Football: He suffered a broken leg at the start of the game, but partnered with Haaland!

The third floor of the office building.

After hanging up the phone, assistant coach Terčić leaned against the corner of the table and chuckled.

"Boss, you say the final roster isn't finalized yet, but the logistical arrangements are really thoughtful."

Favre glanced at him sideways and picked up his cold coffee.

"I just hate those rebellious people who take advantage of their talent and don't follow the rules."

Terzic walked to the French windows and gestured with his lips.

"And what about that 'King of Curries' downstairs? You dislike him too?"

Favre did not respond immediately.

My gaze pierced through the glass and landed on the half of the lawn that was as bright as day.

Downstairs, Sun Yang had just completed a clean two-touch pass when he immediately turned back and launched a high-intensity counter-press that lasted for five seconds.

He kicked the football hard against the rebound wall, deliberately causing the ball to deflect at an angle that was difficult to catch.

Then charge forward and slide tackle to block the passing lane.

It didn't happen the first time.

Get up and try again.

There were no spectators at the Brakel training ground in the middle of the night.

There was no applause.

There were no keyboard warriors online making sarcastic remarks.

The only sound in the air was the rough, realistic rustling of cleats rubbing against the grass.

Favre stared for a full ten minutes before finally speaking.

"I hate people who waste their talent."

Terzic smiled knowingly.

The Chinese-American boy downstairs is clearly not one of them.

The night breeze turned cool.

Old Hans strolled over with his hands in his pockets and tossed a clean towel to the sidelines from more than ten meters away.

"Sun! Last ten minutes! If you keep practicing like this, the gardening team is going to kill me tomorrow!"

Sun Yang glanced down at his watch.

He originally told Haaland that he would only practice for half an hour.

One hour and forty minutes have passed.

"Soon, the last group."

Old Hans rolled his eyes dramatically as he stood on the sidelines.

"Don't try to fool me with that. Those old men in the locker room who get paid weekly always use that phrase when they want to stay and not leave."

Sun Yang didn't explain, he just silently put the logo away.

In the last group, he decided to stop obsessively trying to pass the ball.

He carried the three balls and placed them on the right side of the penalty area arc.

Bati GO.

That was a deadly technique taught to me by the God of War in my dream.

He knew better than anyone that he was far from having fully mastered the muscle memory in his body in reality.

In dreams, there's a system to protect you; in reality, even the slightest mistake can trigger a devastating attack.

The system only helps him rebuild his talent; it won't play the games for him.

He stomped his left leg heavily on the grass.

The body's center of gravity shifts forward, creating a highly explosive bow-like posture.

His right leg, like a fully drawn trebuchet, lashed out fiercely at the lower middle part of the ball!

boom!

The first shot was made with a thicker section of the ball, sending it soaring high over the crossbar.

The second touch was too straight; the goalkeeper didn't even need to move to collect it.

The third shot had power, but it grazed the outside of the goalpost and went out of bounds.

Sun Yang stood there with one hand on his hip, gulping in oxygen, sweat dripping down his forehead and along his eyelashes.

Batistuta's furious roar in the dream still seemed to echo in my ears.

"Shooting isn't about posing for a photo! You have to make the goalkeeper despair! You have to make the center-back tremble at the sight of you lifting your leg!"

Sun Yang took a deep breath and straightened the last ball at his feet.

This time, he did not deliberately pursue the 100% limit of his power.

Adjust in small steps.

Make sure you identify the correct location.

Press your body down.

boom!

The extremely crisp sound of the ball hitting the ground rang out in the night sky.

The ball skimmed the dewy grass, transformed into a streak of white light, and precisely nestled into the bottom corner of the goal.

It's not exactly glamorous.

But the movements were extremely fast.

It's direct enough, and deadly enough.

Sun Yang walked over, scooped the ball out of the net, and stuffed it into his equipment bag.

As he walked to the sidelines with his bag, old Hans had already pushed open the door to the physiotherapy room, where steam was billowing out.

"The coach gave me these instructions personally. Ten minutes of ice bath, twenty minutes of stretching to expel calorie waste. There's also a late-night snack in the kitchen; you can't leave until you've stuffed it all up."

Sun Yang was taken aback.

"Has the coach not left work yet?"

Old Hans pointed to the main office building behind him.

"Otherwise what? You think those expensive searchlights are there just for a light show in the middle of the night?"

Sun Yang looked up following the finger that Old Hans was pointing.

The lights in the head coach's office on the third floor were still on.

There was no one in front of the glass window.

But he knew that the stubborn old Swiss man had seen it all.

He didn't run upstairs to thank them.

There were no text messages expressing loyalty.

He simply bent down calmly and helped old Hans tidy up the clutter on the sidelines, piece by piece.

After taking a shower and finishing that grueling myofascial stretching routine.

After forcing down the bland chicken breast pasta, Sun Yang returned to the players' dormitory, it was already close to midnight.

I had just thrown my bag on the ground when my phone started vibrating.

Haaland sent a message to the group chat.

"Bro, your weathered leg isn't broken yet, is it?"

Sun Yang took off his sportswear and typed a reply with one hand: "Still attached to my body, I can still breathe."

Haaland replied instantly: "Great. During the tactical drills tomorrow morning, you'd better not pretend to be dead on the pitch and run to the team doctor."

Sun Yang's lips curled into a smile: "As long as you, this Nordic behemoth, don't go offside when you charge, you'll be a big help."

Haaland posted an angry emoji: "Damn it! That's called pressing from the offside line! It's art, you know?"

Sancho couldn't resist popping in on the group chat.

"Hey guys, can you stop with the stand-up comedy in the tactical group chat in the middle of the night? Sun, turn off the lights and go to sleep. Tomorrow morning those German paparazzi will definitely be blocking the base gates, you need to save your energy to deal with them."

Sun Yang simply responded with an "OK" gesture.

The phone screen went completely dark and was placed face down on the bedside table.

Every muscle in my body was screaming in pain.

But at this moment, my heartbeat was unusually steady.

This kind of exhaustion is completely different from the despair and helplessness I felt when I lay in a hospital bed in London.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the humiliation of being kicked out of Arsenal like trash.

This is the sense of fulfillment that comes from breaking down and rebuilding that broken self, and building it up bit by bit with sweat.

He closed his eyes.

The surrounding darkness receded like a tide, replaced by familiar white light.

The Dream Training Grounds open on time.

A smooth, green field, and spacious stands.

And then there's that Argentine warrior who always wears the number nine jersey and stands with his arms crossed on the edge of the penalty area.

Batistuta's chiseled face was filled with disdain.

"Did you practice shooting in the real world today?"

Sun Yang jumped twice on the spot to loosen his ankle joints.

"I practiced a few kicks."

"His training was like dog shit."

Sun Yang was almost amused by this expert's bluntness.

"You saw everything, old man?"

"Nonsense. The system brought you in here not so you could learn a little bit and then go out and act like a big shot."