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

The commotion surrounding the London cruise ship launch was completely forgotten.

The three-week vacation is over. In early autumn in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany, the wind is starting to carry a hint of coolness, but the temperature at Dortmund's Brakel training ground is soaring.

The first team's dedicated locker room.

The room was filled with the pungent smell of freshly cut turf mixed with muscle mint spray. The traces of the championship celebrations months ago had long since been swept away by the cleaning staff. The cruel gears of professional football had meshed again, and the rallying cry for the new season had sounded.

The designer brands on the wardrobe have been completely replaced.

Achraf Hakimi, who dominated the right wing last season, returned to Madrid after his loan spell ended. Former "German Golden Boy" Mario Götze also quietly emptied his locker. Injuries had reduced this talented player to a few garbage-time substitute appearances throughout the season, making a dignified and peaceful parting of ways the final tacit agreement between the two sides.

When someone leaves the stage, fresh blood naturally follows.

On a bench in the corner, 17-year-old English midfielder Bellingham was clutching his socks. He was a rising star recently snatched by Dortmund from Championship side Birmingham for a hefty sum. The kid exuded an irrepressible energy. Next to him sat an even more impressive 15-year-old Cameroonian prodigy, Moukoko. This young maestro had scored goals like crazy in the youth team and was promoted to the first team by the club's management.

Dortmund's management is always at the forefront of Europe when it comes to scratching lottery tickets.

"Click".

This book was first published on 2020s.com, providing you with a reading experience free of errors and disordered chapters.

The locker room door was pushed open.

Sun Yang walked in carrying a backpack. The moment he entered, the volume in the dressing room, which had been playing hardcore heavy metal music, seemed to automatically turn down a few decibels.

All eyes turned to that direction.

He was the Bundesliga MVP who racked up incredible statistics in half a season last year, a ruthless player who dominated Bayern Munich, and the tactical mastermind behind Borussia Dortmund's victory.

"Yang! The London media are practically raving about you. I heard you made that Premier League midfielder crumble on that ship?" Sancho was the first to rush over, giving Sun Yang a solid bump in the chest, laughing extremely arrogantly.

"Bro, I've got the Golden Boot line drawn this season." Haaland strode out of the physiotherapy room shirtless. The Norwegian seemed to have gotten even bigger during the offseason. He slammed his hand on the metal cabinet, making a loud bang. "Next season, I need to feed him lots of lobs!"

"As long as your legs can outrun my radar, the ball will definitely appear at your feet right on time." Sun Yang smiled as he stuffed his bag into the closet and turned to look at the two reserved new faces in the corner.

Bellingham immediately stood up, rubbed his palms on his trouser leg before extending his hand.

"Hello, Sun, I'm Jude."

Sun Yang grabbed his hand. His palm was large, and his knuckles were covered in calluses.

"I've seen your video footage; your midfield sweeping is solid." Sun Yang patted the young Englishman on the shoulder. "But here, you need to accelerate your passing speed a bit more than you do in the Championship. In the Bundesliga, nobody gives you two seconds to control the ball and observe the midfield."

Bellingham nodded vigorously. He was an absolute starter in the Championship, but faced with Sun Yang's terrifying statistics and aura, he knew very well that he was just an apprentice. Moukoko also quickly came over to greet him; the fifteen-year-old's muscular physique was so impressive that even Sun Yang was secretly amazed.

The locker room door was pushed open again.

New coach Terčić strode in. The young coach had a stern look on his face, but the person behind him today caused an uproar in the locker room.

His blond hair was neatly combed back, and a few wrinkles from the years had appeared at the corners of his eyes, but the bumblebee spirit etched into his very bones burned brighter than anyone else's.

Former captain Marco Reus.

This time he didn't use his cane, and his steps were steady.

He has recovered from his injuries and returned home.

"Oh ho!!!"

Haaland led the charge with his ear-piercing, thuggish whistle, while Sancho grabbed two sneakers and furiously pounded the bench. The locker room roof was practically about to be ripped off by this group of hormone-fueled bastards.

Royce's eyes reddened. He went to each of his brothers, fist bumping and hugging them tightly.

Until he stopped in front of Sun Yang.

In the final moments of last season, it was this mixed-race kid, nearly ten years younger than me, wearing the armband I entrusted to him, who dragged a half-depleted squad and snatched that eleven-kilogram salad plate from Bayern Munich.

Royce took a deep breath, opened his arms, and hugged Sun Yang tightly.

"Well done, brother." Royce slapped Sun Yang hard on the back with his large hand. "You didn't let me take my regrets to my grave."

"The armband was too heavy, it hurt my arm." Sun Yang laughed and punched the old captain on the back. "Now that you're back, I'll return it to you. I'll just stick to being a midfielder."

Amidst a burst of laughter, Terzic clapped his hands vigorously.

"Alright lads, that's enough of the small talk!" The young coach walked to the tactics board, holding two neatly folded yellow and black home jerseys.

He casually tossed it, and a jersey landed squarely in Haaland's arms.

The Norwegian player flicked his wrists, revealing the huge black numbers on the back of his jersey.

9.

"A goal-scoring machine's standard equipment." Haaland grinned wildly, revealing a set of white teeth. "Just watch, this season I'll kick through every single net."

Immediately afterwards, Terčić turned and walked toward Sun Yang.

This time he didn't throw it away, but solemnly laid the last jersey flat on the table in front of Sun Yang.

In the prestigious European clubs with their rich history, every key player's number is stained with the sweat and glory of their predecessors. On the back of this jersey, striking black lettering is printed.

"10".

"Before Mario (Götze) left Westfalen, he made a special trip to the senior management office." Terčić stared into Sun Yang's eyes, his voice echoing in the locker room. "He said that after he left, only one person in Dortmund could carry this jersey."

Number 10. The brain in the traditional sense, the absolute center of the offense, the supreme commander on the court.

From the 29th to the 10th.

Sun Yang looked down at the jersey. In the fast-paced, meat-grinding tactics of modern football, the classic attacking midfielder is disappearing on a large scale, but the right to shoot and the tactical bias represented by the number 10 jersey will never change.

"Put it on." Terčić tapped the table with his knuckles. "Your position will be completely pushed forward this season. I want you to control the entire team's rhythm! Whether it's unleashing a powerful shot or tearing through the defense with a through ball, this midfield area is yours to command."

Sun Yang didn't hesitate and reached out to grab the jersey.

The synthetic fiber fabric is as light as a sheet of paper, yet feels incredibly heavy in your hand.

He ripped off his training vest and, under the watchful eyes of a pack of hungry wolves, slipped the number 10 jersey, a symbol of supreme power, onto his body.

From this moment on, Dortmund's new king ascends the throne.