"Huh?! No way—seriously?"
On the team bus heading to the stadium, the Chinese players huddled around a tablet, eyes glued to the live broadcast of Spain vs. the Netherlands as the match neared its conclusion.
The scoreline?
Netherlands 5–1 Spain.
It was unbelievable.
Spain—the defending World Cup champions—were being dismantled in their opening group match. The kind of match everyone expected to be a heavyweight classic had turned into an outright demolition.
Casillas kept picking the ball out of his net, and Spanish fans were in tears. Bewilderment, frustration, complete disbelief—everything was written across their faces.
For the rest of the world, it was a shockwave.
Was the Netherlands strong?
Absolutely.
Was Spain strong?
Undeniably.
But seeing the champions crushed like this was beyond anything anyone had predicted.
And for the Chinese players watching, the shock was mixed with a subtle, complicated emotion—sympathy for Spain, and something else… something like possibility.
Kai sat near the back of the bus, watching quietly. He remembered this match vividly. Some details differed slightly, but the essence remained:
Van Persie's iconic diving header,
Robben tearing Spain open again and again,
The Netherlands delivering a masterclass.
It was surreal to see it unfold once more.
Kai's gaze shifted to the window. The streets leading toward the stadium were lined with Chinese fans—flags waving, banners raised, faces painted. For a moment, it felt like he was back home.
These supporters had traveled all the way to Brazil with them. They deserved everything the team had to give.
Kai tightened his fist.
...
"This is the main road leading to Pantanal Stadium. As you can see, Chinese fans have already filled both sides, waiting to welcome our national players. In just an hour, China will face the formidable Chilean team. Let's cheer for our boys together!"
"Look! The bus is coming!"
Wang Bingbing pointed toward the convoy, and the crowd erupted instantly.
"Go China!"
"Rise!"
"The dragon soars!"
"Long live Team China!"
(T/N: The alternate name for the China Team is Dragon Team.)
Mixed into the sea of voices were personal chants:
"Wang Yi! Get us the opening goal!"
"Chen Man! Run them into the ground!"
"Kai! Crush them!"
The buses rolled past in a thunderous wave of noise.
When Wang Bingbing finished her broadcast segment and lowered her microphone, she watched the bus fade into the distance. The cheers still rang in her ears, echoing the excitement she'd felt back on the high-speed rail days earlier.
She turned to the director. "So… is Chile really that strong?"
"Strong? They're powerful!" the director replied enthusiastically. "They've got a lot of good players!"
"That's not what I meant," she sighed. "I'm asking: what are our chances of beating them?"
"Our chances?" The director stalled. "Well… maybe… sixty-forty? Seventy-thirty? Something like that."
"We are the thirty?" Wang Bingbing blinked.
"Yes."
"So low?"
The director huffed. "What did you expect? The Chinese team is strong right now, but it's mainly because a few players are exceptional. Football is a team sport. Especially in the modern era, systems matter more than individuals. Do you even know what a system is? Let me explain. Back in nineteen—"
"Okay, okay, I get it."
Wang Bingbing cut him off and headed toward the broadcast truck.
Her palms were sweating.
It wasn't because she was a football fan—she wasn't. It was simply the unmistakable rush of national pride. Like every Chinese person watching, she wanted the team to win… no matter how slim the odds.
She recalled the thunderous chants from the train and told herself:
"It's not impossible."
The Chinese team reached the stadium quickly, and cameras locked onto them the moment they stepped off the bus.
Wang Yi, Kai, Chen Man, and Fernando Kairui—every one of them became the center of global attention.
Every gesture, every step, every expression was being broadcast live to millions.
In a hotel room in Manaus, Kevin pointed excitedly at the television.
"Look! That's Kai!"
Billy and Elena leaned closer to the screen, watching the camera zoom in on Kai as he stepped off the team bus.
"I wonder how well the boy will play today?" Elena said with a smile. "He's Kai—always a bit magical."
"What do you mean, 'boy'?" Billy shot back, frowning. "That's our captain."
Kevin nodded in agreement. "Right. He's the captain. Definitely not a boy anymore."
Elena raised her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright—he's a man. Still hope he delivers today."
"He will," Billy and Kevin replied in unison, their confidence as absolute as ever.
Their faith in Kai bordered on blind devotion.
...
Meanwhile, at the entrance of the Pantanal Arena in Cuiabá, two casually dressed elderly foreigners made their way toward the security gate.
"Remind me again," Wenger muttered, "why we had to fly all the way to Cuiabá just for this match?"
Pat Rice snorted. "You're still the manager. Keeping up with your players' progress is part of the job. How else are you supposed to judge Kai's development?"
Wenger gave him a look. "And you're not here because the club is paying for your tickets and you wanted a few free matches?"
Pat smiled with zero shame. "Well, our actual scouting target isn't even playing today. Sitting in a hotel room sounded boring. Watching Kai isn't such a bad alternative, is it?"
Wenger chuckled. "Fair enough. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have come."
He took a step forward—only for Pat to reach out and grab his sleeve.
"Hold on."
Wenger blinked. "What now?"
Pat rummaged through his bag, pulled out two jerseys, slipped one on, and tossed the other to Wenger.
"Here. Put it on."
Wenger stared at the bright red shirt. "Pat… we're not fans."
Pat straightened his collar proudly. "Today we are. Is there anyone we're here to analyze? No. Are we here for work? No. We're here to enjoy the match. So wear it."
Wenger sighed, defeated. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he pulled the jersey over his head and lowered his baseball cap to stay under the radar.
Properly disguised, they walked into the stadium with the crowd.
Pantanal Arena, 42,500 seats.
Fifteen thousand Chinese fans, fifteen thousand Chilean fans, and the remaining twelve-plus thousand locals filling the rest. The north stand was a sea of red; the south stand, a wall of Chilean song. Both sides roared with everything they had.
The Chinese supporter group, unable to bring their giant ceremonial drums inside, had improvised. Nearly a thousand fans beat waist drums in perfect rhythm, their thunderous cadence echoing through the stadium and actually overwhelming the Chilean supporters at times.
Boom-boom! Boom! Boom-boom!
"China Team! Go!"
Boom-boom! Boom! Boom-boom!
"China Team! Go!!!"
The chanting spread like wildfire. Even some locals joined in, swept up by the energy.
Back in China, at around five in the morning, countless fans were glued to their TVs. Some had stayed up all night; others had crawled out of bed before dawn. Either way, no one intended to miss this match.
CCTV had assigned He Wei and Tao Wei to the broadcast.
"Good morning to all the fans watching," He Wei said energetically. "Whether you stayed awake or woke up early, let's get ready—we're about to witness a World Cup match that the entire nation has been waiting for."
Fans across China rubbed their hands and leaned forward.
"Let's take a look at the starting lineups."
"China's XI is more or less settled at this point," He Wei continued. "Mostly overseas-based players, forming a coherent tactical system."
"But," he added, "the key position today is still midfield. Kai's influence is enormous. If he plays well, our counterattacks will be sharp and dangerous."
Tao Wei nodded. "Exactly. Kai is one of the Premier League's best midfielders, if not the best by some. Man for man, Kai remains superior to Chile's midfielders. That's the one area where we aren't at a disadvantage. As long as he stabilizes the tempo and wins those crucial duels, the whole team will benefit."
He Wei concluded, "So yes—our chances hinge heavily on Kai."
...
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