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

Sun Yang walked straight up to Royce and grabbed the old captain's left arm.

"Captain, let's go." Sun Yang's tone left no room for argument.

Royce froze, instinctively shrinking back: "Don't joke around, Sun. That was your moment of glory. Go lift it up. You won everything."

"I said, come with me." Sun Yang didn't give the old captain any room to refuse. He strode forward, his thick arm directly supporting Reus's back. "You are the soul of this team. Without you standing there, this silver plate is just scrap metal."

Haaland, grinning broadly, lunged forward like a Norwegian gangster, grabbing Reus's other arm without a word.

The two men, one on each side, as if escorting a fragile and rare treasure, forcefully carried Reus, who was using a cane, to the very top of the red carpet.

Sun Yang handed the right side of the salad plate to Reus, while he held the left edge tightly to himself.

"Count to three." Sun Yang stared at the old captain's reddened eyes.

Royce took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the metal disc tightly with both hands, his knuckles bulging.

"one two three!"

An old man and a young man simultaneously raised their arms with explosive force, lifting the salad platter, symbolizing the highest honor in German football, high into the night sky above Dortmund.

At the same second, the stadium's large sound system roared to life. The majestic intro to Queen's "We Are The Champions" swept across the entire stadium like a hurricane.

Golden confetti erupted from the mechanical cannons at the four corners of the stage, raining down like a blizzard, blanketing the sweat-soaked shoulders of every Dortmund player.

The players huddled around Sun Yang and Reus, jumping and roaring like madmen, choking each other in the midst of the flying golden confetti.

boom!Boom!

Just then, several deafening thuds crashed into the stadium from outside the towering outer wall.

It was the sound of giant fireworks rising into the sky.

In the pitch-black night sky, hundreds and thousands of golden and crimson fireworks bloomed one after another, illuminating the entire stadium roof.

Those were tens of thousands of die-hard Borussia Dortmund fans who couldn't enter the stadium due to pandemic restrictions. They were crowding the square outside the stadium, using this most primitive and brutal way to declare their presence to the stadium.

They sang their team song at the top of their lungs. The rough, powerful sound came in with the night wind, blending with the music from the radio.

The family box area at the highest point.

Sun Wu stood behind the glass railing, his rough hands gripping the metal bars, his fingernails scraping against the steel surface with a harsh, soft sound.

Two streams of turbid tears rolled silently down the wrinkled cheeks of this tough man.

This old man, who had spent his entire life practicing Peking Opera martial arts and whose temper was as hard as stone, was now trembling uncontrollably. All he could think of was the stark white walls of that London hospital a few months ago. The doctor, with a cold face, announced his son's comminuted fracture, and Arsenal's management, armed with the termination agreement, shoved his son out the door like a shovel of trash.

Those dark days, so dark they seemed to have no end, collided with the dazzling glory of their Bundesliga triumph, tearing at the old father's heart.

On the leather seat next to her, Catherine, with her dazzling blonde hair and tall figure, had already covered her mouth. Her clear blue eyes were filled with tears.

As Sun Yang's personal therapist and girlfriend, memories of her childhood at the London community football pitch kept replaying in her mind. When she was seven, the dark-haired boy who disliked the freckles on her face practiced the tedious juggling of a ball over and over again in his backyard, shouting in his childish voice that he wanted to be David Beckham when he grew up.

Now, that sweat-drenched number 29 has truly become the most watched new king in all of Europe.

Uncle and nutritionist Henry stood behind Catherine, his expensive suit jacket already crumpled from being clutched. He still felt his legs were a little unsteady. When he went to pick up his nephew at the airport during the winter break, this young man, who had been kicked out of Arsenal, said with red eyes that he wanted to help the Hornets get their salad bowl. Henry initially thought the young man was delirious from the shock.

But in just half a season, this kid actually did it, and even won the undisputed league MVP!

"Old man, stop looking, your tears have soaked your mask." Diana nudged her husband's waist with her elbow, her voice already trembling with tears.

Sun Wu roughly wiped his face with his hand, his voice hoarse: "What are you crying for? Sand got in your eyes! My Sun family's son is like gold that fears no fire; even if you throw him into a mud pit, he'll still fly to the sky!"

The brief awards ceremony concluded.

The home team's locker room had completely transformed into a chaotic bathhouse. The strong smell of Munich dark beer mixed with the stench of fermenting hormones and sweat, making everyone roll their eyes. Everyone was soaked to the bone from the beer.

Head coach Favre pushed open the door with a stern face. His once-well-tailored suit had long been ruined by the players' beer.

boom!

Favre slammed his hand heavily on the metal frame of the tactical whiteboard, producing a deafening bang.

"Quiet! Gentlemen! Stop right now!" Favre roared in a hoarse voice.

"Listen up, guys! Our best coach, Mr. Favre, is about to give his championship speech!" Hummels shouted, leaning against the wardrobe, holding a beer bottle he had just bitten open with his teeth.

Favre raised his hand to wipe the sticky beer foam from his forehead, and his expression suddenly changed.

"You won the Bundesliga, proving yourselves to be the toughest jerks in all of Germany. To be honest, I'm proud of you." Favre surveyed the entire stadium, then abruptly changed the subject, "But! You only have 48 hours of vacation. Go to sleep, play games, or go to bars, whatever you want. The day after tomorrow at 8 a.m., at the Brackel training ground, I want to see every single one of you clocking in on time."

Haaland was just about to gulp down his drink when he heard this and immediately put the bottle down, complaining in a rough voice, "Boss, this is inhumane! We just finished thrashing Bayern!"

Favre stared at him without a smile: "Because the season isn't over yet. Gentlemen, in a month, in Lisbon, Portugal, the Champions League quarter-finals."

Champions League.

Those two words were like a bucket of ice water, dousing the remaining alcohol-fueled revelry in the locker room, leaving not a trace. The smiles on everyone's faces vanished instantly.

Favre stepped back half a step, giving his position to assistant coach Terzic next to him.

Terčić was clutching an A4 sheet of paper he had just pulled from the fax machine, covered with UEFA’s official black and white charts.

"The Champions League quarter-final draw results have just been released." Terčić cleared his throat. "Based on the principle of avoiding teams from the same domestic league, we will definitely not run into Bayern Munich before reaching the final."

He looked down at the chart and began to read aloud.

"The upper half of the bracket is truly the half of death. Bayern Munich, Barcelona from La Liga, Manchester City from the Premier League, and Lyon from Ligue 1. These four teams will fight tooth and nail for a spot in the final."

Hummels blew a loud whistle. The intensity of this half of the draw was truly terrifying.

Terzic flipped the page, his eyes quickly scanning the paper.

Then, he looked up. His gaze went straight past Haaland and Sancho in the front row and locked onto the young man wearing the number 29 jersey sitting in the deepest corner of the locker room.

Not only Terčić, but also head coach Favre had his sights set on that spot long ago.

The locker room suddenly became eerily quiet, with only the whooshing sound of air coming from the ceiling ventilation ducts.

"The lower half of the bracket," Terčić slowed his speech, swallowing hard. "Atalanta in Serie A, Atlético Madrid in La Liga."

After a brief pause, he slammed down the last name.

"And, the Premier League, Arsenal."

The moment those words came out of Terzic's mouth.

Haaland was about to bring the bottle to his lips when his hand froze in mid-air.

Sancho's hands, which were bent over untying his shoelaces, suddenly stopped.

Witsel, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them.

No one made a sound. The gazes of most of the locker room, like startled birds, unanimously swept across half the room and fell in the same direction.

In a shadowy corner, Sun Yang took off his sweat-soaked jersey and leaned back on a bench, shirtless and swaggering. His right leg was casually crossed over his left knee, and beside him stood the Bundesliga Player of the Year trophy, which he had just warmed up.

Upon hearing that name, Sun Yang slowly raised his head.

He looked at the coaching staff not far away, without saying a word.

He calmly raised his left hand and, little by little, tore off the thick white medical tape wrapped around his right wrist.