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

The air in the ward was so stuffy it was hard to breathe. The smell of disinfectant was overwhelming.

Sun Yang didn't offer any of those empty words about getting well soon. Faced with such a devastating injury, any words of comfort seemed futile. He simply reached out, took the resealable bag, and stuffed it into the pocket of his black tracksuit jacket.

"Marco, just lie down and relax." Sun Yang looked into Reus's eyes. "I'll take your job. I'll lead the whole team to avenge you."

Reus's chapped lips moved as if he wanted to smile, but the pain in his leg caused his brows to furrow. He slowly closed his eyes, waved his hand, and signaled to Sun Yang that he could leave.

Sun Yang turned around and pushed open the door to the ward.

A dozen or so Dortmund players stood in the corridor outside. Hummels leaned against the wall, and veteran Piszczek stood by the window. Everyone was watching Sun Yang. Haaland's massive frame was hunched over a bench, his hands covering his head.

Sun Yang didn't stop, but as he passed Haaland, he gave the tall Norwegian a heavy pat on the back.

Go down to the elevator on the sixth floor.

Uncle Henry was pacing back and forth impatiently. Seeing Sun Yang emerge, he rushed over and said in a low voice, "Don't go through the main gate. I've contacted the security director; we'll sneak out through the fire escape in the underground parking garage. There are at least a hundred media outlets outside right now; they'll skin you alive with their cameras and microphones."

Sun Yang shook his head and reached out to pull the brim of his baseball cap down a little.

"I'll go through the main entrance." Sun Yang strode towards the direct elevator on the first floor. "There are some things I need to make clear to those people."

The elevator doors opened in the lobby on the first floor.

The rain outside intensified, the dense downpour pounding against the glass roof of St. Mary's Hospital. Outside the glass doors, a sea of ​​people thronged the area. A dozen large broadcast vans completely blocked the street. The flashes of their cameras shone brightly, making the gloomy, rainy day appear as clear as a sunny one.

As soon as Sun Yang pushed open the glass door and took a step, more than a dozen burly security personnel immediately formed a human wall, desperately blocking the group of reporters who looked like sharks smelling blood.

Microphones and recorders came flying in from all directions. The questions from several German media outlets were relatively polite.

"Sun Yang! What are the results of Captain Reus's MRI? Will he be able to play in the next Champions League match against Paris?" a reporter from the German newspaper Bild shouted.

Sun Yang stopped and stood on the steps, looking down at the chaotic crowd below.

"Borussia Dortmund will release a detailed statement regarding Captain Reus's injury later," Sun Yang replied crisply. "That's a team secret. But I can tell you that our captain's injury is quite serious."

As soon as he finished speaking, a short reporter with a badge from the French newspaper L'Équipe around his neck pushed his way to the front. He held a microphone with a red logo, his expression full of undisguised provocation.

"Sun! This is Jacques from the French newspaper L'Équipe. Last night, PSG's coach Tuchel publicly stated in the post-match press conference that Dortmund's victory was entirely due to the referee's help. He declared that in the next leg at the Parc des Princes, he will beat them by four goals."

The French journalist paused deliberately, his tone becoming even more sarcastic.

"Furthermore, Verratti also posted on his personal social media. He said your captain Reus is like a cheap piece of glass, easily broken. He's completely unsuitable for the high-intensity nature of modern football. Facing Paris Saint-Germain's counterattack, do you still dare to go to the away game?"

The media immediately fell silent, which was a classic case of adding fuel to the fire. All the cameras were pointed at Sun Yang's face, waiting to capture his expression of losing control or backing down.

Sun Yang didn't even lift the brim of his hat; he simply stared quietly at the French journalist named Jacques.

"Jacques, right? Is your recorder on?" Sun Yang pointed to the device in the other person's hand. "Good. Tell Tuchel and Verratti exactly what I'm saying right now."

Sun Yang's voice wasn't loud, but it could be heard clearly in the downpour.

"When I went to Paris, Dortmund wasn't there to play an away game at all. We were there to settle scores."

Sun Yang held up one finger.

"Beat us by four goals? Tuchel had better ask Navas beforehand if he's grown three heads and six arms to stop our shots. As for Verratti," Sun Yang sneered, "his red card means he can only be a spectator in this match."

This statement is extremely arrogant. It completely tears away the facade of mutual praise and backstabbing that exists in European football. It's a direct declaration of war.

The French journalist was speechless for a long time after being confronted by Sun Yang's unreasonable and tough attitude.

Just then, a British journalist with slicked-back blond hair and a sophisticated double-breasted trench coat squeezed through from the side. He was a senior foreign correspondent for Sky Sports.

The British journalist habitually raised his chin, displaying an arrogance inherent only to native inhabitants of the British Empire.

"Sun, there's no need to waste your breath on the media. Instead of going to Paris to pick a fight, you should focus on higher-level competitions."

The British journalist cleared his throat and asked the question loudly in perfect London English.

"This morning, the FA chairman gave an exclusive interview on Fleet Street. He made it clear that the FA has taken note of your amazing performance in the Champions League. Moreover, national team manager Gareth Southgate has submitted an assessment report on you to the FA."

"We all know that if you are willing to change your nationality, the FA is willing to give you a direct entry into the Three Lions."

The reporter pushed the microphone forward.

"Southgate needs someone who can pass the ball to Kane and Sterling. This is the ultimate honor many players dream of. If you just agree, you can wear the white jersey with three lions and participate in this year's European Championship as a starter. Would you accept this gift from heaven?"

The sense of charity in his words made several German journalists nearby frown.

This is clearly saying: We English are generous and willing to give you food. Quickly kneel down and thank us.

Sun Yang took a deep breath of the cold, rain-soaked air.

Facing a dozen high-definition cameras pointed at him, Sun Yang suddenly uttered a sentence in fluent and clear Chinese.

"Great generals are born with extraordinary courage."

The dozens of Europeans present looked at each other in bewilderment. No one could understand what this strangely pronounced language meant.

Sun Yang ignored them completely and continued reading word by word.

"A dagger with autumn waters and goose feathers hangs at my waist. The wind blows the drums, shaking mountains and rivers; lightning flashes, banners soar high above the sun and moon."

After the opening poem of the Peking Opera, brimming with the spirit of war and conquest, was recited, the British journalist was completely dumbfounded. He frowned and shouted, "What kind of strange incantation is this? Please answer the question in English that everyone can understand!"

Sun Yang looked at him, his mockery no longer concealed. He translated in a London accent ten times more authentic than the other man's.

"This is called the opening poem. The meaning is very simple. The general was born with great courage, and he will take up his sword and cut down all those who stand in his way. No matter how the war drums beat or how the mountains and rivers are shattered, the sun and moon are under my battle flag."

The British journalist stood there, stunned.

Sun Yang took a step forward and pressed his finger heavily on his chest.

"Open your eyes and look carefully. My skin is yellow, and the blood flowing in my veins is red. My roots are in China."

"These are difficult times for the country, and it's their business if the national team doesn't call me up. As for this rotten bone that your high and mighty English FA threw out, you can keep it and gnaw on it yourselves. I will never wear that tattered jersey with three lions embroidered on it in my life or my next."

"Are you trying to lure me in with the European Championship?"

Sun Yang stared at the camera lens that was broadcasting live.

"Go back and tell Southgate that I'll be playing in the World Cup. When we meet on the World Cup pitch, I'll personally smash your pathetic pride to pieces with a goal."

Arrogance. This is true arrogance. In front of all of Europe, they've utterly humiliated England, the birthplace of modern football.

The British journalist's face turned a deep shade of purple. He was about to ask another question when a Chinese male journalist wearing black-rimmed glasses pushed him aside.

The reporter, holding a microphone bearing the logo of CCTV Sports Channel, had slightly red eyes. He had clearly just understood Sun Yang's opening poem and was deeply moved.

"Hello Sun Yang. I'm a CCTV reporter stationed in Europe. Fans back home stayed up all night to watch your games and cheer for you. But the situation in China is quite special right now, and everyone is worried about your health overseas. Could you say a few words to your family back home?"

Facing the Chinese reporter, Sun Yang immediately softened his demeanor and switched back to fluent Mandarin.

"Thank you for your concern. My private doctor is taking good care of my health, and I have everything I need while I'm overseas."

Sun Yang spoke into the microphone with a very serious expression.

"I've been keeping up with the news in China. I know this is the toughest time for everyone. With the country in trouble, I can't just stay here and play football peacefully. Before dawn today, I already entrusted my mother and agent, Ms. Diana, to use my personal funds."

"I have urgently procured one million euros worth of medical supplies. This includes 500,000 medical masks and 20,000 sets of high-grade protective suits. This shipment will be transported back to China by chartered plane by tomorrow night at the latest and will be donated directly to designated hospitals for severe cases."

Upon hearing this, the Chinese journalist nodded repeatedly, tears welling up in his eyes. One million euros—at a time when even face masks are in short supply—is a real lifesaver.

"I can't be of much help playing here. This is just a small token of my appreciation. China will definitely pull through. Those of us abroad will continue to keep an eye on things back home."

After saying this last sentence, Sun Yang, escorted by a large group of security personnel, lowered his head and got into a black Mercedes-Benz van parked on the side of the road.

With the engine roaring and wheels kicking up a cloud of mud and water, the van unceremoniously broke through the media's encirclement and disappeared into the heavy rain.

The carriage was very quiet.

Uncle Henry gripped the steering wheel with both hands, glancing at Sun Yang in the rearview mirror every now and then.

"You've really blown up with what you said today," Henry sighed. "Donating a million euros back home is a great thing. But you challenged the French in front of so many cameras and hurled insults at the British. In less than three hours, the paparazzi on Fleet Street will be digging up your ancestors and cursing them all."

Sun Yang leaned back in the leather seat, closing his eyes to rest.

"Let them curse. I'll feel uncomfortable if these robbers don't curse me. The louder they curse, the more powerful I'll be when I kick them on the field."