["At this moment, back home. Liu Gang sat on the sofa in the living room, the TV on, showing the rainy night at Old Trafford. He clutched a can of beer in his hand; it had already gone warm, yet he hadn't taken a single sip. On the screen, Ye Feng stood in the rain with his arms wide open, his red number 24 jersey soaked and clinging to his body, the cheers of 76,000 people pouring out from the speakers like a tsunami, filling this twenty-square-meter living room. Hat-trick. English League Cup semi-final. Manchester United versus Blackburn Rovers. Liu Gang's Adam's apple bobbed, and he squeezed a shallow dent into the beer can. One hundred thousand euros. The price he sold Ye Feng to Manchester United for was one hundred thousand euros. At the time, he even thought he had made a profit. For a poor kid who had to pay just to get playing time in the youth team, being sold for one hundred thousand euros was already incredible luck. He had even boasted about this to people over drinks, saying he had dug up a good prospect in the youth training camp and sold him for a hundred thousand right after. Now, Ye Feng on the screen was accepting hugs from his teammates. Cristiano Ronaldo knelt on the ground, slid for two meters, and grabbed his legs. Commentator Duan Xuan's voice came through the TV, so hoarse it was almost unintelligible: \"Hat-trick! Ye Feng from China, at Old Trafford, on the stage of the English League Cup semi-final, has completed a Hat-trick! This is the greatest individual performance in the history of Chinese football!\" Liu Gang applied pressure with his fingers, and the beer can was completely crushed. He was crunching the numbers. The abacus in his mind was clattering, every bead striking his nerves. One hundred thousand euros. Hat-trick. English League Cup semi-final. These three terms collided repeatedly in his mind, like three red-hot iron balls, scalding his scalp numb. What is the market value of a player who can complete a Hat-trick at Old Trafford? He remembered last summer, when Chelsea bought that striker named Drogba, it cost 24 million pounds. \"Damn it, this time I really lost out big! I should have asked for a higher price back then.\" ... The rain hadn't stopped, and the match continued. After Ye Feng completed his Hat-trick, Blackburn Rovers' defensive line completely collapsed. Lucas Neill stood in the penalty area, rainwater streaming down his nose bridge, his eyes as hollow as two extinguished lamps. Andy Todd crouched on the grass, hands supporting his knees; the tough guy who used to make over half the Premier League strikers' legs go weak was now panting heavily, like an old bear cornered by hunters until it was exhausted. But Manchester United had no intention of letting up. The sound from Old Trafford pressed down layer by layer, the singing of 76,000 people exploding into the rainy night like a church organ, every note shaking the water droplets on the turf into a dance. The 71st minute. Ye Feng received the ball in midfield, and Blackburn Rovers immediately surrounded him with three men. Left, right, and front—all three directions sealed off simultaneously, clearly intending not to let him turn. Ye Feng dragged the ball with the sole of his foot, his body twisting half a circle like a wrung towel, and with a light flick of his left instep at the bottom of the ball, the ball flew over the heads of the three men, landing in the space on the flank. Cristiano Ronaldo was already there. The Portuguese didn't slow down when receiving the ball, his motion of cushioning the ball with his instep as smooth as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times. He looked up at the penalty area and crossed the ball directly. The ball was too fast, the arc too flat, flying towards the front of the goal like a scalpel grazing the turf. Ruud van Nistelrooy attracted all the defense in the middle, but the ball passed between him and the two center-backs, rolling to the back post. Ye Feng appeared there. No one was marking him. Blackburn Rovers' defensive line was already in chaos; who should mark Ye Feng, who should mark Cristiano Ronaldo, who should mark Ruud van Nistelrooy—these defensive principles that should have been etched into their bones were all failing at this moment. Ye Feng raised his foot and gave it a gentle push with his instep. The ball rolled into the net. Four-goal haul. This time he did not celebrate. He stood in place, rainwater dripping from his hair, flowing down his neck and into his jersey. His chest heaved, and the white mist he exhaled condensed into a cloud in the cold air. Cristiano Ronaldo rushed over, locked his neck from behind, and roared in his ear: \"Four! Mate! Four!\" Ruud van Nistelrooy also ran over, his blue Dutch eyes full of shock and excitement. On the sidelines, manager Ferguson was still standing, but his chewing gum motion had completely stopped. The old man gripped the water bottle in his hand until it creaked, his eyes fixed on Ye Feng, something fanatical burning in his gaze. Carlos Queiroz opened the tactical notebook on the side, his fingers paused on a page, and ultimately he didn't write anything. The Portuguese assistant knew that any tactical analysis would seem pale tonight. Blackburn Rovers manager Mark Hughes stood on the sidelines, hands in his pockets. There was no expression on the face of this Manchester United legend, but his knuckles were white from clenching his fists inside his pockets. He called the captain over and whispered a few words in his ear. When the captain ran back onto the pitch, Blackburn Rovers' formation had changed. Five defenders. Three defensive midfielders. Parking the bus. This was their last shred of dignity. But Ye Feng was also young and spirited; he was having too much fun playing to leave them any face. The 84th minute. Paul Scholes took the ball in the middle, a flat, fast through ball piercing through the Blackburn Rovers midfield line. Ye Feng received the ball with his back to the goal, Lucas Neill already glued to him, his right shoulder slamming into Ye Feng's back. This time Ye Feng didn't turn to absorb the force, but instead lightly tapped the ball with his right heel, sending it through Neill's legs, then immediately turned backward, circling around Neill's left side. Nutmeg and turn. La Croqueta followed by a Nutmeg to beat his man. Neill fell backward, those legs that had once slide-tackled countless Premier League strikers slipping on the wet turf, and he crashed face-up into a puddle. Water splashed half a meter high. Ye Feng pushed forward to the edge of the penalty area, facing Andy Todd. The scar on Todd's nose bridge twitched hideously in the rain, and he lowered his center of gravity, his feet rooted to the turf as if nailed down. Ye Feng flicked the ball with the outside of his right foot, his body weight shifting sharply to the left. Todd judged the direction correctly, stepped out with his left foot, and shifted his body. But Ye Feng's left inner foot pulled the ball back with incredible speed, the ball bouncing once between his two feet, followed by a flick of his toe, and the ball flew over Todd's head. La Croqueta combined with a Rainbow Flick. Todd turned to chase, but his thirty-one-year-old legs could no longer keep up with the teenager's speed. He ran three steps, his knees went weak, and he knelt on the grass. Rainwater beat down on his back, his jersey sticking to his skin; that blue and white Blackburn Rovers away jersey now looked like a waterlogged rag. Ye Feng faced the goalkeeper, Friedel. The American spread his arms, lowered his center of gravity, and there was no desire for victory left in his eyes, only pure fear. Ye Feng didn't look at him. A push shot with his right instep, and the ball rolled toward the bottom left corner of the goal. Friedel dove, and his direction was correct, but the angle of Ye Feng's shot was so tricky it was almost ruthless, the ball grazing the inside of the left post and rolling into the net. The fifth goal. Five-goal haul. The roof of Old Trafford was almost blown off by the roar. Red scarves waved wildly in the air, and the rain formed a silver mist under the floodlights, like a giant dragon circling above the stadium. The roar of 76,000 people was no longer a cheer, but a kind of fanatical worship. Commentator Duan Xuan could no longer stand steadily at the commentary desk. He gripped the desk with both hands and shouted into the microphone until his voice tore: \"The fifth goal! The fifth goal! Ye Feng has completed a five-goal haul! On the stage of the English League Cup semi-final! Ye Feng from China! Eighteen-year-old Ye Feng! This is the craziest individual performance in a semi-final in the history of human football!\" In front of TV sets all over China, instant noodle bowls were knocked over, beer cans were crushed, and keyboards in internet cafes were slammed until they clattered. Some people hugged their TVs and cried, some ran wildly in their living rooms, and some posted on forums: God Ye!!!! Cristiano Ronaldo rushed over and slammed into Ye Feng's arms. Paul Scholes, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Roy Keane, and Rio Ferdinand all gathered around, the red jerseys pressing together, forming a burning flame in the rain. Ye Feng stood up from the pile, rain and sweat mixing and rolling down his face. He opened his arms and looked up at the lights of Old Trafford. Eighteen years old. Five-goal haul. Theatre of Dreams. On the sidelines, manager Ferguson finally moved. The old man took off his glasses, wiped the rain off the lenses with his cuff, and then put them back on. He turned around and said something to Carlos Queiroz. Carlos Queiroz froze, then nodded, opened his tactical notebook, and drew a circle in a column on the substitute list. The name inside that circle was Ye Feng."]
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