"With World Cup fever in full swing, fan groups from around the globe have filled cities like Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. Chinese supporters even brought their traditional dance to the streets of Brazil, creating a unique and eye-catching scene. At this World Cup, Chinese fans have become an unmistakable presence."
"And at 6:00 a.m. Beijing time on June 14th, China will take on Chile. Let's cheer for our national team. Reporting on site, this is Wang Bingbing."
The moment the director called, "Cut!" and confirmed the feed was closed, Wang Bingbing hopped lightly toward the shade of a nearby tree.
"It's so hot! Seriously, Brazil is boiling…" she muttered, fanning herself as the heat clung to her skin.
A short while later, a broadcast van rolled to a stop in front of them.
"Bingbing, let's head to the airport. We still have work to do," the director called out.
"Okay~…" she answered lazily, giving her cheeks a light pat before stepping into the cool van.
The blast of air conditioning and an ice-cold drink worked like magic—her energy returned instantly.
"When exactly is the team landing?" she asked.
She twisted her hair into a small braid and pinned it into a neat bun, finally exposing her neck to the cool air. It was the first time she felt genuinely comfortable since arriving.
"If their flight's on time," the director said, "they'll arrive at São Paulo Airport at 1 p.m., then head straight to Cuiabá. We'll follow them the whole way for live coverage. Once they reach the hotel, we'll interview Wang Yi and Le Kai."
He paused.
"And just a heads-up—Wang Yi might be the team leader, but he's not big on talking. So the main interview will be with Kai."
When their van reached the airport, the sight that greeted them made both of them freeze for a moment.
Crowds—massive crowds—of Chinese fans were already packed inside.
All are waiting for the national team.
"Whoa… there are so many people!" Wang Bingbing exclaimed.
The director chuckled. "China's squad is one of the hottest stories of this World Cup. This level of support is nothing."
Wang Bingbing could hear the subtle pride in his voice when he said "China."
Clearly, he was a fan too.
Inside, the seats closest to the passageway had been cordoned off for reporters. As CCTV staff, they had prime positions.
Wang Bingbing stood on tiptoe, stealing glances toward the exit every few seconds.
She wasn't a football expert, but working in this environment meant constant exposure. She'd picked up a few things—from overheard arguments, late-night debates, and excited chatter among colleagues.
She'd heard terms like "Emperor," "Chinese Supercar," and the famous "Three-Punch Celebration."
But the name she heard more than anything else was:
"Kai! He's unbelievable!"
She was genuinely curious. This younger guy—four years her junior—had become a national icon.
She'd seen photos. He wasn't exactly a pretty boy. More tough than handsome. But somehow, he had a presence people loved.
Just as she was wondering about him, a sudden roar rose from the fans.
"They're here!!"
The entire hall erupted.
Applause, shouts, chants—waves of sound hitting from all directions.
Wang Bingbing felt a chill run down her spine. The sheer force of the moment made her heart race.
A bright red line of jackets appeared at the exit.
Liu Hongbo and the coaching staff led the way, followed by the Chinese squad.
Fans screamed the name of every player as they walked past.
Standing at 165 cm, she was tall for a woman, but surrounded by players who towered over her, she couldn't help feeling a little overwhelmed.
The Chinese team moved in perfect discipline—straight posture, steady steps, eyes forward.
Thud.
Wang Bingbing felt the aura around Kai.
A giant stood in front of her—broad shoulders, powerful build.
And then the entire terminal unified into one thunderous chant:
"Kai!!"
"Kai!!"
"Kai!!"
"Kai!!"
The sound shook the air.
Wang Bingbing stared blankly at the man in front of her.
She was frozen for several seconds—until the director tugged at her arm.
"Bingbing! Come on!"
She blinked, snapped back to reality, and hurried after him.
"Director, wait for me!"
...
The trip from São Paulo to Cuiabá stretched more than 1,300 kilometers. A bus ride would've taken over ten hours, so the entire squad boarded the high-speed rail instead.
The Chinese delegation had booked out an entire carriage, with local police stationed at both ends to keep any troublemakers away. During the World Cup, the safety of national-team players is a non-negotiable priority, and the Brazilian authorities weren't taking chances.
Inside the carriage, Kai and the others finally had room to breathe. The seats were wide, the aisles spacious, and two players—Chen Man and Fernando Kairui—had fallen asleep the moment the train started moving. No one could quite understand where they found the energy to sleep so much.
Kai sat with Wang Yi, quietly going over their upcoming match against Chile.
Group B, their group, was widely called the Group of Death by the Chinese fans. Spain and the Netherlands alone already carried enough firepower to justify the name, and Chile—fielding their strongest squad in decades—was no team to take lightly.
On paper, China seemed like the weakest of the four. But was that still true?
If China still relied on the old core, maybe. But things had changed. With Kai, Chen Man, and Fernando joining late, the team's profile shifted dramatically.
A Ligue 1 golden boot contender, a Premier League-winning midfielder, a lightning-quick winger from Portugal, and a rock-solid Atletico Madrid defender—those four alone were enough to make any opponent pause.
Team chemistry still needed work, but they were far from pushovers now.
Most pundits still predicted Spain and the Netherlands to advance. Yet a smaller, more daring group insisted that Group B would be chaos from start to finish—the kind of chaos China and Chile were perfectly capable of causing.
"Our first match is against Chile," Wang Yi said. "And their attack certainly won't be shy."
Kai nodded. "Their defending isn't soft either."
"We'll have to absorb the pressure first," Wang Yi continued, "then look for chances to break out. That's probably what Coach Liu is thinking, too. The question is—where do we press them?"
Both men paused.
Then, at the same time, they answered, "Start from the front."
They exchanged a knowing smile.
High press. They were thinking the same thing.
If the forwards and midfielders didn't push up, the defense would drown under Chile's pressure. The danger had to be dealt with early—before it reached the box.
China's style these days carries risk, even a sense of gambling. Time the axe swung right with the press, and they could break through any opponent; mistime it, and they'd be cut down instead.
And the person who decided when to swing was Kai.
But before that moment came, the team had to survive the storm.
"What about the Netherlands in the second match?" Wang Yi asked.
Kai rubbed his temples. "I want to say we have a chance… but realistically? It's extremely slim."
He leaned back, sighing. "I've played against Robben and Van Persie. They're both monsters right now. I can only lock down one of them. The other… that's up to Fernando."
Wang Yi let out a long breath. "Then we pray Fernando can hold his side."
"Huh…?" A groggy voice mumbled from the seat beside them.
Fernando, barely awake, lifted his head. "Who? Who's calling me?"
Kai and Wang Yi burst into laughter and said in unison, "Go back to sleep!"
"Oh…" Fernando muttered before his head dropped again, and within seconds, soft snores filled the space.
Kai shook his head, amused. "He's got incredible nerves."
Wang Yi chuckled. "Better that than being too tense."
Kai nodded. "Let's hope he performs like this when it matters."
...
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