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

The ball slid rapidly across the grass, leaving a straight white trail.

This was a through ball, not fatal, but surgically precise. Zhang Yuning's run was perfectly timed. He successfully shook off the South Korean defenders and faced the South Korean penalty area directly.

The few Chinese staff members in the Songkhla Stadium stood up excitedly.

In the broadcast booth, He Wei had already raised his voice eight octaves, ready to announce the goal.

Zhang Yuning took a long stride forward and dribbled the ball. South Korean goalkeeper Ahn Jun-soo rushed out of his goal; this was his only chance to recover. This sprint distance would have been enough for Zhang Yuning to adjust his footing and then shoot in the most comfortable position.

However, the weakness of the domestic league, which has long lacked high-quality actual combat, was ruthlessly exposed at this moment.

Zhang Yuning seemed less confident about this one-on-one opportunity. He stared at An Jun-soo, who was charging forward with his claws outstretched, and instead of opting for a decisive shot, a more cautious approach of trying to get past the goalkeeper popped into his mind.

He gently flicked the ball to the right with the instep of his right foot, trying to shake off Ahn Joon-soo's defensive focus.

An Jun-soo landed extremely quickly. In the time it took Zhang Yuning to take that step, An Jun-soo suddenly stretched his arms forward and landed on the ball.

Zhang Yuning completely lost his footing. His massive body couldn't stop his momentum, and his right knee slammed heavily into An Junzhu's shoulder. The two lost their balance and rolled around on the grass.

The referee blew his whistle, indicating that Zhang Yuning had fouled the goalkeeper, and the South Korean team escaped a close call.

Cannavaro on the sidelines was furious. He clutched the back of his head with both hands and unleashed a long string of foul language in Italian.

This Ballon d'Or-winning top defender simply couldn't accept that such a beautiful tactical play could be ended in such an extremely clumsy way.

He Wei slammed his hand on the table in the broadcast booth. "What a pity! Zhang Yuning's handling of the ball was too slow! Sun Yang just delivered a through ball that could be included in the match highlights. He cut the entire South Korean defense in two, feeding the striker right to his mouth. Zhang Yuning only needed to take a shot to seal the victory!"

Xu Yang shook his head and sighed repeatedly. "This is a matter of match experience and on-field confidence. Sun Yang's pass was perfect; he calculated the ball speed and lead perfectly to score. Zhang Yuning didn't even need to slow down or adjust when he received the ball. Whether he used the instep of his foot to push towards the far corner or unleashed a powerful shot towards the near corner from that position, the goal rate was over 80%. That extra touch was a huge gift to An Junzhu."

At the same time.

Dortmund, Germany, is 7,000 kilometers away from Songkhla, Thailand.

Due to mandatory regulations imposed by the European public health emergency, the entire Borussia Dortmund team is currently in home quarantine.

In a luxury apartment with huge floor-to-ceiling windows, Haaland, dressed in oversized gray loungewear, lay sprawled on the sofa. One of his long legs was casually draped over the edge of the coffee table, and he was munching on a clean carrot.

The television screen flickered, and the only sound in the empty living room was the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.

When Haaland saw Sun Yang deliver that low, through ball with the outside of his foot amidst a heavy encirclement, he abruptly sat up straight on the sofa. The muscles in the Nordic giant's thighs tensed, and he even forgot to chew the carrot in his mouth.

Immediately afterwards, the television screen showed Zhang Yuning hesitantly dribbling the ball, being knocked to the ground by the goalkeeper, the two rolling around in a tangled mess, missing a one-on-one opportunity.

Haaland's face, which had been filled with excitement and anticipation, turned bright red. He raised his right hand and threw the half-eaten carrot directly into the corner trash can.

"Damn it! What on earth is that Chinese number nine doing? This is a crime! This is an absolute desecration of the art of football!" Haaland shouted angrily at the television, grabbing his signature blond hair with both hands.

Old Haaland, sitting on another single sofa, held a steaming cup of coffee. He looked at his furious son, smiled, and pointed to the screen.

"Calm down, Erling. The overall competitive intensity in Asian leagues is incomparable to that of the top five European leagues. That striker is clearly not adapted to the passing rhythm of Son Heung-min's Bundesliga-level style."

Haaland wouldn't listen to his father's words of comfort. He paced back and forth in the spacious living room like a frenzied lion that had been locked in an iron cage and starved for three days and three nights.

"Dad, look at that passing lane! It was a perfect through ball. Son used the outside of his foot to curl the ball, just around the toes of both Korean defenders. If it were even a meter too far, it would have been intercepted. If I were given that kind of god-like pass, I wouldn't even need to make any damn adjustments. My first touch would be enough to send that ball, along with the substitute goalkeeper, into the net!"

Haaland demonstrated a powerful volley shot on the living room carpet with exaggerated movements.

"That number nine striker actually tried to dribble past someone? Good heavens, Son was meticulously preparing a top-notch French feast for him, and he spat it out like junk food. I really want to crawl into this damn screen and take his place to finish the game. With Son and me working together, we can score at least ten goals against South Korea."

Haaland took a sip of coffee, his eyes glued to the slow-motion replay of Sun Yang's pass on the screen. As a former defensive stalwart who had played in England's top flight, he noticed crucial details that laymen would miss.

"That footwork is incredible. In the last second before he passed the ball, Son didn't even turn his head to observe the striker's movement. He relied entirely on intuition, or rather, he had already drawn up a complete map of the players' movements in his mind. This kind of superb vision from a midfield commander reminds me of those classic attacking midfielders in their prime. But what makes him even more terrifying than those people is that he not only passes the ball but also possesses extremely strong modern defensive capabilities." Haaland gave a very high evaluation.

Haaland swarmed the television, his face practically pressed against the screen. "Of course! It's the same on the Dortmund pitch. Whenever I create space, Son's pass will always be right in front of me. Dad, will Norway qualify for the Tokyo Olympics football tournament this year? I want to go to Asia, I want to face Son on the world stage. I want to prove to him that I'm the only one who can turn his passes into goals, and as an opponent, I can absolutely tear his defense to shreds."

Old Haaland put down his coffee cup and shook his head decisively. "You have to give up on that idea completely. The four Olympic spots for Europe were already snapped up by Spain, Germany, France, and Romania at last year's European Youth Championship. We didn't even get a ticket to Asia."

Haaland's massive body collapsed. He turned and sat back on the sofa, slamming his fist, the size of a sandbag, heavily against his thigh.

"That's such a shame. Watching Son dominate the midfield while I'm stuck at home eating carrots. When the Bundesliga resumes, I'm going to force him to pass me a few more good passes in Dortmund. As for the international stage, Dad, just you wait, in the future World Cup, I'll definitely lead Norway to a great showdown with Son's team!"

Haaland clenched his fist and swung it forcefully into the air.