Chapter One: Wang Lie

Stanley Harris had barely reached the entrance to the hotel swimming pool when he heard the vigorous splashing inside. He quickened his pace and entered, immediately spotting the familiar figure cutting through the water.

Like a fierce beast from the ocean’s depths, every swing of his arms and kick of his legs radiated power, shattering the water around him, as if detonating explosions beneath the surface. Harris gazed in awe at the athletic form in the pool, utterly captivated.

It was only when the “big fish” dove down, resurfaced, and swam to the edge where Harris stood that he came to himself. The swimmer greeted him proactively, “Good morning, Stanley.”

Harris quickly returned the greeting, “Good morning, Wang! Are you finishing up already?”

“Yes, I’m about to head back.” The man in the pool placed both hands on the edge and, with a surge of strength, lifted himself out of the water, appearing on the poolside in an instant.

His muscles were sharply defined with every movement, impressively outlined. There was hardly any excess fat on his body; his body fat percentage was astonishingly low.

The scene, reminiscent of a hero emerging from the bath, would surely drive his female fans wild—one wonders if their screams could shatter the hotel’s glass windows. As a male fan, Stanley Harris was equally spellbound, thinking to himself, “I want to have a body as perfect as Wang Lie’s!”

After coming ashore, Wang Lie paid no mind to his teammate lost in admiration beside him. Instead, he bent to pick up a towel and dry himself, saying, “Today’s match day—just a simple warm-up this morning.”

The words snapped Harris from his reverie. He nearly blurted out, “You probably won’t be playing today,” but caught himself—he didn’t want to hurt his idol.

His sudden silence was somewhat odd, but Wang Lie seemed not to notice, and after drying himself, he turned to walk toward the changing room, reminding Harris, “You’ll probably be in the starting lineup today. Take some time in the water to recover.”

“Don’t worry, Wang, I’ll do it. I promise!” Harris spoke with emphasis, hoping to cover his earlier awkwardness.

Wang Lie laughed, “No need to promise me—I’m not the head coach.”

Harris had no response to Wang Lie’s teasing, only silence. He knew Wang’s words weren’t meant to target him, but he was caught between two sides.

On one side was his football idol, his elder brother; on the other, the head coach who had given him more opportunities to play. Unfortunately, these two didn’t get along…

No, “don’t get along” was putting it mildly. They were “at daggers drawn.”

Wang Lie, already walking away, could sense the meaning of Harris’s silence. He had explained to Harris before that he wouldn’t hold his conflict with the team’s head coach, Marlon Helden, against others. He genuinely liked Harris, his little brother.

After all, Harris didn’t just profess admiration—he actively learned from Wang Lie’s training and lifestyle. He was nothing like those players who merely paid lip service, saying, “My idol is ‘the Chinese King.’”

But it seemed his reassurance had little effect. Wang Lie could see the young man’s inner struggle.

There was nothing Wang Lie could do but let him be.

※※※

When Wang Lie emerged from the changing room, Harris was already warming up by the pool.

Wang Lie didn’t say goodbye again; he simply took out his phone and, head bowed, walked out of the swimming center.

On the corridor back to his room, he encountered several teammates. Since he was focused on his phone, they greeted him first.

“Wang!”

“Morning, Wang!”

“Hey, Wang!”

Wang Lie nodded in return, and they passed each other.

One had to admit, the scene was somewhat strange. They were teammates, not strangers; meeting in the hotel corridor shouldn’t end with such brief greetings.

Watching Wang Lie enter his room and close the door, someone finally broke the silence:

“Do you think Wang will finish his contract with the club?”

“There’s a one-year extension clause in his original contract, but I doubt either side will trigger it now…”

“With six months left, does it matter if he finishes?”

“Can’t he leave in the winter window?”

After some hesitation, someone shook their head. “Not likely…”

“Why not?” The questioner pressed. “Honestly, I think his continued presence in the team isn’t good for anyone—it’s mutually damaging…”

As Tyler Murphy rounded the corner from the elevator, he heard his teammates gossiping about the club’s star. He coughed to announce his presence before stepping forward.

He gently reproached them, “Talking about these things behind someone’s back isn’t great, guys.”

At the cough, the gossipers tensed, but seeing it was the captain, they relaxed. Someone even posed the question to him:

“Captain, do you think Wang will leave in the winter window?”

Surrounded by his teammates, all eyes curious and gossiping, the captain of Southford United shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not Wang.”

His plain answer disappointed the group. Someone pressed, “Aren’t you close with Wang? Haven’t you asked him privately?”

Murphy shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Murphy glanced at the questioner. “I don’t want to know the answer.”

Everyone understood what he meant: as captain and Wang Lie’s longtime friend, he might not want Wang to leave, but some things were beyond his control, so he preferred to play ostrich.

Perhaps his attitude meant he had already guessed the answer—regardless of his wishes, Wang Lie’s departure seemed inevitable.

Though everyone had suspected this outcome, the captain’s answer left them in silence. The team’s star, leaving the club in such circumstances, was never a dignified affair—for the club or for Wang Lie.

Murphy broke the silence, “Alright, we’ve got a match this afternoon. Why are you all standing around? Go get breakfast!”

They remembered they were supposed to head to breakfast together.

Before leaving, someone turned to Murphy, “So last summer, did Wang really want to transfer because we couldn’t play in the Champions League?”

This time, Tyler Murphy didn’t respond, either not hearing or not knowing. He simply turned and walked in the direction of his room.

※※※

A middle-aged man with a solemn expression and furrowed brow stared intently at his tablet. On it was the starting lineup his coaching team had prepared for the afternoon’s FA Cup match.

He lowered his head slightly, exposing his “Mediterranean” bald spot. The hair around his head was thick, making the gleaming crown even more prominent, especially under the hotel room’s lights. It was brighter than the spotlights on the ceiling—a “light source” no one could ignore, lending his image an air of “sacred inviolability.”

Indeed, he was the unquestionable authority in the room: Sven Helden, head coach of Southford United, a Premier League powerhouse.

As he scrutinized the tablet, the other people in the room remained silent, the atmosphere almost frozen.

Fortunately, Helden broke the tension himself. He handed the tablet back to his assistant coach, Norbert DeMoss, saying, “Wright shouldn’t be on this list. He didn’t return to his room on time last night.”

DeMoss didn’t argue, swiftly deleting Ronan Wright’s name from the starting lineup.

Helden continued, “Even if our opponent is a Championship side, we can’t let our guard down. I need players who give one hundred percent, not those distracted by other matters. I don’t think Wright is ready to play for Southford United in this FA Cup match, and I hope he realizes that.”

He was explaining both his removal of the starting center forward and reiterating the importance of discipline to his coaching team—he was dissatisfied that they hadn’t fully grasped this point.

If they had, Ronan Wright should never have been listed after his pre-match misconduct.

After Helden’s remarks, DeMoss asked, “Who should replace Wright in the starting lineup?”

Helden fell into deep thought, then said after a while, “Change the formation.”

The coaches were momentarily stunned, exchanging glances.

But DeMoss wasn’t surprised. He calmly watched Helden, waiting for further instructions.

He knew his colleague well: Helden must already have a specific plan.

Sure enough, Helden continued:

“Push Alatorre forward, closer to the box, as a false nine. He has height and skill, can hold the ball in front of their penalty area. Harris should shift from the left to the center, operate more in the half-spaces, leaving the left flank to Gomez…”

Listening to Helden’s arrangement, the second assistant coach, Danilo Lindsay, glanced at him.

This afternoon’s FA Cup third round was against a modest Championship side, Dreting, and after the “Christmas nightmare schedule,” the coaching staff rotated the squad.

Most regular starters were either left out of the squad or not in the starting eleven.

The main striker, Richie Videl, wasn’t in the squad; his replacement was the backup forward, Ronan Wright.

There was another striker on the bench—Wang Lie.

If Wright was dropped, Wang could have started.

But Helden opted to change the formation, pushing attacking midfielder Alatorre forward, giving him partial center forward duties, and moving left winger Harris inside.

He would rather shuffle the formation than start Wang Lie…

Even if the conflict between coach and star was well known, was this necessary?

But Lindsay only glanced, then quickly looked away, raising no objections to the coach’s decision.

※※※

Back in his room, Wang Lie had showered and now stood by the window, speaking to his agent, Fernando Clemente, on the phone.

“…Any news from Munich, Fernando?”

Clemente’s voice was hesitant, almost resigned. “Munich… Isa Munich told me they’re not looking to reinforce the center forward position right now…”

“That’s just an excuse,” Wang replied. “Did you tell them I’d accept a pay cut? Southford United won’t make things difficult in the contract—Helden would love to see me leave.”

“Of course, I told them you’d join as a free agent, but they still insist…”

Wang Lie remained still, phone to his ear, silent for several seconds before sighing, “So Isa Munich is out of the question.”

Clemente said nothing; he didn’t know what to say. He could hear Wang Lie’s intense disappointment, but couldn’t offer comfort.

Despite being one of Wang Lie’s agents.

As a world-class star, Wang Lie could not rely on a single agent; he had a whole team. Fernando Clemente’s main responsibility was handling transfers and club negotiations.

A renowned agent, now fifty-eight, Clemente had spent decades in European football, amassing deep connections—friends everywhere, always a welcome guest at the top clubs.

But in the winter window of 2037, none of those connections had helped.

Isa Munich wasn’t the first club Clemente approached for Wang Lie this winter; they’d already contacted four, none of whom agreed.

Some clubs rejected him outright; others offered excuses like Isa Munich; some presidents showed interest, but their management vetoed the move…

Frankly, Clemente didn’t believe his professional abilities had declined.

Eight years ago… no, even four years ago, at thirty-three, Wang Lie was a hot commodity in the transfer market, coveted by countless clubs as the best striker in world football.

But now, approaching thirty-eight, it was asking too much for Wang Lie to remain the object of pursuit by Europe’s giants…

Age, salary, and form were all factors—past reputation alone couldn’t convince a club to pay real money or redesign their tactics and squad plans.

“Yesterday, Ran said your hometown club in China seems interested…” Clemente didn’t directly advise Wang Lie to give up on European giants, instead taking a gentler approach.

“Ran” referred to Ran Hanming, a member of Wang Lie’s agent team, responsible for domestic business in China.

Originally focused on commercial operations, Ran Hanming had recently been approached by Chinese clubs hoping Wang Lie would “return to his roots,” end his career in his homeland, and retire there.

From a commercial perspective, it was an attractive proposition.

This time, the hometown club was a new development, and Clemente hoped mentioning it might gently persuade Wang Lie.

Despite Wang Lie’s consistent refusal to return to China over the past six months, times had changed—perhaps, with all the European giants rejecting him, he might reconsider.

But after two seconds of silence, Clemente heard Wang Lie’s vehement rejection: “No, Fernando, I won’t return to China. That would make me look like a deserter—those critics are waiting for me to fail! I can’t let them win! Not just China—America, the Middle East, anywhere else, I won’t go. I’ll stay in Europe, on world football’s central stage!”

This answer didn’t surprise Clemente; Wang Lie had said the same for months. He was always proud and stubborn, impossible to persuade.

Maybe… the situation hadn’t become dire enough yet?

After all, it was only January 7th; the winter window had just opened. Who knew what might happen in the remaining twenty-plus days?

Clemente could only comfort himself with hope.

He wished for a turning point—good or bad—anything to break the pattern.

There had to be change.

Otherwise… would Wang Lie really rot away at Southford United?

“I’ll keep trying, Wang. But you need to know—things don’t look good right now.” Clemente’s final words were not excuses, but concern for Wang Lie’s tendency to obsess.

“I know, Fernando. Thank you.”

Wang Lie hung up and stood motionless, lowering his arm and gazing through the glass below.

It was a view he’d looked upon countless times.

On match days, he knew exactly where the police stood at every corner, where fans gathered, how the bus would pass through, pick up the team at the hotel, and depart amid reporters and fans, heading to the stadium.

Lifting his gaze, he saw scattered skyscrapers in the distance, not clustered. Most of the city was made up of mid-rise “high-rises,” their red brick seams seemingly still holding dust from the industrial revolution.

The streets, unlike the wide, straight avenues of modern Chinese cities, twisted through every corner, as if they’d grown naturally in this oldest of industrial cities, unplanned. Sometimes wide, sometimes narrow, they were the city’s veins, with cars running through them like nutrients.

Looking south from the hotel window, one could barely make out a huge glass roof tucked among distant buildings. It was one of England’s typical winter gray days; on sunny days, the glass would reflect the sky, making it look as if the sun had fallen into the city.

Now, it blended into the skyline, barely distinguishable.

That faint glass roof was Southford United’s home ground, Redstone Stadium—the destination for the team bus every match day.

Under the glass and steel roof lay deep red stadium walls, originally built from red bricks, thus the name “Redstone.” Now, after many renovations and expansions, it was red-painted concrete and steel.

It was magnificent—a city landmark.

Every home match day, it became the heart of the city. Since its opening in 1905, it had pulsed for one hundred thirty-two years.

But in the last four years, it seemed tired…

Wang Lie silently watched the city below.

He’d lived here nearly ten years, his familiar Manchester.

※※※

PS: I noticed the app opens directly to the main text, no foreword. So I’ll add the final lines of the foreword at the end of this chapter.

Today, as the first day of the new book, and with a prologue included, there are two chapters. Afterward, it will return to one chapter a day.

This book will update once daily, with a minimum of five thousand words per chapter, no upper limit.

Updates will appear every morning at eight o’clock.

I recommend reading the “Foreword” first—it explains why it took nine months to start this new book…