["Inside the tactical room at the Carrington Training Ground, the lights remained on late into the night. Ye Feng sat at a long table, with game tapes of West Bromwich Albion, Carlos Queiroz's handwritten tactical analysis, and the opponent data sheet faxed over by Ferguson spread out before him. The dense numbers and arrows on the paper looked like a battlefield map laid out. Cristiano Ronaldo sat opposite him, feet propped up on the table, holding a pen in his hand. \"West Bromwich Albion.\" The Portuguese player threw the pen onto the table, where it rolled to the edge of the tactical board and stopped. \"A team on the edge of the relegation zone. Their style is rough, their tackling is fierce, and they play counter-attacking football. Their manager, Gary Megson, said before the match, 'We are going to show Manchester United what physical contact is all about.'\" Ye Feng flipped through Carlos Queiroz's analysis report, his eyes resting on a certain page. West Bromwich Albion's right-back is experienced, but his turning speed is slow. The gap between the left center-back and the goalkeeper is their fatal weakness. During set-piece defense, they often lose their man at the back post. \"Three days.\" Ye Feng closed the report and looked at Cristiano Ronaldo. \"Is that enough?\" \"Enough.\" Three days later, The Hawthorns. This team, struggling on the edge of the relegation zone, played like mad dogs today; their tackles were fierce, physical collisions were frequent, and every 50/50 ball seemed like they wanted to tackle the player along with the turf. On the domestic television broadcast, Commentator Duan Xuan's voice was already soaring with excitement. \"Friends, you are watching the live broadcast of the Premier League, Manchester United's away match against West Bromwich Albion. Ye Feng is in such great form today!\" His partner, Zhang Lu, adjusted his glasses, unable to suppress a smile: \"This eighteen-year-old from the Dragon Country is redefining what it means to have chemistry. He and Ronaldo have already connected directly three times today. In less than three minutes, they've already had a shot on goal. Although that one didn't go in, the quality was very high.\" \"West Bromwich Albion's midfield simply cannot cut off the passing lanes between them.\" In the stands of The Hawthorns, a few scattered fans wearing Manchester United's red jerseys were cheering. Among them was a flag of the Dragon Country, held high, its corners snapping in the wind. On the pitch, Ye Feng was jogging towards midfield. His jersey was soaked with sweat and mud, and there was a bruise on his right calf, left by that tackle from the opposing defensive midfielder in the first half. But he couldn't feel the pain. The blood was surging through his veins too fast, so fast that he only wanted to keep getting the ball, keep running, and keep tearing apart West Bromwich Albion's defense. Cristiano Ronaldo ran over from the wing, running side-by-side with him for two steps. The Portuguese player had sweat beads on his forehead, but his eyes were full of smiles: \"They can't defend against us. The right-back's turn is still slow. You watch for that gap; I can slip it through at any time.\" \"Received.\" Ye Feng nodded. In the 78th minute, another opportunity arrived. Paul Scholes intercepted the ball near the center circle and sent a flat, fast through ball to Ye Feng's feet. Ye Feng received the ball with his back to the goal. The moment his left foot stepped on the ball, he sensed someone rushing up behind him—it was West Bromwich Albion's center-back, that tall guy who had been bumping into him all game. The opponent's right shoulder slammed into him with the momentum of his charge, the force as great as a collapsing wall. Ye Feng didn't resist it head-on. He lightly tapped the ball with his left heel, sending it through the opponent's legs, while simultaneously rotating his body to the left, like a fallen leaf caught in the wind, nimbly circling past the defender. \"A Nutmeg to get past the defender! That's beautiful!\" Commentator Duan Xuan's voice cracked with excitement. \"Ye Feng is advancing along the right flank!\" The boos at The Hawthorns rained down overwhelmingly, but Ye Feng couldn't hear them. In his field of vision, there was only the turf, the ball, and Cristiano Ronaldo sprinting ahead. A second defender rushed over. It was West Bromwich Albion's left-back, tall and clumsy but with a very vicious tackle. His sliding tackle was executed with almost no restraint, his studs reflecting the blinding white light under the floodlights, aimed directly at Ye Feng's standing leg. A sliding tackle. This was a tackle aimed at the player. Commentator Duan Xuan's voice shot up suddenly: \"Watch out!!!\" Ye Feng's ankle reacted in a fraction of a second. He used his toe to lightly lift the ball off the ground, and immediately his own feet sprang into the air as if they had springs attached, leaping over the studs that were sliding toward him. He stumbled half a step upon landing, but his right foot's outer instep steadily caught the falling ball, and with almost no pause, he continued forward. La Croqueta combined with a jump to dodge the tackle. This move was more dangerous than any feint; a judgment error of even a millimeter would result in a broken leg. But Ye Feng did it. The boos at The Hawthorns suddenly turned into gasps. Some of the home fans in blue and white striped jerseys had unconsciously stood up from their seats. \"He got past! He got past!\" Commentator Duan Xuan was about to pull the microphone off its stand. \"Ye Feng! He's dancing! A fake left, a cut right! Three stepovers in a row! The opposing defenders are being passed like wooden stakes!\" On the screen, Ye Feng was changing direction repeatedly at the edge of the penalty area. His shoulders tilted left and right, every shift of his center of gravity precise to the millimeter. West Bromwich Albion's defenders were like puppets on an invisible string, tricked into swaying wildly by him. Someone reached out a foot to block, but their toe was always three centimeters away from the ball; someone tried to bump him with their body, but Ye Feng always changed direction half a beat early, making them crash into thin air. This was an insult. On the Premier League pitch, being toyed with like a dog by an eighteen-year-old from the Dragon Country was an insult carved into their bones. West Bromwich Albion's defenders' eyes turned red. On the right. Another person rushed over. It was that center-back who had been harassing Ye Feng with dirty tricks since the first half. This time, he completely abandoned his marking of Cristiano Ronaldo, rushed over from the side and rear, both feet off the ground, a sliding tackle! The height of the studs was above the calf. This wasn't a tackle. This was an attempt to cripple someone. The camera clearly captured this scene. Commentator Duan Xuan's voice changed suddenly, from ecstasy to fear: \"This foul!!! This foul is too dangerous!!!\" Ye Feng fell to the turf, rolling twice before stopping. His right shin guard had been kicked off and landed on the turf two meters away. The referee's whistle blew sharply. But Ye Feng's reaction was faster than the whistle. He scrambled up, a red mark still visible on his leg, but he was already rushing toward the defender who had committed the foul. \"You motherfucker!!!\" It was in Chinese. The opponent didn't understand, but he could see what was burning in Ye Feng's eyes. The defender didn't back down either, stepping up, foreheads almost touching, shouting a string of English profanities. Cristiano Ronaldo was the first to rush over. He pushed the shoulder of that West Bromwich Albion defender, blocked Ye Feng behind him, chest puffed out, and roared in his Portuguese-accented English: \"What do you want to do?! What do you want to do?!\" Before the defender could retort, Manchester United teammates surged over. Roy Keane arrived from behind, the old Manchester United captain's arm locking the opponent's neck like iron pliers, dragging him backward. Rio Ferdinand and Paul Scholes surrounded them simultaneously, shielding Ye Feng in the middle. The Hawthorns exploded. The home fans all stood up, roars, boos, and insults merging into one. Someone threw a plastic bottle onto the pitch, someone frantically pounded on the advertising boards. West Bromwich Albion's players also gathered around, and the players from both teams twisted into a ball at the edge of the penalty area, pushing each other, pointing fingers and cursing. The referee's whistle blew until he was out of breath. Commentator Duan Xuan stood up in the commentary box, his voice hoarse: \"This tackle is undoubtedly a red card! The West Bromwich Albion defender, in a situation where it was completely impossible to touch the ball, flew in with both feet off the ground, aiming directly at Ye Feng's standing leg!\" \"This is an extremely malicious foul! It's revenge! It's revenge for Ye Feng dribbling past his three teammates consecutively just now!\" His voice shifted from excitement to anger, finally turning into a coldness suppressed to the point of trembling: \"We need to protect the players. Such tackles should not appear on a football pitch. Eighteen-year-old Ye Feng, this is only his second match in the Premier League, and he encounters such a vicious, violent foul.\" On the screen, Ye Feng was being held by Cristiano Ronaldo and Roy Keane, one on each side, still roaring at the defender. His eyes were red, not from pain, but from rage. Cristiano Ronaldo held his shoulders tightly, whispering in his ear: \"Calm down. Calm down. Think about Ferguson's tactical plan. Think about the next match. If you retaliate, you will be suspended.\" Ye Feng's chest heaved violently, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. Just then, the referee finally squeezed out of the crowd and raised a red card high toward that West Bromwich Albion defender. At the same time, he gave Ye Feng a yellow card. The whole stadium erupted into even louder boos; this time, even the Manchester United players were furious. Roy Keane pointed at the referee and cursed, not even bothering to use mild language, it was all four-letter words. Ye Feng didn't argue. He bent down to pick up his kicked-off shin guard, stuffed it back into his sock, and then straightened up. The camera zoomed in on his face; his lips were pressed tight, but the redness in the corners of his eyes hadn't faded. Commentator Duan Xuan was silent for two seconds, then spoke, his voice much calmer than before, but more powerful: \"This is Ye Feng. A young man with backbone. He was maliciously fouled yet didn't lose his head, even receiving a yellow card. But I want to say to that West Bromwich Albion defender: you traded a red card for a foul, was it worth it? Do you know who you tackled?\" On the screen, Ye Feng walked toward the sideline to prepare to re-enter the game. Cristiano Ronaldo ran over and bumped his fist against his. \"There are fifteen minutes left; let's score two more and make them remember your name forever.\""]
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