Chapter 63: Don Quixote

“The ball’s in! The ball’s in!”
“Incredible! Guangzhou Evergrande has actually broken through Barcelona’s defense!”
“What a goal! An incomparable strike! Presenting us with this brilliant spectacle is—Dai Zhiwei!”

Both the local commentators and those in television studios around the world had reason to cheer. This goal didn’t just breach Barcelona’s net; it was a testament to Dai Zhiwei’s tenacity, speed, dribbling, and finishing—every quality of a world-class striker.

What a magnificent goal it was!

Seeing his favorite player score, Cannavaro leapt excitedly from the bench, arms raised in triumph. Scoring against Barcelona had been Evergrande’s dream before the match; now, that dream had become reality.

After his goal, Dai Zhiwei was immediately engulfed by his teammates, surrounded and showered with exuberant pats from all directions.

“One more, and we’ll be level!” Dai Zhiwei kept this hope to himself, knowing it was little more than a mirage for his teammates. Voicing it would only invite ridicule.

Dai Zhiwei’s goal had ignited an even fiercer fighting spirit in Evergrande, who now played with every ounce of strength to defend their goal. Yet in the world of competitive sport, sheer willpower can rarely bridge a gulf in skill.

Suddenly, a scene unfolded on the pitch that sent a chill through Evergrande’s supporters—

Dani Alves, still one of the world’s top three right-backs, was thundering down Evergrande’s left flank with the ball at his feet. Behind him, Li Xuepeng, five years his junior, gave chase in vain, stumbling and finally collapsing awkwardly onto the turf.

With that, Evergrande’s left side was laid bare to Alves.

All eyes were glued to Alves as he raced toward the byline, showing no intention of cutting inside for a shot. Forced to react, Kim Young-gwon rushed out to block him, unable to spare a thought for what might be happening behind him. But Alves gave him no chance to close in, whipping in a cross before Kim could even move.

The ball soared high, sailing over Kim’s head—then over Feng Xiaoting’s too—arcing elegantly toward the far post.

In that instant, the hearts of every Evergrande supporter seemed to stop.

Munir!

Like a phantom, Munir appeared in the deadliest spot just as everyone’s attention was elsewhere. Li Shuai, drawn by Alves’s run, had abandoned his post for the near post, leaving Munir facing an almost open goal.

As Munir burst into the box, poised for a one-on-one with the keeper, Huang Bowen, who had just caught up from behind, made a desperate attempt to intercept…

Munir, at full sprint, suddenly crashed to the turf in the most undignified heap, as if felled by a hunter’s bullet.

“Penalty! That’s a clear penalty!”

Commentators around the world shrieked like startled rabbits: “A deliberate foul! Huang Bowen brings Munir down from behind! A penalty for sure—now, will it be a red card as well? Let’s see what the referee decides…”

Red card!

Indeed, it was a red card! The referee reached for his pocket and showed Huang Bowen the red. The entire Evergrande team surrounded the official in protest, but nothing could change the call. Crestfallen, Huang Bowen accepted his teammates’ consolation and slowly left the field.

It was a just decision—Munir was clean through—but Evergrande could hardly accept it. Penalty and a red: it meant they’d play the last twenty minutes a man down, and, after the spot kick, would almost certainly trail 1–3.

Though, in truth, most of the Evergrande players would have been satisfied with 1–3.

Suarez stood over the penalty. He struck the ball like a bolt of lightning, sending it screaming into the net. Li Shuai barely had time to react; he didn’t even move.

Time ticked away, each second drawing Evergrande closer to defeat…

With the rest of his nine teammates bunkered in their own half, Dai Zhiwei kept running. When he glanced up at the sky, the floodlights dazzled him until he grew dizzy.

In the cold December evening, the chill gnawed away at his stamina. Slowing on the grass, he felt the distortion in the air becoming ever more real. He seemed to hallucinate, his vision blurring until the players’ uniforms became indistinct.

Usually, Dai Zhiwei played further up the pitch, tasked almost solely with attacking. But today’s match had burdened him with far heavier defensive duties.

He was the one and only host of the “Soccer Prodigy System”—he would not accept defeat so easily, even against the mighty Barcelona!

But the rest of Evergrande didn’t see it that way. Cannavaro and nearly every player considered a 1–3 scoreline the best they could hope for. Narrowing the gap, equalizing, even winning—none of these entered their minds.

The situation was dire. Perhaps Dai Zhiwei’s only option was to attempt a dazzling solo run.

“Why do I feel like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills alone?” Dai Zhiwei laughed at himself.

But if he could laugh, it meant he could still fight.

“The team may not win, but I refuse to surrender!”

He cast another glance at Rakitic, Barcelona’s appointed shadow, then turned away.

“Since Suarez completed his hat trick with that penalty, Barcelona’s attack has clearly eased off. Their advances have been repeatedly repelled outside Evergrande’s defensive line. Though they haven’t scored, their intricate passing is still a pleasure to watch—or at least I think so! Of course, Evergrande has managed two lovely counterattacks, but with one man down and the constant pressure, they can spare few players for offense. Dai Zhiwei is fighting alone!” The commentator, He Wei, spoke in a subdued tone, narrating a match that had lost much of its earlier intensity.

Curiously, though this was a clash between a Chinese club and a Spanish giant, many domestic fans supported Barcelona.

“In January, FIFA’s transfer ban on Barcelona will be lifted, meaning their new signings can finally play. But according to reports in the Daily Sports, Barcelona won’t be buying anyone this winter—club debts are too high, and Enrique has just ten million euros to spend, which won’t go far. Their prime target Nolito has an 18 million buyout, so Barcelona may end up empty-handed…”

With Barcelona dominating possession and Evergrande forced to play a cat-and-mouse game, He Wei, desperate to keep viewers engaged, filled the time with off-topic chatter—when suddenly, he shouted in surprise.

The situation had changed in an instant—Dai Zhiwei had intercepted the ball from Busquets in midfield, then accelerated straight forward.

“It’s Dai Zhiwei! Dai Zhiwei! He’s stolen the ball from Busquets! Let’s watch his tackle in slow motion—brilliant! Perfectly clean, just the ball, no contact with the man. He’s surged ahead, dribbling past his marker! Dai Zhiwei isn’t passing—there’s no one to pass to—this is a solo run!”

This time, Dai Zhiwei didn’t wait for support. He knew none would come. He was on his own.

To some, it may have seemed like a madman’s charge—a Don Quixote on a lame horse, tilting at windmills—but Dai Zhiwei believed himself another Zhao Yun, breaking through enemy lines at Changban.

All courage, no fear!

In that moment, a sudden whirlwind tore through the calm of the pitch—

Unstoppable!