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

Arsenal.

To others, it's just an ordinary Premier League team. But for everyone in the Borussia Dortmund dressing room, they all know all too well the weight this carries. It's the place where their absolute midfield maestro suffered a humiliating defeat.

In the corner, Sun Yang leaned against a metal locker.

He raised his left hand, gripped the thick white duct tape around his right wrist, and with a sudden, forceful rip, peeled it off. He crumpled the torn tape into a ball in his palm and then angrily slammed it into the nearby trash can.

He remained silent, but the surging ferocity in his eyes was impossible to conceal.

"Bang!"

Haaland glanced down at the half-empty bottle of beer in his hand, then smashed it hard at the foot of his foot.

Amidst the flying glass shards, the Norwegian monster, standing over 1.9 meters tall, strode over and slapped Sun Yang's shoulder hard with his large, fan-like hand.

"The brothers all know what those idiots in London have done in the dirty work!" Haaland roared in a gruff voice. "Playing in an empty stadium in Portugal? Absolutely perfect! Without those English morons yelling in the stands, I could hear Leno screaming as I smashed the ball and all into the net! Son, once we're on the pitch, just get the ball into the box, and I'll take care of the rest!"

Sancho tore off a clean towel and tossed it to Sun Yang, then bent down and tightened his shoelaces.

"Count me in. I'm from Manchester City, and I hate those arrogant guys in North London the most." Sancho sneered. "Their right flank is an open backyard. As long as your through balls are in place, I can devour them alive on the wing."

Hummels roughly rubbed his hair with a dry towel, leaning against the cabinet as he dissected the tactics.

"Arteta's been working on that so-called possession and flank runs lately, and it looks promising. But David Luiz's turning speed is slower than our lawnmower's tractor! Son, your surgical through ball was just the right amount to turn their defense into a sieve. As for defense, leave Aubameyang up front to us old guys to lock him down!"

Reus stood in the center of the field, leaning on an aluminum cane.

The old captain stared intently at Sun Yang.

"Dortmund has never been afraid of tough opponents," Reus said, emphasizing each word. "Go and reclaim your dignity. Let those blind English officials open their eyes and see what kind of monster they've just thrown away."

Sun Yang stood up, put on his training uniform, and zipped it up to the very top of his collar.

He picked up the three individual trophies from the ground, his young and arrogant face full of madness.

"Thanks for your support, but I don't think Arsenal is any kind of nightmare." Sun Yang's eyes were sharp as knives. "They're just stepping stones for us to lift the Champions League trophy. When we get to Lisbon, I'll personally tear down their hypocritical passing game and rip their paper-thin defense to shreds for all of Europe to see!"

Head coach Favre nodded in satisfaction at the doorway.

"Very good, that's the kind of cannibalistic spirit I wanted." Favre clapped his hands forcefully. "Two days off, eat and sleep as you please, absolutely no injuries allowed! You'd all be back by eight o'clock the day after tomorrow!"

Nine o'clock in the evening. A private villa on the outskirts of Cologne.

The door opened, and warm yellow light poured into the entryway.

Catherine wore a loose grey short-sleeved shirt and tight yoga pants, her beautiful blonde hair casually tied back with a hair tie. The 1.79-meter-tall British girl stood blocking the doorway, her fair skin glowing with a healthy rosy hue.

She casually took Sun Yang's sports backpack, her clear blue eyes brimming with undisguised joy.

"Welcome home, our Bundesliga MVP." She playfully stepped aside.

"Stop being so MVP, your boyfriend is starving, he could eat a whole cow alive." Sun Yang said as he changed into slippers and walked toward the restaurant, letting his guard down and radiating the vibrant energy of a twenty-year-old.

The long, solid wood dining table was already laden with a sumptuous meal.

Uncle Henry, wearing a shirt, was gracefully slicing a large, rare steak. Mother Diana hurried out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetable salad.

Sun Wu, the father, sat in the main seat with a ruddy complexion. He was quite tipsy after a few rounds of drinks, and the bottle of white wine in front of him was already more than half empty.

"Hey kid, come sit down!" Sun Tzu waved his hand.

As soon as Sun Yang pulled out a chair and sat down, Catherine sat down right next to him and handed him a glass of warm lemonade.

"Those long-range shots today were really crisp and clean!" Sun Wu picked up his glass of baijiu, took a sip, and exclaimed with delight, "That tiny burst of power from his waist and abdomen before he kicked the ball—it had the flair of your old man back in the day when I was doing somersaults on the stage!"

Diana rolled her eyes and retorted irritably, "Come on, stop trying to glorify yourself. How does playing football relate to your Peking Opera? Yangyang, eat more beef. You ran more than ten kilometers tonight. Even an iron body can't withstand that."

The family sat around the table, eating and bickering, filled with a long-lost warmth and lively atmosphere.

Dinner was over. Sun Yang took off his shirt and lay bare-chested on the rehabilitation bed in the professional physiotherapy room on the second floor.

Catherine poured some special essential oil into her palms and rubbed it to warm it. Her seemingly slender yet powerful hands pressed firmly against Sun Yang's broad latissimus dorsi muscles.

The ancient massage techniques learned from a master of Traditional Chinese Medicine, combined with the UK's top sports rehabilitation theories, apply precise pressure along the pain points. The stiff muscles gradually relax.

"Your back muscles are so much more flexible than last week. This strength training is a miracle," Catherine teased with a laugh as she massaged them. "When you were a kid, you were so skinny juggling a ball in the yard in London, and you dreamed of being Beckham every day. Now, you look way more handsome than Beckham when you're holding the trophy."

The warmth from his back relaxed Sun Yang's tense nerves.

"Back then, your face was covered in freckles. I never imagined I'd be able to hold such a beautiful woman in my arms now," Sun Yang retorted with a smile, tilting his head to the side.

Catherine suddenly increased the pressure on her hand, pressing precisely on the most painful spot on Sun Yang's shoulder blade.

"Sit still and stop talking nonsense." Catherine changed the subject, her tone becoming serious like a professional physiotherapist. "Next time we play Arsenal, those bastards in the Premier League will definitely resort to dirty tricks if they get desperate. Your legs are a priority for protection."

As she spoke, she moved her fingers down and pressed her thumb heavily on a special acupoint on Sun Yang's waist.

A wonderful tingling sensation travels along the meridians and rushes straight to the limbs and bones.

The passive divine skill hidden within Sun Yang's body was fully awakened. The lactic acid accumulated in his muscles began to break down frantically, and the damaged glycogen was being reorganized and repaired at an abnormal speed twice that of an ordinary person!

Click.

The door to the physiotherapy room was pushed open. Uncle Henry strode in, clutching a tablet computer.

"How are you feeling?" Henry pulled up a chair and sat down, his eyes gleaming with shrewdness. "I just got some top-secret information about your 'old acquaintances' in London."

Sun Yang rolled over and lay flat on his back. Catherine considerately took a hot towel and placed it on his chest.

"Stop keeping me in suspense, tell me." Sun Yang's expression turned cold instantly.

Henry swiped rapidly across the screen, pulling up several glaring screenshots from the British sports media.

"That local bastard Lante who broke your leg was kicked by Arsenal's youth team three months ago."

Henry pointed to the screen filled with English insults, "You've gone on a rampage here. Arsenal's official social media accounts have been completely flooded with furious English fans. Tens of thousands of people are chasing after them every day, calling them blind. To quell the anger, the management directly targeted Lant and fired him."