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

Referee Matteu Raos glanced at his watch and put the whistle in his mouth.

"Beep!"

The crisp sound of the whistle echoed around the empty, deserted Bright Stadium.

Sun Yang, five steps away from the ball, took off running.

The start was rough and violent. With each of his first four steps, his studs kicked up a cloud of mud as they slammed into the turf. He channeled all the frustration of being forced to leave Arsenal while lying in a hospital bed, along with the anger from the malicious tackle on Haaland, into the muscles of his thighs.

The final step!

Sun Yang's left foot, like a hydraulic steel nail, slammed into the grass half a meter to the left of the ball. His entire left leg was ramrod straight, and his body leaned to the left at an exaggerated angle that defied gravity.

His right thigh swung high backward, much like a fully drawn bow.

Roberto Carlos's signature heavy-cannon stride, combined with Batistuta's unreserved, destructive power-generating mechanism, is now perfectly integrated into this body.

"Bang!"

A thunderous boom, like a muffled clap of thunder, exploded in the empty stadium. The sound was so loud it made one's eardrums ache.

The ball left his foot.

There are no fancy curves, and not even a hint of rotation.

This was a solid cannonball, traveling along an outrageously straight trajectory, heading straight for the upper right corner of Arsenal's goal.

Tierney, standing on the outermost edge of the human wall, felt a gust of wind carrying the smell of grass brush past his ears, followed by a burning, stinging sensation. It was the cutting sensation of airflow caused by a ball squeezing through the air at high speed past his head.

The Scottish border guard instinctively shrank back, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. He had no doubt that if the thing had been ten centimeters off-center and hit him on the head, he wouldn't have even had a chance to call an ambulance.

Arsenal goalkeeper Roberto Martinez is half-crouched with his arms outstretched, still in a ready-to-save position.

Goal!

Martin didn't even flinch. He made no attempt to make a save; his reflexes couldn't keep up with the ball's terrifying speed.

The ball, carrying terrifying momentum, plunged deep into the white net. The intense kinetic energy caused the ball to spin wildly inside the net, trying to find a way out.

"Sizzle—"

A sickening tearing sound rang out. The net, woven from high-strength nylon rope, was ripped apart on the spot by this monstrous force.

A huge tear, nearly half a meter wide, was torn open on the right back side of the net. The ball flew out of the net and slammed heavily onto the concrete steps of the stands behind the goal. The enormous reaction force sent the ball bouncing as high as two stories high before it rolled helplessly down the steps back onto the field.

More than twenty players on the field were frozen in place.

Martin turned his head blankly, looked at the hole behind him, then stiffly turned back to stare at Dortmund's number 29 at the penalty spot. He opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

Referee Laos paused for two seconds before blowing his short whistle and pointing to the center circle with his right hand, declaring the goal valid.

The score is 2 to 0!

But he immediately crossed his hands above his head, making a pause gesture, and shouted into his earpiece to the fourth officer.

"Get the maintenance crew in with their tools! The goal is broken!" Laos's voice could be heard clearly in the quiet stadium.

On the sidelines, Arsenal manager Mikel Arteta loosened his tie, veins bulging on his neck. He turned to his assistant coach and roared, "Damn it! What the hell is this? Get him tested at halftime! Did he take drugs?"

In the Sky Sports studio.

Thierry Henri held his head in his hands, staring at the replay on the screen.

"Gary, is the Portuguese net made of noodles?" Henry pointed at the screen, his tone filled with a deep sense of helplessness.

Gary Lineker straightened his suit jacket and leaned back in his chair. "No, Thierry, the quality of the goals in the Champions League is absolutely top-notch. You could say this kid used his thigh as a battering ram. See? This is his most blatant and utterly humiliating sentence to the Arsenal management! You've personally thrown away a monster capable of tearing the net apart with his bare hands!"

Inside the stadium, five workers carrying toolboxes rushed into the penalty area, set up a ladder, and quickly repaired the exaggerated hole.

Sun Yang did not go to the corner flag area to celebrate.

He turned and walked to the sidelines, casually pulled a bottle of water from the bucket handed to him by the substitutes, and tossed it to Haaland.

Haaland took the water and poured it directly onto his blond head, grinning and cursing, "You're a complete lunatic. That bang gave me ringing ears. Well done, man!"

Sun Yang patted his broad back: "The best is yet to come."

Three and a half minutes later, the net was repaired. After confirming that everything was in order, Laos blew his whistle to signal the restart of the match.

The first half's 45 minutes of regular time had now elapsed. Due to injury treatment and net repairs, the fourth official held up an electronic board indicating six minutes of added time on the sidelines.

Trailing 0-2, Arsenal's Premier League stars were desperate.

They completely abandoned their pre-match defensive arrangements, with Xhaka loudly urging his teammates in midfield to push forward, attempting to win back a goal before halftime.

Ceballos and Thomas frequently used short-range one-touch passes, attempting to exploit the Premier League's pace of possession and penetration to forcefully break through Dortmund's central defense.

But they overlooked the large gate standing near the center circle.

Sun Yang applied Rijkaard's spatial cutting technique exactly to the grass in reality.

He didn't blindly rush in, but instead maintained a serpentine defensive position. No matter how Arsenal passed the ball around, Sun Yang always managed to anticipate and block Ceballos's intended forward pass.

The lateral movements, though seemingly slow, effectively blocked all opportunities for forward movement. Arsenal's prized possession-based football became stagnant water.

The third minute of stoppage time.

Xhaka barely received the ball in the middle of the attacking third, but Dortmund's Witsel had already pressed him, giving him no time to adjust. Xhaka glanced at Aubameyang making a high-speed run down the left flank and immediately delivered a low through ball with the instep of his foot.

Sun Yang moved as soon as the ball left his shoe.

He had already anticipated this only path. He took a large stride, and with a decisive stretch of his left foot, he cleanly intercepted the ball halfway through its trajectory.

After intercepting the ball, Sun Yang didn't even look at the defenders; he simply glanced at the right side of the frontcourt.

Haaland, dragging his bandaged right leg, was huddled together with Tierney.

Sun Yang kicked with his right foot. Instead of pushing the ball with the inside of his foot, he used the outside of his foot to slash hard at the lower middle part of the ball.

Luka Modric's signature move: a long pass with the outside of his foot.

The ball left the turf, tracing a bizarre "S"-shaped curve in mid-air. This exquisite arc perfectly bypassed Arsenal center-back Gabriel's head, landing precisely on the large defensive vacuum on the right flank.

Harland unleashed a beast-like roar, and his terrifying core power surged forth.

He forcefully pushed aside Tierney's pull, overtook him by half a body length, and arrived just before the ball hit the ground.

They didn't give the ball a chance to slow down upon landing.

The tall Norwegian player met the half-high ball with his left leg, striking the ball solidly with the instep.

A brutal volley!

Martinez had barely raised his glove halfway when the ball whistled into the top right corner of the goal.

The net let out a painful groan; the newly repaired net couldn't even last half a second before it was pierced again with a bang!

The score came to 3 to 0!

In first-half stoppage time, Dortmund used a counter-attack to completely plunge Arsenal into despair.

After scoring, Haaland, limping on his right leg, sprinted towards the center circle, turned, and leaped, landing squarely on top of Sun Yang, who was running to celebrate. The two young men roared at the empty stands.

Referee Lahoz did not give Arsenal another chance to kick off, and immediately blew the whistle to end the first half, and ordered the maintenance staff to quickly replace the net with a new one.

The two teams headed toward the players' tunnel.

The atmosphere in the Arsenal dressing room was so oppressive it was suffocating.

Arteta stood in front of the tactics board and kicked the medical kit on the ground, scattering bandages and scissors everywhere.

"A bunch of idiots! You played like a pile of stinking dog shit! Were you strolling around the field?!" The young Spanish coach roared in a thick accent, spitting all over Xhaka's face in the front row.

"N0-3! Three goals conceded in the first half! You're wearing Arsenal jerseys, not a community league aunties team! Xhaka, were you passing the ball specifically to feed that number 29?! Tierney, what were you thinking when you were marking that big guy? Trying to buy him a cup of tea?!"

Tierney sat on the bench, head down, and said dejectedly, "Coach, that center is a mad bull! And that Chinese kid's passing is so unpredictable, we can't even read his ball..."

"Shut up! I won't listen to excuses!" Arteta slammed his hand on the tactical board, causing the magnetic clapper to fall off with a clatter. "Second half, stick to that number 29 like mad dogs! Don't give him even half a second of comfortable space to receive the ball. Even if you have to bite him, cut off his connection with that Norwegian! If you can't stop him, use fouls to disrupt their rhythm! Got it?!"

Aubameyang and Lacazette exchanged a glance in the corner, silently fiddling with their socks, neither daring to speak.

On the other side, in the Dortmund away team's locker room.

Despite holding a three-goal lead, there was little atmosphere of celebration here.

Team doctor Schmidt knelt on the ground, unwrapping the bandages on Haaland's right ankle. The consequences of the deadly scissor tackle were now fully apparent; large patches of purplish-red had spread from his ankle to the instep.

Schmidt pressed lightly with his fingertip, and Haaland gasped in pain.

"No, Erling." Schmidt stood up and looked at head coach Favre with a serious expression. "Severe soft tissue contusion. It's a miracle that no bones were broken. He absolutely cannot play in the second half. He must apply ice and go to the hospital for X-rays immediately."

Favre nodded, picked up the tactical board, and turned around: "Brandt, go warm up. You'll replace Erling in the second half."

"I won't go!"

Haaland shoved aside the assistant physician who was about to apply an ice pack, grabbed the powerful pain-relieving spray from the table, and sprayed it wildly onto his ankle. The pungent smell of the medicine instantly filled the air.

"Old man, don't worry about me. Tie the knot back on, I want to go on!" Haaland stared at Favre.

Sun Yang walked over and grabbed Haaland's broad shoulder: "Brother, let it go. The outcome is already decided, there's no need to gamble with your career."

"The game isn't over yet! Captain, it's only been forty-five minutes!" Haaland suddenly raised his head, his usually optimistic face now filled with arrogant bloodshot veins.

"Those London cowards think they can win by crippling me? I won't be able to sleep tonight until I beat them to a pulp! A few more goals, and I want to see them crying as they leave Lisbon. Don't try to persuade me, just keep running up front and pass the ball to me!"

Looking into the Norwegian's eyes, which shone with wildness and madness, Sun Yang knew that this devil was unstoppable. He turned to look at Favre and nodded slightly.

Favre sighed heavily and waved his hand, signaling, "Schmidt, tie him tighter. Erling, if he feels he can't run anymore, signal to take your place immediately."

The fifteen-minute halftime break passed in the blink of an eye.

In the players' tunnel, the two teams lined up again.

The only sounds in the narrow corridor were the players' heavy breathing and the click-clack of cleats on the mat.

Arsenal's midfield maestro Granit Xhaka stood in the middle of the team, staring fiercely at Sun Yang diagonally opposite him, his arm muscles taut and his eyes full of provocation.

Sun Yang met Xhaka's gaze and took a step closer.

He didn't utter a word, but coldly raised his right hand, his thumb flat against the front of his neck, and slowly and steadily swept it horizontally.

A throat-slitting ceremony that was so arrogant it was outrageous!

The whistle for the second half is about to blow.