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

The sharp whistle echoed through the empty Westvalen Stadium, striking the cold concrete stands in layers.

At this moment, the Dortmund players on the field did not sprint as frantically as expected. Ninety minutes of high-intensity running had long since drained their last bit of energy.

Center-back Akanji crashed flat on his back onto the turf, his chest heaving violently like a bellows. Guerrero braced himself on his knees, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his chin onto the edge of his boots.

Even Sun Yang, who is known as the "Kanté perpetual motion machine lungs," felt as if his legs were filled with lead, and his jersey was completely soaked with sweat, clinging wetly to his back.

But the Hornets' substitutes on the bench didn't care about that. Like a pack of wolves that hadn't eaten for half a month, they charged across the sideline in droves, rushing towards the center of the field.

Hoffenheim striker Kramaric, panting heavily, walked to the center circle and saw Sun Yang surrounded by his teammates. He reached out his bandaged hand and pulled Sun Yang, who was sitting on the ground, to his feet.

"You guys are a bunch of tireless monsters." Kramaric shook his head, a wry smile of utter admiration on his face, and patted Sun Yang on the shoulder. "But to be honest, it was pretty satisfying to see those Bayern Munich guys fall from their thrones. Go and lift your own plate, Dortmund's field commander."

Sun Yang wiped the grass clippings and sweat from his face and replied with a thank you.

The next second, Haaland burst through the crowd like a raging Nordic grizzly bear. The monster didn't care that the muscles on the back of his thighs were still twitching. He grabbed Sun Yang around the waist, hoisted him onto his broad shoulders, and roared at the sky while circling the center circle.

The huge stadium lacked the roar of 80,000 die-hard fans, but Haaland's hoarse roar was exceptionally clear and powerful above the grass.

Favre stood at the edge of the technical area, rubbing his slightly numb cheeks with both hands. Only at this moment did the old coach's nerves, which had been taut all season, finally snap. He turned around abruptly and hugged his assistant coach, Terčić, tightly. Both of them had red eyes and were jumping and laughing.

At the other end of the field, staff members wearing full protective suits and masks pushed a simple aluminum alloy steel frame and ran quickly onto the grass.

Due to strict epidemic prevention and control regulations, the league canceled all post-game parades and celebrations, and did not allow even a single fan to enter the stadium. The staff worked swiftly, setting up a miniature red carpet podium, half a meter high, in just over ten minutes at the center circle.

The sterling silver salad bowl, a symbol of the highest honor in the Bundesliga, lay quietly on the red velvet cushion. The spotlights from the stadium ceiling shone precisely on the bowl, refracting a dazzling yet mesmerizing metallic sheen.

The stands were deserted, with only a few club executives, official media reporters, and immediate family members sitting scattered about, spaced two or three seats apart.

Bundesliga CEO Christian Seifert strode into the stadium through the tunnel, microphone in hand. Two ceremonial staff members carrying various trophies followed closely behind him.

"Salute to the players of Dortmund!" Seifert's voice, amplified by the stadium's loudspeakers, made the bird netting around the pitch tremble. "This has been a terrible year, messed up by this damn virus. We've experienced shutdowns, empty stadiums, and ninety minutes without chants."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the Borussia Dortmund players standing in front of him on the red carpet, their bodies covered in mud and sweat.

"But you, in the ruins of shattered rules, proved what the iron will of the Ruhr region truly is."

Hummels blew the whistle first, and the Dortmund players clapped loudly, some with tears glistening in their eyes.

"Next, we will present the individual honors for this season." Seifert turned around and picked up a small, sturdy black cannon sculpture from the tray with one hand.

"Rookie of the Season, and also this season's Bundesliga Golden Boot winner!" Seifert raised his cannon high. "Forty-two goals! You broke all the records for players who joined at the halfway point of the Bundesliga season, and you also kicked Robert Lewandowski off his top scorer throne! Erling, come up and take your spoils!"

Haaland grinned widely, like a bully who had just received a new toy. He strode up the steps, snatched the heavy little steel cannon, and gave it a big smack on the cold metal base.

"Guys, this iron lump is fucking heavy!" Haaland waved the trophy at his teammates below the stage, then pointed straight at Sun Yang in front of the crowd with one arm.

"Listen up, everyone! A large part of the credit for this goes to that Asian kid wearing number 29!" Haaland roared in his deep voice. "If it weren't for his incredible passing in midfield, like he had a cheat code, feeding me chances every day, I probably wouldn't even be getting a taste of Lewandowski's exhaust fumes!"

His teammates burst into laughter. Sancho was doubled over with laughter, while Hummels yelled at the top of his lungs, "That's enough, Erling, get down here! My legs are about to give way!"

Haaland, completely satisfied, swaggered back to the team, clutching the little cannon.

Seifert smiled and shook his head, then turned around again and took a crystal trophy.

"The next award is a foregone conclusion, even somewhat cruel." Seifert looked directly at Sun Yang, "The assist king of the season. Twenty-nine assists in half a season. Ladies and gentlemen, since the founding of the Bundesliga, we have never seen such a terrifying midfield ball-playing machine. Sun, come up here, this is yours."

Sun Yang patted the grass clippings off his thighs, smoothed out his wrinkled jersey, and steadily walked onto the podium, accepting the crystal trophy with one hand.

Just as he was about to turn and leave the stage, Seifert grabbed his shoulder and gave him a wink.

Before Sun Yang could react, Seifert had already taken a larger and more dazzling gold trophy from the tray beside him with both hands.

The Dortmund players on the sidelines, who had been making a ruckus, immediately fell silent. Everyone who plays professional football knows what that trophy represents. It's the most prestigious and valuable individual award.

"When this player arrived in the Bundesliga during the winter break, the entire German media mocked him, wondering what kind of waves a young Asian player, swept out of the Premier League's youth academy, could make in one of the top five leagues." Seifert looked directly into Sun Yang's calm eyes, his voice suddenly rising, "But in just half a season, you've turned the entire German football world upside down with your legs!"

"You single-handedly changed the landscape of the title race, you even redefined the benchmark for modern football midfield maestro!" Seifert solemnly placed the golden trophy into Sun Yang's arms. "Bundesliga Player of the Season! Sun Yang, you deserve it!"

A deafening roar erupted from the Westfalen pitch. Hummels put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Hazard and Witsel below clapped their hands until they were red.

Sun Yang held two heavy trophies in his hands, looking down at his teammates who had rolled around in the mud with him. He didn't say much, but took a deep breath and raised the two trophies high above his head.

That's enough. From the despair of being in the hospital bed, to the cold indifference of being released from contract negotiations, to reaching the highest stage of the top five leagues, all the pent-up frustration has been shattered at this moment.

"Wait a minute." Seifert called out to Sun Yang, who was about to step down, for the third time.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Even the usually composed veteran coach Favre raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Goal of the season in the Bundesliga." Seifert pointed to the two huge electronic screens hanging at the top of the stadium.

"The league's technical committee argued for three whole days in their office about this selection. Some insisted on choosing the half-court lob shot, while others believed that the 'sky-high volley' was unsurpassable."

As soon as he finished speaking, the screen above his head lit up on time and began playing a high-definition replay.

The scene depicts Borussia Dortmund hosting FC Köln. The camera focuses on Sun Yang, thirty meters from the goal, poised to unleash a powerful shot, like a fully drawn bow.

"Finally, we unanimously decided on this goal. A super cannonball at 130 kilometers per hour. The power release mechanism is the ultimate in ergonomics." Seifert's voice was filled with fervor as he watched the ball smash into the net, nearly damaging the goalkeeper's wrist. "Because it perfectly replicates the powerful logo of the Bundesliga. Gentlemen, this is the unique violent aesthetics of the Bundesliga!"

The third uniquely designed trophy was handed to Sun Yang.

Assist leader. MVP. Best goal.

An incredible Grand Slam.

Sun Yang walked off the stage carrying three heavy trophies. The moment his feet touched the grass, Haaland and Sancho each put their arms around his neck.

Seifert stepped back half a step, making way for the silver salad plate in the center of the arena. Two ceremonial staff members stepped forward to help, steadily lifting the eleven-kilogram sterling silver plate.

"Now, gentlemen of Dortmund, come and claim your highest honor!"

The crowd automatically parted to both sides like a tide, leaving a wide passage. As the captain of this life-or-death battle, Sun Yang was unhesitatingly pushed to the front of the line.

To everyone's surprise, Sun Yang did not go directly to the salad plate.

He decisively shoved the three individual awards he had just warmed in his arms into Sancho's arms.

"Hold on tight for me."

After saying this, Sun Yang turned and left the celebrating crowd. Under everyone's gaze, he strode forward, heading straight for the technical area on the sidelines of the court.

Reus wore a long grey coat and a heavy, bulky medical fixation boot on his right leg. This highly skilled yet battered Prussian core player stood quietly in the shadows, his arms supported by aluminum crutches, smiling as he watched the group of reveling young people in the center of the arena.