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

2 PM. Charles de Gaulle International Airport, Paris, France.

Favre led the entire Dortmund team down the plane's steps. The air outside was thick with the smell of gunpowder.

Long barricades were erected outside the airport's VIP lounge. Hundreds of PSG ultras, dressed in black hoodies, had been waiting there for some time.

The group was holding blue and red incendiary sticks. Large plumes of red smoke billowed into the airport terminal on the cold wind.

French police, wearing riot helmets and holding transparent shields, formed a human wall to separate the fans from the Dortmund team bus.

As soon as the Dortmund players appeared, the crowd erupted in shrill whistles and all sorts of filthy shouts.

"Go back to your hometown, you bunch of German hicks!"

"This is Paris! Prepare to be crushed!"

A burly white French fan stood on a barricade, waving a huge flag bearing the Paris Saint-Germain crest and shouting at the top of his lungs. A broken bone was painted on the flag in red paint.

It was clearly a taunt directed at Reus, who had his groin ripped off in the previous match.

Sancho, who was walking in front, twitched his face, clenched his fists, and was about to step out of the cordon.

A hand reached out from the side and firmly grasped Sancho's shoulder.

It's Sun Yang.

He is currently the interim captain of Borussia Dortmund and has a responsibility to his teammates.

"Get in the car. Ignore the mad dog's barking." Sun Yang's voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly heard in the noisy passageway.

Sancho gritted his teeth, glared at the provocative fan, and strode onto the bus.

The vehicle started slowly. A police car led the way with its blue lights flashing.

The bus was having a hard time driving. On the road leading to the hotel, motorcycles adorned with tricolor flags were honking their horns incessantly.

The French treated this Champions League knockout stage like a national war.

"These guys are insane." Haaland sat by the bus window, watching the locals outside giving the middle finger to the bus. "They don't treat this game like football at all."

"Tuchel is stirring up trouble for the fans." Veteran Hummels, used to big games, leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. "They lost the first leg, and now they can only resort to these underhanded tactics to disrupt our mentality."

Sun Yang sat in the front row. He didn't say a word the whole way, just kept watching the hotel getting closer and closer.

The plaza outside the hotel was even bigger than the airport.

Two to three thousand enthusiastic Paris Saint-Germain fans had gathered. The fountain area in the square was completely packed.

As soon as the bus came to a stop, a unified chant suddenly erupted from the crowd of fans outside.

It is the Marseillaise.

Thousands of people sang in unison, the sound so loud it rattled the bus windows. They were declaring this place as French territory.

Favre frowned and stood up, signaling the security personnel to get out of the car and stand guard.

The players lined up to step off the ramp. As soon as they appeared, they were greeted by a torrential downpour of debris.

There were unfinished mineral water bottles, crumpled newspapers, and even coins.

*Thud!* A coin struck Haaland's broad forehead and bounced far away.

Haaland could no longer contain his anger. The Nordic giant exploded on the spot, shoving aside the security personnel blocking his way and pointing at the fan area where the coin had been thrown, unleashing a torrent of curses.

"You cowardly coward who hides his head and clumsily! Come out and fight me one-on-one!" Harland roared, veins bulging on his neck.

Instead of being frightened, the French fans opposite him burst into even louder laughter, raising dozens of middle fingers at Haaland.

The situation is about to get out of control.

Sun Yang pushed open the front door and jumped out of the car in three quick steps. He ignored the fans and went straight to Haaland.

Sun Yang grabbed Haaland's jersey collar with both hands and pulled him back. The force was immense, causing the 1.95-meter-tall Haaland to stumble back two steps.

"Are you out of your mind?" Sun Yang stared directly into Haaland's eyes.

Harald, panting heavily, said, "They hit me! Those French sons of bitches are going too far!"

"So what if I hit you? Did you lose a piece of flesh?!" Sun Yang shoved Harland towards the hotel lobby.

He then turned around and faced a group of equally indignant young teammates by the bus.

The Marseillaise was still playing loudly outside. Sun Yang pointed to the captain's armband on his arm.

"Listen up, all of you. You're professional players, not street thugs."

"Reus is still in his hospital bed waiting for our good news. If you get banned by UEFA for fighting with fans, who will play tomorrow's match? Are we just going to let them advance automatically?"

"Get in there, all of you! No talking back! With this burning passion, tomorrow night on the pitch, run like crazy and shoot them through the back of the net! Smash them with goals!"

Sun Yang's words were like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing all the flames of hope in the Dortmund players' minds.

Sancho lowered his head. Haaland rubbed his forehead vigorously, then turned and walked into the glass revolving door without a word.

Under Sun Yang's control, the entire team quietly made their way through the hostile crowd and into the hotel.

Veteran Piszczek brought up the rear and patted Hummels on the back. "Mats. This kid's really acting like a leader now. I saw him grab Erling just now, he was totally like a tough captain."

Hummels smiled. "Reus making the best decision of his life was handing him the armband."

Seeing that the Dortmund players dared not retaliate, the fans outside became even more smug and sang the Marseillaise even louder.

Sun Yang stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in the hotel lobby, coldly looking at the square outside.

"Sing. The louder you shout, the less confident you are." Sun Yang turned and walked towards the elevator.

The next afternoon. Princes Park stadium.

This is Paris Saint-Germain's home ground. According to the Champions League schedule, the away team must conduct a training session at the stadium the day before the match.

As is customary, the first fifteen minutes of training are open to the media.

French broadcasters and reporters from major sports newspapers had already filled the sidelines photography area. Dozens of cameras and lenses were densely packed together.

Martin, the columnist for L'Équipe, sat with his legs crossed on a long bench by the grass, holding his notebook.

"Those Germans must be kicking in their boots right now," Martin joked with his colleague. "Without Reus, all they have left is that yellow-skinned kid in midfield. Our Neymar and Mbappe will tear them to shreds tonight."

"German teams have always relied on rough, physical play. When they encounter our French teams' possession-based style, it's like a tractor meeting a sports car," another reporter said arrogantly.

The Dortmund players are divided into several groups and are doing simple stretching and running laps on the field.

Favre stood in front of the coaching bench, checking the data sheets with the assistant coach.