["As the laughter in the corridor gradually faded, Ye Feng leaned against the wall and downed the sports drink in one go. The cold liquid slid down his throat, finally suppressing the burning sensation in his throat. But the final scene of the interview just now still echoed in his mind. The Dragon Country reporter said it was 4:00 AM back in the country, and tens of millions of people were watching him. Tens of millions of people. Ye Feng could not imagine what that concept meant. The roar of 76,000 people at Old Trafford was enough to blow the roof off; what would it look like with tens of millions of people sitting in front of their TVs at the same time? \"What did you say to those reporters?\" Ronaldo unscrewed his water bottle and asked casually, \"I saw that Dragon Country reporter's hands were shaking.\" \"I said that Dragon Country people can also play good football. No need to pay money, no need to pull strings.\" Ronaldo's action of drinking water paused for a moment. He put down his water bottle and turned his head to look at Ye Feng. There was no joking expression in those eyes from before, but rather something deeper. \"When you said that, did you think about the consequences?\" \"Consequences?\" \"Your coaches back home, those who take money, those who occupy positions without doing their jobs.\" Ronaldo placed his water bottle on the windowsill, \"Saying that one does not need to pay to play good football is equivalent to slapping them in the face in front of the whole world.\" Ye Feng fell silent. He really had not thought about it. At that moment in the interview area, surrounded by flashlights, the instant he heard Chinese, those words surged up his throat like blood, unstoppable. He thought of Liu Gang. He thought of that fat guy, Zhang Wei, wearing designer sneakers. He thought of those who were far worse than him but could still get on the pitch. He thought of the 30,000 yuan. It was not that he had not thought about the consequences. He just did not care anymore. \"Let them hear it.\" Ye Feng threw the empty bottle into the trash can, making a crisp clatter, \"I told the truth.\" Ronaldo stared at him for a few seconds, then the corners of his mouth slowly curled up. \"Do you know?\" The Portuguese patted his shoulder, with a bit more force than before, \"I am starting to admire you a bit. Not because you scored five goals, but because of who you are.\" \"Admire me for what?\" \"Foolish enough.\" Ronaldo finished, laughing out loud, the laughter echoing in the empty corridor, \"But you are foolish in a way that makes people like you.\" Ye Feng also laughed. Then the two of them walked into the night of Manchester together. The night wind blew over, carrying the dampness after the rain, with the scent of soil and grass clippings. Behind them, the floodlights of Old Trafford were turning off, and the massive stadium gradually faded into the darkness. Meanwhile, in a dormitory at Manchester Metropolitan University, a Chinese international student wearing thick glasses was sending a manuscript back to the country. His fingers tapped the keyboard rapidly, and the words on the screen popped out line by line. The moment he clicked send, he was trembling all over, not because of the cold, but because of excitement. This report would be reposted by all the major portal websites in the country. The headline had only one sentence: Ye Feng says, you do not need to pay to play good football. And in the Dragon Country, Liu Gang, who was still watching the TV in the early morning, had the first reaction of turning off his phone after watching the interview. But he was too late. Text messages were already pouring in like snowflakes. \"Coach Liu, I heard that you have to pay 30,000 yuan to get on the pitch there?\" \"Liu Gang, how the f* can you still sleep?\" \"Teacher Liu, my son has been on your team for three years and has not played, can you explain?\" Liu Gang's finger pressed the power button three times, but his hand was shaking too violently, and he missed all three times. The text message notification sound was still ringing. Ding. Ding. Ding. Each sound was like a nail being driven into his temple. He gave up on turning it off and flipped the phone over onto the coffee table. The screen was facing down, but the vibration continued. The buzzing sound came through the glass table, creeping into his brain along his bones. The TV in the living room was still on. The screen was frozen on the shot of Ye Feng with his arms spread wide; the rain, the lights, the red No. 24 jersey, and the cheers of 76,000 people solidified into a still photograph. The TV station's director clearly knew how much impact this image had; they were replaying it over and over—once, twice, three times—each time with slow-motion replays from different angles. Liu Gang stared at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. The vibration of the phone on the coffee table suddenly stopped. Liu Gang was stunned for a moment and reached for the phone. The moment the screen flipped over, his pupils contracted sharply. It had not stopped. It was because there were too many text messages, and the phone had crashed. The reboot animation spun twice on the screen, and then new text messages poured in like a dam bursting. More and fiercer than before; the number of unread messages scrolling crazily on the screen jumped from dozens to hundreds, and from hundreds to... The doorbell rang. Liu Gang's hand shook, and the phone dropped to the floor, the screen hitting the tile and cracking. He did not pick it up. The doorbell rang again. This time it was pressed longer and more urgently, as if the person outside was pressing their finger firmly on the button without letting go. Followed by the sound of knocking on the door. Bang, bang, bang. \"Liu Gang! Open the door!\" It was his wife's voice. Liu Gang braced himself against the sofa armrest and stood up, his legs shaking. He took nearly half a minute to walk the seven or eight steps from the living room to the entryway. The moment the door opened, a phone was thrown directly into his face. His wife stood at the doorway, her eyes red, her lips trembling. \"Explain this to me, what is this?\" On the phone screen was a report. 【Shocking reveal! Dragon Country youth team playing time has a set price, 30,000 yuan a pop!】 The picture below was a photo of Ye Feng celebrating with his arms wide open at Old Trafford, and next to it was an old photo of Liu Gang standing on the sidelines of the training field with a cigarette butt in his mouth. I do not know which reporter dug it up, but the angle was tricky and the composition precise, capturing the impatient, side-eyed expression on his face clearly. \"This is fake! Someone is framing me!\" Liu Gang blurted out. \"Fake?\" His wife sneered, snatched the phone, scrolled a few times, and flipped to the comment section. The most liked comment had only seven words, and the number of likes had already exceeded 100,000. \"Liu Gang, can you sleep?\" The second one: \"My son stayed in your team for three years and never got to play. I asked why, and you said he was not good enough. Now I understand, it is not that he was not good enough, it is that there was not enough money.\" The third one: \"Reported. Screenshots taken. Sent to the General Administration of Sport.\" The fourth one: \"Suggest investigating Liu Gang's bank records.\" The fifth one had only four words: \"F* you.\" Liu Gang's fingers began to go numb. He turned around, walked back to the living room, and bent down to pick up the phone on the floor. The crack on the screen spread like a spider web, but he could still see the messages popping up continuously. Some were cursing him. Some were threatening him. Some were saying they were going to block his door. There were also a few interview requests from reporters, phrased so politely it was almost hypocritical. \"Hello Coach Liu, we are reporters from 'Titan Sports Weekly', we would like to conduct a brief interview regarding player Ye Feng's statement and your coaching situation in the Dragon Country youth team. Would you be available?\" Liu Gang threw the phone onto the sofa. \"That kid is framing me!\" His voice suddenly rose, like someone whose tail had been stepped on, \"He is framing me in front of the whole world!\" His wife leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. There was no sympathy in that gaze, no anger, only a kind of emptiness after being drained. \"Have you ever taken money?\" She asked. \"I...\" \"Just say it, yes or no.\" Liu Gang opened his mouth. The living room was quiet for about ten seconds, but these ten seconds were longer than ten centuries. The TV screen was still replaying Ye Feng's goal, the fifth one, that goal with La Croqueta and Rainbow Flick. In slow motion, Andy Todd knelt on the wet grass in the rain, rain sliding down the scar on his nose bridge, while Ye Feng's back was running toward the corner flag area, arms spread wide, like a bird that had finally broken out of its cage. The commentator's voice came out of the speakers, filled with uncontrollable excitement: \"Who would have thought! Who would have thought! This teenager who completed a five-goal haul in the Premier League League Cup semi-final, just a few days ago in the Dragon Country had to pay 30,000 yuan just to get on the pitch!\" Liu Gang closed his eyes. Meanwhile, in Manchester. Ye Feng sat in Ronaldo's car, the passenger seat adjusted very far back, his whole body almost half-lying down. Outside the car window, the night view of Manchester receded piece by piece, the light from the street lamps sliding over the top of the car window, one by one, like some kind of silent metronome. His phone vibrated once. Then another time. Then it vibrated a dozen times in a row. Ronaldo held the steering wheel with one hand and glanced at him: \"Why is your phone so busy tonight?\" Ye Feng swiped open the screen. They were all text messages. Some were from unknown numbers. \"Hello Ye Feng, I am a reporter from 'Titan Daily', could we do a brief interview? Just a few questions.\" Ye Feng scrolled through them one by one, stopping when he reached the last one. It was Liu Gang's number. The text message from Liu Gang was very short, only one line of text. \"Ye Feng, you are ruthless enough.\" Ye Feng stared at these five words for a while. Then he put his phone down and turned to look out the car window. The rain in Manchester had stopped, and the road surface was still glistening with water, reflecting the colors of the street lamps and neon signs. \"What is wrong?\" Ronaldo asked. \"Nothing.\" Ye Feng said, the corners of his mouth slightly raised, the arc not large, but carrying a kind of relieved sharpness, \"It is just that someone finally knows that those who do not pay money can also play good football.\" The phone rang; it was Ferguson calling. He notified him on the phone that the new Premier League schedule was out, and in three days they would be playing away at West Bromwich Albion. The Premier League schedule was too packed; every match played took a heavy toll on the body."]
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