Football: Start with the Kaka template, dominate the football field!

Berlin, early June.

On the eve of the final, Qin Feng put on a hood and quietly slipped out of the hotel where the team was staying, all by himself.

He had no specific destination, simply strolling along the banks of the Spree River. A cool evening breeze carried away the daytime hustle and bustle. In the distance, the glass dome of the Capitol Building gleamed in the night; the city, like a witness to history, awaited the coronation of a new king.

He passed by the fan square in front of the Brandenburg Gate. There, it had long since become two distinct camps.

On one side, a pure white ocean stretched out. Real Madrid fans chanted "Hala Madrid," waving huge flags emblazoned with Cristiano Ronaldo's image, their faces radiating the innate pride of the Galácticos.

On the other side, a storm of yellow and black hues raged. Dortmund fans responded with even more rugged and passionate German anthems, the clinking of beer glasses echoing throughout the stadium.

"Have you heard? In the latest Ballon d'Or odds, Qin has overtaken Ronaldo!"

"So what? Cristiano will show him in the final who the real world number one is!"

"That Chinese kid is just a flash in the pan; the pressure of the finals will crush him!"

"Bullshit! Qin will step over Real Madrid's corpse to lift the Champions League trophy and the Ballon d'Or!"

The fans' arguments could be heard from a great distance. Qin Feng pulled his hood down even lower, but a barely perceptible smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

There was no music playing in his headphones, only Klopp's last words from the tactical meeting echoing repeatedly.

"Carlo (Ancelotti) is a cunning old fox; he'll use all his experience to set a trap for us. And Cristiano (Ronaldo)..."

Klopp paused, then his gaze fell on Qin Feng.

"...He'll be like a hungry, wounded beast, trying to take back everything we stole last year. Kid, are you ready for a real war?"

war.

Qin Feng raised his head and looked at the outline of the Olympic Stadium in the distance. That huge circular building, like a giant beast lurking in the night, quietly awaited the arrival of tomorrow's dawn.

He could feel his blood gradually becoming scalding hot.

……

The next day, the front pages of all sports media outlets around the world were dominated by huge photos of the two men.

On one side was Cristiano Ronaldo, wearing a white number 7 jersey, his eyes filled with the domineering aura of a king.

On the other side was Qin Feng, wearing a yellow and black jersey with the number 37, and a confident smile on his face.

The Guardian's headline was imbued with a sense of fatalism: "Old Kings and New Kings: The Berlin Olympics will witness the changing of the guard in European football!"

The Italian newspaper Gazzetta dello Sport analyzed the situation from a tactical perspective: "Can Ancelotti's 'balanced approach' contain Klopp's 'crazy rock and roll'? This final will be the ultimate clash between Italian tactical philosophy and German passionate football."

Even the notoriously critical French newspaper L'Équipe described the match as a "clash of the century," quoting a football legend who wished to remain anonymous: "Whoever wins this match will define the landscape of world football for the next five years. This is a turning point in history."

Amid this global media storm, the two main figures remained unusually calm.

Cristiano Ronaldo posted only one photo on his social media: a picture of him kissing the Champions League trophy, with a single word in the caption:

"Hala Madrid!"

Qin Feng, on the other hand, forwarded a group photo of the entire team departing for Berlin, posted by Borussia Dortmund.

He said nothing. But everyone knew that the silent declaration of war had already been issued.

……

On the night of the match, at the Olympic Stadium, in the away team's locker room.

The atmosphere was so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.

Klopp stood in the center of the room, behind him a whiteboard covered with tactical instructions. But he didn't elaborate on any tactics.

He simply looked quietly at his disciples, his gaze slowly sweeping across each of their faces.

"Sebastian," his gaze fell on captain Kehl, "do you remember the first time you played for Borussia Dortmund?"

The old captain paused for a moment, then smiled, though his eyes were a little red.

"Of course, Coach. Like a silly boy."

"Yes, like a silly boy." Klopp laughed too. "Today is your last game as a player. I don't have much to give you, except... this trophy."

He then looked at Reus: "Marco, you are a son of Dortmund. The glory of this city rests on your shoulders."

Finally, his gaze fell on Qin Feng.

"Kid, I don't have anything to say to you."

Klopp's expression became extremely serious.

"Go, take back what belongs to you."

……

The atmosphere inside the players' tunnel was so oppressive it was hard to breathe.

The Real Madrid players stood there quietly, exuding the pride of the Galacticos. Ramos's eyes were sharp as knives, while Casillas's face was etched with composure.

Meanwhile, on Dortmund's side, captain Sebastian Kehl was embracing each of his teammates one by one. This was the last match of his professional career.

When he walked up to Qin Feng, he didn't say anything, but simply reached out and forcefully straightened the collar of Qin Feng's jersey, smoothing out the yellow and black team emblem.

Then, in his somewhat hoarse voice, he said in a low voice:

"Kid, this is my last match."

"Don't let me... leave with regrets."

Qin Feng raised his head, met the old captain's gaze, and nodded heavily.

"Don't worry, Captain."

"beep--!"

The referee signaled for the players to enter the field!

When Qin Feng followed the team out of the narrow and dimly lit player tunnel, he was completely shocked by the scene before him.

The entire stadium was packed!

On the east side of the stadium, it was a sea of ​​pure white! Real Madrid fans unfurled a giant tifo featuring their king, Cristiano Ronaldo, raising the Champions League trophy, with a bold slogan beside it: "Por La Undécima!" (For the eleventh title!)

To the west, a storm of yellow and black hues raged! Dortmund's "yellow wall" used countless small flags to spell out a giant salad plate and a Big Ears Cup, declaring to the world their desire for the "treble"!

Two enormous waves of sound collided violently in the center of the stadium, unleashing a roar powerful enough to tear the sky apart!

The Champions League theme song solemnly resounded at this moment.

The camera slowly panned across each player's face.

Klopp, on the sidelines, clenched his fists tightly, his eyes filled with barely suppressed madness.

Ancelotti, meanwhile, chewed his gum elegantly, as if everything was under control.

Cristiano Ronaldo, with his eyes closed and lips slightly moving, seems to be praying to God.

Qin Feng took a deep breath, suppressing the suffocating sound into his chest. His gaze did not fall upon the large-eared trophy so close to him.

His gaze pierced through all the noise and flashes, landing on the white figure number 7 opposite him, who was also staring at him.

At this moment, the world's cameras were focused on these two geniuses.

The king of the old era, and the challenger of the new era.

Their eyes met silently under the Berlin night sky.