["Blackburn Rovers' goalkeeper, Friedel, had already abandoned his goal. From the corner of his eye, Ye Feng scanned the goal. Friedel was positioned slightly to the left, leaving a gap of about half a meter by the right goalpost. But in front of that half-meter gap, a defender, Babbel, was desperately tracking back, sliding at full speed. Time froze. The rain hung in the air. Ye Feng raised his right foot high, striking a thunderous shooting pose. Babbel's sliding tackle had arrived, his studs aiming straight for Ye Feng's standing foot. Friedel dove to the left, his arms fully extended. But Ye Feng did not strike the center of the ball with the outside of his right foot. He gently flicked it. The ball traced an incredibly bizarre arc. Like a feather caught in the wind, it drifted upward, floating over Friedel's fingertips and over the head of the desperate Babbel, before suddenly dropping. Like a swallow returning to its nest, it grazed the inside of the right goalpost and drilled into the net. The world went silent for a second. Then, Old Trafford exploded. The cheers of seventy-six thousand people erupted like a volcanic eruption, red scarves waved frantically in the rain, and singing poured down from the stands on all sides. The rain was shaken off its course by the wall of sound, forming a silver mist under the floodlights. \"Goal! It's in!\" Commentator Duan Xuan's voice was already shredded. \"A super world-class goal! Ye Feng! Ye Feng from China! A shocking world-class goal from over thirty meters out!\" His eyes were red, and his voice was trembling. \"This must be the best goal of this year's English League Cup! No, this is the goal of the season!\" Across China, in front of television sets, countless people jumped up simultaneously. Instant noodles were knocked over, beer cans were crushed, and game screens in internet cafes were all paused. Some roared wildly in living rooms, while others huddled together in dormitories. The Chinese flags in the northeast corner of the stands were raised even higher; several international students hugged each other, rain and tears rolling down their faces. Ye Feng stood where he was, spreading his arms wide. Rain lashed against his face, dripping down his chin. His chest rose and fell violently, white mist exhaled from his mouth, condensing into vapor in the cold air. Cristiano Ronaldo was the first to rush over, jumping onto his back and roaring frantically in his ear: \"Great! We scored!\" His teammates swarmed in. In the stands, Ferguson stood up from the dugout. The frequency of his gum chewing slowed. The old man had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, rain dripping down the brim of his hat. He didn't cheer, he didn't pump his fist; he simply stood there, staring at Ye Feng's back with a gaze that was almost greedy. Carlos Queiroz knew that Ferguson only wore this expression when he saw something extremely precious. Blackburn Rovers' defensive players still stood where they were, like stone statues soaked by the rain. Lucas Neill looked down at his toes; those black boots that had once terrified countless Premier League strikers were now covered in mud and grass clippings. He had been nutmegged by Ye Feng. In front of a Chinese rookie, he had been dribbled past like a wooden post. Andy Todd squatted on the ground, rain sliding off the scar on the bridge of his nose. The action looked like prayer, but it was more like the daze of a complete breakdown. The match restarted. After the kickoff, Blackburn Rovers tried to stabilize the tempo, passing the ball to the backfield to cycle possession. The wall of sound from Old Trafford bore down wave after wave. The shouting of seventy-six thousand people formed a physical pressure in the rain, as if someone were slowly pushing an entire concrete wall onto the pitch. The ball was passed back and forth at the feet of the Blackburn Rovers defenders, every touch carrying a hesitant, sluggish feel. Just when everyone thought Manchester United would take a brief breather, Ye Feng suddenly cut in from the flank, like an assassin hidden by the curtain of rain, silently closing in on Andy Todd, who was receiving the ball. The moment Todd received the ball with his right foot, his touch was a bit too heavy. Ye Feng's toe darted out like a viper's tongue, nimbly poking the ball away. Immediately after, without the slightest hesitation, he rotated his body, used the outside of his foot to nudge the ball toward the center, and had already shaken off the first line of defense. \"Ye Feng has stolen the ball again!\" Commentator Duan Xuan's voice was completely hoarse, but he was still roaring, \"Manchester United counterattacks on the spot! It's Ye Feng again!\" Ye Feng's speed while advancing with the ball was not fast, but it carried a bizarre sense of rhythm. In front of the edge of the penalty area, he looked up and glanced at goalkeeper Friedel's positioning. Just when everyone thought he was going to pass the ball to Cristiano Ronaldo, who was rushing up on the right, Ye Feng's left leg suddenly swung with a wide arc, his right standing foot firmly planted on the wet, slippery grass, his instep taut like a fully drawn bow. The ball flew off the inside of his left foot, carrying a heavy inward-curving arc, like an iron projectile launched from a catapult, grazing Friedel's desperately outstretched fingertips and slamming into the near corner of the goal! The net was kicked up by the impact into a higher, more expansive white wave, as if it were about to blast a hole through the curtain of rain. A brace. Old Trafford fell into a brief silence, then erupted into an even more terrifying wave of sound. Blackburn Rovers' players looked as if their souls had been extracted once again. The fighting spirit they had just managed to gather was shattered by this shot. The match resumed. After the kickoff, even Blackburn Rovers' passing became sluggish and panicked; the ball was passed around the backfield as if it were about to get stuck in the puddles. The shouts from Old Trafford were no longer just waves of sound; they were something with weight, pressing heavily onto the chest of every Blackburn Rovers player. Ye Feng made his move. No one saw how he appeared in that position; it was as if a crack had suddenly been torn open in the curtain of rain, and then that crack swallowed the ball. Ye Feng hooked the ball back with the outside of his foot just before the sideline, then rotated his body, using the momentum to glide past the rushing defender. \"Ye Feng has the ball again!\" Commentator Duan Xuan's voice was completely hoarse, but he was still roaring, \"He is advancing on the left flank; Manchester United is forming a counterattack! Ronaldo is providing support in the middle!\" Blackburn Rovers' defensive line was in complete chaos. The midfielders were desperately tracking back, but on the waterlogged pitch, every turn was met with heavy resistance. Ye Feng's speed while advancing with the ball was not fast, but the rhythm was eerily smooth, with every step landing in the defensive players' blind spots. Lucas Neill rushed up, his 1.85-meter frame like a cannonball, his sliding tackle carrying a desperate ferocity. This tackle missed. A fraction of a second before the tackle, Ye Feng lightly flicked the ball up with his toe, then jumped, his boots flying over Neill's head. The moment he landed, he steadily caught the falling ball with the outside of his right foot. \"La Croqueta followed by a chip to beat the defender! He's beaten three players in a row!\" Commentator Duan Xuan jumped up from his chair, tearing off his headset cable, but his voice was still being transmitted to the whole nation through the backup microphone, \"Ye Feng! Ye Feng!\" At the edge of the penalty area, the last center-back for Blackburn Rovers rushed over. Ye Feng's shoulder dipped sharply to the right, and his right foot made a feint to pass on the left side of the ball, throwing the defender off balance. Immediately after, Ye Feng's left instep curled the ball toward the right flank with an extremely bizarre arc. That wasn't a pass. That was a shot. The ball swept over the defender's head, tracing an outward-curving arc, bypassing goalkeeper Friedel's fingertips, grazing the inside of the right goalpost, and piercing through Blackburn Rovers' goal once again. The net was kicked up into a white spray by the impact, then slowly settled. A Hat-trick. Old Trafford went completely silent at this moment. It wasn't quiet; it was an explosion that transcended sound. The roar of seventy-six thousand people melted in the rain into a massive, indistinguishable rumble; red scarves were thrown into the sky like a red rainstorm surging from the ground back toward the clouds. Commentator Duan Xuan opened his mouth toward the microphone, but not a single word came out. His eyes were already soaked. In the footage captured by the camera, this Chinese commentator had his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Ye Feng stood at the edge of the penalty area, rain sliding off his face, mixing with his sweat. He spread his arms and tilted his head back, letting the rain strike his face directly. Cristiano Ronaldo rushed over from behind, slid two meters on his knees, and then grabbed Ye Feng's leg. More teammates rushed over, piling up layer by layer. The red jerseys, soaked through by the rain, turned deep red, like a ball of fire burning in the rain. In the stands, Ferguson took off his glasses. The old man wiped the rain off the lenses with his sleeve, but he didn't put them back on, instead clutching them in his hand. Carlos Queiroz saw that the force with which Ferguson tightened his fingers made the plastic temple of the glasses emit a slight, crisp snap. Blackburn Rovers' players seemed to have completely given up. Ye Feng, this Chinese rookie, was too strong; they simply couldn't defend against him."]
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