unsure how to respond. A French journalist from L'Équipe standing nearby couldn't help but burst out laughing.

The only player to score two goals and provide two assists at Camp Nou in the entire match, surprisingly wanted to share the length of the pitch most after the game.

"That free kick," a British journalist squeezed in, "what were you thinking before you took it?"

"Thinking about Busquets' legs."

"What do you mean?"

"Their wall was positioned very far to the left, leaving the near post to the goalkeeper. This was intentionally designed to force me to shoot near the post, allowing Bravo to move earlier. So I had to get the ball around the wall and press it to the far post, without letting it go over the crossbar. If the angle of the point of contact was more than two degrees off, it wouldn't go in."

He spoke these words in a calm tone, as if he were explaining a math problem.

"Have you specifically practiced this kind of free kick?"

"I've practiced it." Lin Fan nodded. "I did fifty extra reps every day after my debut. Zidane taught me."

This statement was like a bombshell. The reporters simultaneously thought of the video that went viral on social media—Number 10 teaching Number 10.

It turns out that it wasn't just a heartwarming story of inheritance. It was ammunition prepared for this moment tonight.

The British journalists backed away. A Spanish journalist, a special correspondent for Barcelona's mouthpiece, Mundo Deportivo, pushed his way forward, his expression clearly not pleasant.

"Lin, do you think tonight's victory was fair? Barcelona took the lead four times, and the referee's decisions—"

"Did you see the slow-motion replay of Busquets getting his groin pierced?" Lin Fan interrupted him.

"Uh—I saw it."

"That's enough."

The Spanish reporter's face turned bright red, but Lin Fan had already turned and left.

Cristiano Ronaldo gave an interview behind Lin Fan.

When the Portuguese coach was asked about his opinion on Lin Fan's performance, he said something that was later translated into at least twenty languages ​​and published on the front page of sports media around the world.

"I've played professional football for fifteen years and been teammates with countless great players. But tonight, for the first time, I feel unworthy of a nineteen-year-old kid."

At 1 a.m., the editorial office of Marca in downtown Madrid was brightly lit.

Editor-in-Chief Carlos Hernandez called everyone back to bed.

He had worked in sports journalism for 25 years, witnessing every night of Real Madrid's first Galácticos era, the night of their tenth Champions League title in Lisbon in 2014, and Zidane's final El Clásico. But he had never been as excited as he was tonight.

"Rewrite the front page." He slammed the already laid-out page on the table. "Change Messi's picture. Replace it with Lin Fan."

"But Messi scored a hat-trick—"

"What's the point of a hat-trick if you lose!" Hernandez practically roared. "Ninety minutes of play, four times we were down and four times we came back to equalize, and then a last-minute winner! A nineteen-year-old kid, two goals and two assists! Tell me, has there ever been another debut like this in the history of El Clásico? Has there ever been?"

The young reporters in the editorial department exchanged bewildered glances, then rushed to their workstations. The sound of keyboards clicking filled the air.

At 2 a.m., the new front page was printed. The cover featured a photo of Lin Fan turning to face the North Stand of Camp Nou after scoring a free kick—he raised his right hand to his lips, making the "shh" gesture that was later imitated by countless people.

In the background of the photo, the Catalan flags that were waving before the match in the North Stand are now drooping one by one.

The cover title consists of three bold Spanish words:

"CALLA, CAMP NOU."

(Shut up, Camp Nou.)

The subtitle reads: Lin Fan silenced 98,000 people with two goals and two assists. Real Madrid conquered Barcelona 5-4.

Hernandez wrote a commentary himself, which was placed on the front page.

This article was later translated into multiple languages, and one passage was retweeted over five million times on Twitter:

"In the 114-year history of Spanish football, countless geniuses have emerged on the stage of El Clásico. Di Stefano scored a hat-trick here, Cruyff conquered Madrid here, Ronaldinho won applause at the Bernabéu here, and Messi became a god here."

But no one has ever, in their first El Clásico, away from home against Barcelona with MSN, come from behind four times to turn the score from 4-4 to 4-5 with two goals and two assists.

there has never been.

Until tonight.

Until a nineteen-year-old boy from China, with his right hand—which he had just learned to shave—put to his lips and uttered a single word to Camp Nou.

Lie.

Before last night, if someone had told me that a Chinese player could do these things at Camp Nou, I would have suggested that he go to a mental hospital.

But today, all I can say is—

I witnessed history.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere was completely different in the editorial office of Mundo Deportivo in Barcelona.

Editor-in-Chief Joseph Maria Batlló sat behind his desk, arms crossed, his face ashen.

On the computer screen in front of him was a photo of Lin Fan celebrating a goal—the "shh" gesture was aimed directly at the camera, as if he were gesturing directly to the editorial office of World Sports Daily.

"What's our headline for tomorrow?" a young editor asked cautiously.

Batlló remained silent for a long time. He was a proud Catalan, a man who considered Barça his faith.

Throughout his career, he wrote countless articles mocking Real Madrid, using the most scathing language to describe their signings, and even in one editorial he described Real Madrid's Galácticos policy as "a plastic surgery performed by a builder."

But now, facing the nineteen-year-old Chinese boy on the computer screen, he found himself unable to find a single harsh word.

It's not because he doesn't want to. It's because he doesn't have the means.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

The title was: "Lin Fan responded to the doubts with a perfect debut."

"But editor-in-chief, this title is too—"

"Too what? Too mild? Too non-aggressive?" Bartlett gave a wry smile. "What do you want me to write? Write that he's bad? Write that his two goals were just luck? Write that his three nutmegs were deliberately let off by Busquets? Look at these stats—two goals, two assists, four key passes, a 92% pass completion rate, 12.7 kilometers of running distance, and this—" He pointed to the slow-motion replay of Lin Fan nutmegging Busquets on the screen, "Even if you let Busquets watch this ten times, he still couldn't stop it."

The young editor fell silent.

Barthez took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the window, looking at the Barcelona street scene in the early morning. There were still some Barcelona fans on the street, walking in small groups under the streetlights, their expressions blank, as if they were sleepwalking.

"Write it," Battillo said. "Write that Lin Fan was outstanding, that he deserved the victory, that Barca lost to a historic genius, not to Real Madrid."

He paused, then uttered his last sentence in an almost clenched-teeth tone.

"And then a reminder to our readers—October has just begun. There are still thirty rounds left in the league. We also have the second leg at Camp Nou. That Chinese kid had better pray he doesn't get injured, because when he comes to Camp Nou next time, the 98,000 people there will show him what real hell is."

At three in the morning, in the studio of Madrid TV, Hierro sat in the guest seat, with half a dozen empty coffee cups spread out on the coffee table in front of him.

He hasn't stopped talking since the game ended, and the host makes no attempt to interrupt him—because every word Hierro says is breaking viewership records.

"I've been playing football for twenty years, and I thought I'd seen it all. Penalty shootouts, last-minute winners, all sorts of unbelievable comebacks. But tonight—" Hierro tapped the table with his finger, making a dull thud, "a nineteen-year-old kid, at Camp Nou, shut up 98,000 people. And he didn't just get lucky. His two goals were a backheel flick after nutmegging Pique in the box, and a free kick from 20 meters out that found the top corner. His two assists were a backheel pass and a last-gasp cross from the byline. Think about it—has any away player in Camp Nou's history ever done that? No. Not a single one."

The host interjected, "Including Messi?"

"Messi has scored a hat-trick at the Bernabéu, but he has never scored two goals and provided two assists at the Bernabéu. And Messi is Messi—he is the greatest player of this era. Lin Fan, on the other hand, has only played less than ten La Liga matches."

As Yero spoke, he suddenly shook his head, an expression of disbelief on his face.

"I take back what I said before. Before the season started, I said that Ancelotti was gambling by giving the number 10 jersey to Lin Fan. Now I must publicly apologize—Ancelotti is not gambling. He is a prophet."

Real Madrid TV. Live data scrolls across tablets in front of the two commentators.

Two hours after the match ended, the number of discussions about the match on social media had exceeded 80 million.

#ElClasico and #LinFenomeno topped the global trending searches.

"A Barcelona fan posted something on Twitter that I found quite interesting."

One commentator projected his tablet onto the big screen, writing: "I'm a Barça fan, but tonight I must tip my hat to Lin Fan. Not for his two goals, but for the 12.7 kilometers he ran in 90 minutes. The most in the entire match. A technically gifted player, in his first El Clásico at Camp Nou, ran more than anyone else. What kind of attitude is that? It's an attitude of risking your life on the pitch."

Another commentator chimed in: "Speaking of running distance, I have another statistic here—Lin Fan sprinted 23 times tonight, also the most in the entire match. Do you know what that means? It means that he sprinted with all his might in every attack and chased back with all his might in every defense. There were less than 20 minutes between his two goals, but his running intensity was still the highest in the entire match in the last ten minutes. This kind of physical reserve, this kind of professionalism—I've only ever seen it in Cristiano Ronaldo."