What does it taste like — being absent from the Champions League?
Sitting in front of a television, watching your peers shine beneath the floodlights of Europe's grandest stage — how does that feel?
Cristiano Ronaldo knew the answer better than most.
The Portuguese winger had just witnessed Ajax's stunning 3–1 victory over Real Madrid in the first leg of the UEFA Champions League Round of 16. He had watched Yang Yang score a hat-trick at the Santiago Bernabéu. All of it. Every run, every feint, every strike.
And now, all he felt was turmoil.
On one hand, he couldn't help but admire Yang Yang's brilliance — the fearlessness, the composure under pressure, the way he rose to the occasion and dominated against one of the biggest clubs in the world. To score a hat-trick at the Bernabéu, against that Real Madrid? That took guts. Nerves of steel. Yang Yang's mentality was incredible.
But on the other hand… Ronaldo was unconvinced.
He believed — no, knew — that had he faced this current Real Madrid, he too could have scored a hat-trick. Maybe even more. His recent form was electric. In back-to-back Premier League matches, he had scored braces to help Manchester United dispatch Fulham and Portsmouth with ease. His confidence was soaring. But his playground was limited to domestic fixtures now. No Champions League, no spotlight in Europe.
In four days' time, he and United would face Wigan Athletic in the League Cup final.
He was certain he would score.
And yet, watching Yang Yang shine in Madrid made him feel small. Smaller than he'd expected.
"After this performance, Yang will undoubtedly be counted among the very best in the world," said Jorge Mendes, Ronaldo's agent, seated beside him on the couch.
Mendes had watched the match with sharp eyes, impressed by the Chinese striker's composure and flair. His praise came easily — too easily for Ronaldo's liking.
"He was already performing at an elite level, but tonight… a hat-trick at the Bernabéu? Every major European club is going to make a move this summer."
Mendes wasn't exaggerating. His contacts across Europe were already whispering. And Mendes had seen it all before. He respected talent, but what he admired more was leverage. And Raiola, Yang Yang's agent, had plenty.
Cristiano Ronaldo's brow furrowed. "Was that story in The Sun about his contract true?"
"The €40 million buyout clause?" Mendes nodded. "It's credible. Say what you will about The Sun, but when Beckham went to Madrid, they were the first to break the story. They know things others don't."
He paused, then added, "Raiola is clever. By renegotiating Yang's contract, he secured Ajax a temporary stay — one more year of goals, ticket sales, and Champions League progression — but built in that release clause to guarantee a future transfer. Ajax wins, Yang wins, Raiola wins. Everyone wins."
Except Cristiano Ronaldo.
Seven goals in the Premier League this season. No goals in the Champions League group stage. Manchester United had crashed out embarrassingly, bottom of their group, despite being drawn with Villarreal, Benfica, and Lille.
And he had played all six matches.
In contrast, Yang Yang had now scored nine goals in the Champions League and 34 across the Eredivisie this season — with two months still to go.
Ronaldo clenched his jaw. "So Real Madrid are definitely going to sign him."
Mendes glanced at his client. He saw the frustration behind the words — the desire. Ronaldo had dreamed of playing at the Bernabéu since childhood. To see Yang Yang possibly join his dream club before him stirred something inside.
"Not necessarily," Mendes replied calmly.
"What do you mean? Florentino himself promised to bring him and Robinho to lead the new Galácticos."
Mendes nodded. "He did. But the situation at Real Madrid is more complicated than it seems. Florentino still holds immense influence, but after Figo left and the team began declining, there's growing unrest inside the club. Many on the board believe his Galácticos project has run its course."
"But clearing out the old stars should make room for Yang, no?" Ronaldo asked, still not following.
"In theory," Mendes said with a half-smile. "But politics are tricky. Florentino's reluctance to clean house — to move on from the likes of Beckham, Ronaldo, even Zidane — has made others on the board restless. Some of his closest allies are quietly opposing him now."
Ronaldo raised his eyebrows. "You're saying... he's losing power?"
"I'm saying," Mendes leaned forward, "that many in the club believe Real Madrid was built by Florentino, and that he is now the one destroying it. They want him out — and if he goes, Yang Yang may not come."
Cristiano sat back, stunned. He hadn't realized how fractured things were in Madrid.
"So it all depends on whether Florentino survives?"
"Exactly. If he stays, Yang Yang is going to Real Madrid. But if he's forced out… the next president may not want to inherit his crown jewel. No one wants to live in the shadow of their predecessor."
Cristiano nodded slowly, finally beginning to understand.
Behind Real Madrid's glitz and glory lay a battlefield of egos and politics. Yang Yang's hat-trick may have won over the fans, but whether he'd wear white next season? That depended on forces far beyond the pitch.
Just then, Mendes' phone buzzed.
Cristiano caught a glimpse of the name on the screen.
Predrag Mijatović.
...
...
The Barcelona squad had arrived in the British capital a day ahead of their Champions League clash with Chelsea. As the team settled into their hotel near Knightsbridge, a sense of calm anticipation lingered. Tomorrow, they would step onto Stamford Bridge to face one of the most disciplined and physically imposing sides in Europe.
But tonight, their attention was elsewhere.
The players gathered in the team lounge after dinner, their eyes fixed on the large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. It was showing the replay of the night's earlier shock: Real Madrid 1, Ajax 3 — a result that had stunned nearly everyone in the room.
Even Deco, one of the more composed and experienced members of the squad, sat forward with his arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.
"No one expected it to be this bad," he said quietly. "The Galácticos might be in decline, sure, but losing like that? At the Bernabéu?"
He shook his head, more in admiration than derision. "Yang Yang was incredible."
The room was unusually quiet. All of them had watched the highlights — Yang Yang's three goals, each more impressive than the last — and the silence wasn't just shock. It was respect.
"He's nineteen," Deco added, as if saying it again would help him process it. "Nineteen, and he does that on this kind of stage."
Van Bommel, lounging a few seats away, let out a low whistle. "That's Yang for you."
He had played against Ajax enough during his years at PSV to speak with authority. "What people outside the Netherlands don't realize is how obsessed he is. His training routines go way beyond club sessions. He'll go back to the training ground after hours, stay behind when others go home. He's relentless. Abuses his body daily, but never burns out."
"That kind of self-discipline," he added, "you don't see it often. Especially not at that age."
Ronaldinho nodded in agreement. "And the improvement is obvious."
He gestured toward the television as it showed Yang Yang's first goal. "Look at that strike — left foot, first-time finish, no hesitation. Last year, he'd probably have taken a touch. But now? He reads it perfectly. Takes it early, doesn't give Casillas a chance."
"Technique, timing, confidence… all elevated."
He leaned back, smiling. "That kind of progress doesn't happen unless you work like a maniac. You can tell he's building layer by layer."
Then Ronaldinho turned his head and glanced at the young man sitting a little apart from the group, watching quietly.
Messi.
The 18-year-old Argentine prodigy had barely said a word during the entire replay. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes betrayed him. They burned with quiet intensity, narrowed, focused. Every frame of Yang Yang's movement, every goal, every celebration — he studied them all, not with awe, but with a deep, private determination.
He hated watching from the outside.
Since the World Youth Championship, Messi had thrown himself into his development with renewed urgency. His minutes under Rijkaard had increased. He was no longer the unknown talent from La Masia — he was becoming a fixture in the matchday squad. Yet he knew he was still a step behind Yang Yang, who was dominating at the highest level.
Ronaldinho, ever the older brother figure, gave him a playful nudge.
"If you want to match him, Leo," he said warmly, "you'll have to work even harder. He's not slowing down."
Messi gave a short nod, lips pressed into a tight line. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
His gaze never left the screen as the broadcast replayed Yang Yang's third goal.
In his mind, one thought pulsed louder than the cheers at the Bernabéu.
I won't lose to him.
Not now. Not again.
...
...
Early Morning – Milan Malpensa Airport, Italy
The AC Milan squad had just touched down in the gray stillness of a northern Italian dawn.
Fresh off a 1–1 draw against Bayern Munich in the first leg of their own Champions League round of 16 clash, the players were weary but satisfied. They had managed to come away from the Allianz Arena with an away goal and a result that left everything open heading back to San Siro.
As the team slowly disembarked from the charter flight and made their way through the dimly lit corridors of Milan Malpensa Airport, a member of the club's media staff rushed over, phone in hand.
"Ajax beat Real Madrid," he announced breathlessly. "Three-one. At the Bernabéu. Yang Yang scored all three."
The ripple was instant.
Coaches, players, even the support staff all paused where they stood. The words seemed to echo down the tiled hallway.
"Three-one?" Gennaro Gattuso repeated in disbelief. "In Madrid?"
Several players instinctively pulled out their phones. The news had just broken across Italian and international media.
Shevchenko blinked, his expression tightening as the implications registered. "Hat trick?" he asked for confirmation.
"Hat trick," the staffer nodded. "Nineteen years old. Tore them apart."
The Ukrainian forward muttered something under his breath in Ukrainian, shook his head, and let out a sigh. He didn't need a calculator to know what that meant.
Yang Yang had overtaken him as the current top scorer in the Champions League.
Kaka, who had been walking alongside Cafu and Kaladze, froze mid-step. His eyes lingered on the floor as the name hit him again — Yang Yang.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head and exhaled with a faint, amused smile. "He wasn't bluffing," he murmured.
Cafu turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
Kaka's smile widened slightly as if recalling a private memory. "He told me once, back in Monte Carlo... 'Relax, Kaka. I'm doing my best in every game so I can face you and AC Milan.'"
Silence fell for a second, and then Kaladze let out a chuckle. "Well, he wasn't lying."
Maldini, walking behind them, didn't speak — but the look on his face said it all. This wasn't just a young talent anymore. This was a genuine threat. A rival. One who had just walked into Madrid's home and humiliated a team full of legends.
As they continued toward the team bus, the conversations turned. Strategies. What if Ajax advanced to face them? Could they contain Yang Yang's pace? Who would mark him? Could their midfield prevent him from turning?
No one said it outright, but the thought was in every player's mind.
This kid wasn't a story anymore.
He was now the story.
And if fate brought Ajax to San Siro… they would need to be ready for him.