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

"Beep!"

The final whistle pierced the rain.

The grass field in Westphalia instantly transformed into a battlefield shelter. Players from both teams lay sprawled in the mud, as if their spines had been removed, letting the torrential rain soak them.

Sun Yang sat in the puddle, his arms behind him, his chest heaving like a broken bellows, greedily inhaling the cold, rain-soaked air. That relentless, brutal shot from Batistuta in stoppage time had completely drained Kante's fuel tank.

Not far away in the middle of the field, Alaba and Richards lay sprawled out, their once bright red Bayern jerseys now plastered with yellow mud.

Referee Graf didn't urge anyone; he put away his whistle and silently walked to the sidelines. This epic 3-3 draw had seen both sides empty their magazines; there were just as many players standing as lying on the ground.

Haaland limped onto the pitch, his thighs wrapped up like a newly unearthed mummy. The Nordic behemoth ignored the team doctor shouting behind him, his gaze fixed on the red figure in the center circle.

Lewandowski stood there, panting with his hands on his knees. Seeing Haaland approaching, he straightened up, ripped off his sweat-soaked number 9 jersey, and handed it to him.

"Damn it, you bunch of lunatics almost tore down the defenses," Lewandowski said in a deep voice in English.

Haaland ripped off his yellow and black jersey and threw it into Lewandowski's arms, snatching the jersey without any hesitation.

"Don't get cocky, Pole. If I hadn't been injured, that last shot wouldn't have been Son's turn at all." Haaland grinned, his eyes blazing with undisguised ferocity. "Listen to me, this season's Golden Boot is still mine. You better get ready to collect your Bundesliga Silver Boot!"

Lewandowski draped his yellow and black jersey over his broad shoulders and casually wiped his wet hair.

"You're still a kid who hasn't even grown his first hairs yet." Lewandowski chuckled, his tone brimming with the experience of the world's best center forward. "While I was dominating the Bundesliga, you were still eating chilled salmon in Norway. You think you can win the Golden Boot this year? We'll see."

Just as the two top strikers were exchanging harsh words and refusing to back down.

Thomas Müller, the tactical card dealer and veteran of Bayern Munich, had already crossed the halfway line and strolled over to Sun Yang.

The German veteran stretched out his mud-covered right hand toward Sun Yang, who was lying on the ground.

Sun Yang grasped his hand and used it to stand up.

Müller sized up the young man before him, muttering in a thick Bavarian accent, "Which alien lab did Dortmund dig you out of? You still had the energy to unleash that inhuman shot in the last second. Neuer looked completely dazed when he came off the field."

Sun Yang raised an eyebrow and, without pausing for a moment, opened his mouth with a pure, outrageously authentic Munich slang.

"Old man, tell Manu (Neuer) for me. Next time my scope won't be a blind spot, I'll kick him and the ball into your net."

Müller froze on the spot. He stared at the Asian-mixed-race boy as if he were a ghost. How could someone who had never lived in Munich in his life speak such authentic slang that only old drunks in local pubs would use?

Müller took off his number 25 jersey and handed it to him, bursting into laughter: "Funny little guy! No wonder you could tear our midfield apart. But you won't have that kind of luck in the second half at the Allianz Arena."

"I never score goals by luck." Sun Yang took off his number 10 jersey and handed it to Müller.

Both men took a half step back. This was absolute respect earned between core members through bloodshed.

The wind and rain show no signs of stopping.

In the renowned South Stand of Westfalen, not a single one of the more than 10,000 die-hard fans who had managed to get into the stadium due to the public health crisis left early.

They stood on the open-air stands, exposed to the torrential rain, letting it soak them to the bone. Under the command of the stands' leader, a unified rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone" broke through the storm, sweeping across the green field.

He turned around and looked at his teammates lying sprawled out behind him.

"Stop pretending to be dead!" Sun Yang roared in a hoarse voice, "Get up! Go thank our fans!"

Reina, Bellingham, Guerrero, and the others gritted their teeth and helped each other up from the grass. The group of rain-soaked young people linked arms, forming a long horizontal line.

Sun Yang walked in the middle, leading the whole team to the south stand.

All the players linked arms, bowed deeply towards the stands, and applauded vigorously.

boom--!

The cheers from the stands completely drowned out the thunder. No fan booed for failing to secure all three points at home. This is Westfalen's most terrifying magic: if you fight for the city until your last bone is broken, they will treat you as a supreme hero.

Several dazzling fireworks pierced through the rain and exploded in the night sky. It was the celebration ignited outside the stadium by tens of thousands of Hornets fans who couldn't get in.

After the adrenaline of the El Clásico subsided, harsh reality dealt Dortmund a heavy blow.

The team has become a veritable injury shelter. Captain Reus suffered a recurrence of an old injury, Haaland was placed on a strict suspension by the medical team, Akanji pulled a thigh strain, and even veteran Piszczek was in the physiotherapy room.

After the first seven rounds of the league, Borussia Dortmund has 5 wins and 2 draws, accumulating 17 points.

In the Bundesliga, where the margin for error is extremely low, Dortmund has fallen far behind Bayern Munich, who are on a winning streak. The Bavarian giants continue to dominate the table with 19 points, while RB Leipzig, backed by Red Bull Capital, has surged ahead with 18 points to take second place. Dortmund has slipped to third.

After seven rounds of fierce competition, European football has ushered in two weeks of international match days that will terrify the major clubs.

Borussia Dortmund's Blakel training ground.

The atmosphere in the locker room was unusually relaxed. The widespread wave of injuries, at this critical juncture, actually became a shield against the devastation of the "FIFA virus".

Seventeen-year-old Bellingham, his face dark with resignation, was stuffing sneakers into his handbag.

"Those damn FA bureaucrats!" the young English player cursed. "I've been treated like a donkey in the production team at my club, my bones are about to fall apart, and now they want me to fly back to London for training! Why doesn't Jaden have to go?"

Sun Yang leaned against the locker, tossing a green apple in his hand, and joked in English with a London East End accent:

"Because Jaden has gotten smarter. Yesterday, in front of the team doctor, this kid acted out right ankle pain more convincingly than an Oscar-winning actor. If you could learn this trick of faking injury for free, you could also get two weeks' worth of free coffee at the training base."

His teammates around him burst into laughter. Sancho sat in the corner, stroking his chin, grinning like a fox who had stolen a chicken.

As Hummels changed into his training clothes, he shouted at Sun Yang in German, "Sun, why does your English sound like a London street thug? I thought a British football hooligan had crawled into the locker room."

Sun Yang seamlessly switched to fluent German, raising an eyebrow as he retorted, "Matz, this is the fastest way to adapt to local customs. If you're not used to it, I can even tell you a joke in Munich dialect about 'Bayern's defense turning like an aircraft carrier.'"

boom!

As they were talking, the wooden door to the locker room was violently kicked open.

Haaland, leaning on a titanium cane, stormed in with a violent expression, slamming the tablet in his hand onto the table.

"Quack doctors! They're all sadists!" the Norwegian roared in English. "My leg doesn't hurt at all, and that bald team doctor still wants me to rest for two weeks! I want to play! Lewandowski, that Polish guy, is going back to his national team to rack up goals again this weekend, I can't swallow this!"

Sun Yang frowned, strode over, and snatched the tablet from the table.

"Calm down, big man." He looked down at Haaland in the chair, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable sense of pressure. "If you think your other leg is too intact, go run five kilometers on the grass right now. I guarantee that when the team lifts the salad bowl in the second half of the season, we'll reserve a wheelchair spot with the best view for you."

Faced with Sun Yang's casual tapping, Haaland, who had been furious just a second ago, looked at those extremely imposing black eyes, his lips twitched twice, and he instantly deflated like a punctured balloon, only able to scratch his blond hair in frustration.

In this locker room teeming with talented but rebellious individuals, this 20-year-old Asian youth, through his god-like performance achieved through sheer grit and determination, has firmly established his absolute authority as a leader.

During the two-week break, fans thought there wouldn't be any good games to watch.

But no one expected that on the first day of the holiday, the front page of European football would be completely blown up by a bombshell dropped by an Italian media outlet.