In early September, domestic leagues entered the two-week international break.
While international players were scattered across the world, representing their nations, clubs back home faced the familiar toll of the so-called "FIFA virus."
Yang Yang, however, refused to slow down. Every morning, he maintained his physical regimen at Melwood, and every night, he immersed himself in the Dream Training System, tirelessly polishing his game.
That same period, the Chinese national team began their Asian Cup qualifying campaign. Yet this time, foreign-based players were not called up. The squad consisted almost entirely of domestic footballers. Their opponent was Singapore—a team of modest strength—so the Chinese FA, with Arie Haan's approval, agreed to Yang Yang's proposal: allow the overseas players to stay with their clubs.
The reasoning was simple. The long intercontinental journey would only disrupt their rhythm and fatigue them for league duty upon return. Yang Yang himself had emphasized this repeatedly, knowing how much travel could sap a player's sharpness.
The domestic-based squad had already proven themselves earlier that year, reaching the semifinals of the East Asian Games with impressive performances. Therefore, this approach made sense. Of course, when a crucial qualifier arrived, the internationals would still be summoned.
For now, though, while most players enjoyed rare days off, Yang Yang remained relentless.
Inside the Dream Training System, he instructed Zax to simulate defenders at a Premier League level. Against them, he practiced high-intensity attacking drills—bursting runs, finishing, and especially aerial duels, an area he still considered his weakest.
Zax recreated the profiles of Liverpool's two wide men, programming them to deliver a variety of crosses from both flanks. Yang Yang's task was to fight for position, anticipate the ball's flight, and finish decisively.
Each cross demanded total concentration. In a split second, he had to judge the ball's trajectory and landing point, time his run, and wrestle free from his marker. Then came the leap—the explosion off the ground—timed perfectly to meet the ball, whether with a powerful header toward the far post, a deft glance at close range, or a diving effort through traffic.
The deeper he went into the training, the more he realized how naturally the Star Skill [Klinsmann's Header] suited him. His height, physique, and attacking instincts bore an uncanny resemblance to Jürgen Klinsmann, making the technique feel almost tailored to his body.
Still, the Premier League's physicality was unforgiving. The defenders Zax simulated were aggressive, dominant in the air, and perfectly timed in their jumps. Yang Yang knew he had to compensate with smarter movement and timing.
So, beyond aerial work, he continued drilling every other offensive skill—his first touch, acceleration into space, shooting angles, and several other star techniques—repeating them endlessly until exhaustion blurred the lines between instinct and effort.
Again and again, he launched himself for headers. Again and again, he turned, struck, chased, intercepted, passed.
From the excitement of novelty to the dull rhythm of repetition, then into fatigue, boredom, even aversion—but never once did he stop.
Self-discipline had long become his second nature. Even when his muscles screamed, even when the movements were already ingrained, Yang Yang refused to take shortcuts.
Zax, ever emotionless, observed his progress meticulously, adjusting the training load, providing precise analytical feedback after each session.
"There's a fire in your heart," Zax said one evening, his voice calm but cutting through the silence. "The more you feed it, the brighter it burns."
Yang Yang nodded silently. That fire had been kindled by disappointment.
He had already missed two major accolades in quick succession: the UEFA Champions League Forward of the Year and the Premier League Player of the Month for August.
The latter went to Manchester United's veteran winger Ryan Giggs, whose side opened the season with three consecutive wins, netting ten goals in total. Giggs had been superb.
Yang Yang didn't feel resentment—only deep respect for legends like Giggs—but the sting of defeat still lingered. It was human nature.
He knew he hadn't done enough. The injury that kept him out of Liverpool's opening fixture against Sheffield United still bothered him. Had he been available, perhaps the match wouldn't have ended in a draw. Perhaps he would've contributed a goal or assist—maybe enough to rival Giggs for the award.
Yang Yang had always held himself to impossible standards. His competitiveness was raw and unapologetic. Ever since his rise at Ajax, he had raised his bar higher with every step.
Now, as Liverpool's rising star, he no longer measured himself against teammates—but against the very best of the Premier League, even Europe.
That self-imposed pressure was immense, yet it was also his greatest fuel.
"Every truly great professional," Zax continued, "must possess unshakable confidence and a fierce hunger. Without self-belief, you crumble after every setback. Without aggression, you become comfortable—and comfort is the slow death of ambition. But beware—too much of it, and you'll burn yourself."
Yang Yang chuckled faintly. "Don't worry. If the fire gets too big, you'll be the first to sound the alarm."
He lay back on the cool grass, breathing deeply. Above him, the virtual sky of the Dream System transformed into a massive floating screen, replaying Premier League highlights and tactical analyses in real time.
Benítez's meticulous face appeared in one of the frames, explaining a diagram.
The Spaniard was a perfectionist—methodical, uncompromising, and endlessly precise. Before the international break, he had promised Yang Yang that he'd do everything possible to help him adapt to English football—and he meant it.
He'd personally prepared more than twenty DVDs filled with match footage, tactical breakdowns, and positional analysis, complete with text notes and diagrams.
Some players might have found that excessive, even oppressive. After all, Yang Yang was only nineteen; most managers would have shielded a young foreign signing rather than burying him in tactical homework.
But Yang Yang loved it.
He hadn't come to England for comfort.
He came to conquer.
...
...
When Su Ye had been in Liverpool, Winston Bogarde had deliberately kept his distance, not wanting to intrude on the young couple's time together. He stayed quietly in a hotel on the outskirts of the city, giving them space.
But since Su Ye's return to China, Bogarde had moved into Yang Yang's house, resuming his role as mentor and companion in daily training.
Every morning, before sunrise, the two could be found jogging around Sefton Park, the vast green expanse south of Liverpool. The early autumn air was crisp, the grass still glistening with dew, and mist rolled gently above the open fields.
Yang Yang, as always, pushed himself relentlessly—sprinting stretches, weaving through trees while keeping the ball close to his feet, treating the park like a personal training ground. Bogarde, though still in excellent shape, was left panting heavily behind him, doing his best to keep pace.
"I swear," he gasped between breaths as he finally caught up, "you're way too hard on yourself. Can't you slow down for once? Ever heard of rest?"
Yang Yang stopped only briefly, bending forward slightly with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Sweat dripped from his chin, yet his tone remained composed.
"If you relax," he said quietly, "you'll forget how to stay tight."
Bogarde gave a strained laugh, still trying to catch his breath. "You're unbelievable. Keep this up and I'll end up training like a professional again."
Yang Yang smiled faintly, eyes still fixed ahead.
"Giggs is almost thirty-three," Bogarde continued, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fifteen years at Manchester United, more than six hundred appearances—and only now he wins his first Player of the Month. And you, at nineteen, you're already restless because you didn't get it?"
It was half a joke, half admiration.
"Be precise," Yang Yang corrected him, glancing over. "Not restless—competitive."
Bogarde chuckled. "What's the difference?"
"A big one," Yang Yang replied, straightening up. "I'm not jealous of Giggs. I admire him, deeply. But admiration doesn't mean I'll accept being below him. I'll work until I can stand beside players like that—or above them."
His words carried no arrogance, only conviction. The tone was calm, almost quiet—but it burned with the same fire Zax had spoken of.
Then, without another word, Yang Yang started jogging again, breaking into another sprint as he left the park path behind.
Bogarde sighed, rubbing his temples as he followed at a slower pace.
"You're a monster, kid," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a reluctant smile.
...
"Did you see that guy?"
Three hours later, outside the Melwood training complex, Winston Bogarde stood beside Brazilian left-back Fábio Aurélio, nodding toward the far corner of the pitch.
Yang Yang had just finished a heavy session in the gym, yet instead of resting, he was already out on the training ground again—alone, practicing headers.
Since there was no one to serve him crosses, he had set up a simple rebound setup. Each time he tossed the ball upward, he adjusted his body, leapt, and met it with his forehead, trying to control both accuracy and power. The steady rhythm of ball impacts echoed faintly across the otherwise quiet training ground.
Aurélio followed Bogarde's gaze and smiled faintly. "Yeah… he trains unbelievably hard," he said, genuine admiration in his tone.
Bogarde crossed his arms. "I've gone through your full medical report," he began. "From now on, I'll design a personalized high-intensity conditioning program for you. And during this period, you'll train alongside him."
Aurélio's expression lit up, though a hint of concern flashed in his eyes. "Winston, do you really think you can help me stay away from injuries?"
Bogarde smiled, the corners of his mouth curling into a pragmatic half-grin. "I can't guarantee miracles, Fábio. No one can. But what I can do is strengthen your body in the right areas, so you minimize the risk. Look at him." He gestured toward Yang Yang again. "It's not talent that keeps him on the pitch—it's self-discipline. The way he trains, the way he rests, the way he eats. That's why, aside from the occasional minor knock, he's rarely injured."
Even his recent two-week layoff had been minor, nothing more than a muscle strain from overload rather than recklessness.
Aurélio nodded thoughtfully, his eyes following Yang Yang's tireless repetitions. Every movement of the young forward seemed purposeful—technical, powerful, efficient.
For the Brazilian, it was deeply motivating. Ever since joining Valencia, his career had been a roller coaster of brilliance and frustration.
Back in 2003, he had looked destined to become the next Roberto Carlos—a Brazilian left-back combining attacking flair with dead-ball precision. That season, he'd appeared in twenty-seven league matches, scoring eight goals, and added two more in the Champions League. Europe had taken notice.
But then came the cruel twist. A severe injury, followed by another, and another. The next season he played only four matches. Even when he returned, his form never fully stabilized. Valencia still valued him, but by the second half of last season, another setback had cost him his place and, ultimately, the club's faith.
Now, at twenty-seven, freshly transferred to Liverpool on a free, Aurélio knew this was his final chance to revive his career.
Benítez wanted a modern full-back—someone who could replace the tireless but inconsistent John Arne Riise—and Aurélio fit that profile perfectly: technically polished, intelligent, and experienced. Liverpool had even secured sixteen-year-old Argentine prospect Emiliano Insúa as his understudy.
For Aurélio, there was no time to waste. He wanted to reward Benítez's trust, to stay healthy, and to prove that his career wasn't defined by injuries.
He had heard of Bogarde through his fellow Brazilians—Maxwell and Maicon—who spoke highly of the Dutchman's training philosophy. With Benítez's approval, Aurélio had approached him, seeking help.
Now, standing beside him, he clenched his fists. "Don't worry," he said firmly. "No matter how hard it is, I can take it."
Bogarde studied him for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Then start by joining him."
He pointed toward Yang Yang, who was still leaping into the air for headers, the sound of the ball thudding against his forehead echoing rhythmically.
"The left-back training with the left forward," Bogarde said with a grin. "Seems fitting enough, doesn't it?"
Aurélio smiled, tightened his laces, and jogged onto the field to join Yang Yang—one man fighting to prove he could rise to the top, the other fighting to stay there.
...
...
"Good afternoon, football fans! Welcome to ESPN's live broadcast of the fourth round of the Premier League!"
The lively voice of Steve McMahon, a familiar figure to English audiences, resonated through the airwaves as the camera swept across the crowded stands of Goodison Park in Liverpool.
"I'm Steve McMahon, bringing you the action live from Goodison Park—home of Everton Football Club. It's a bright, brisk afternoon here on Merseyside, and today we have something truly special for you—the first Merseyside Derby of the season!"
The broadcast camera panned slowly over the grand old stadium. Every seat was filled. The blue sea of Everton supporters surged with anticipation, banners fluttering, scarves waving, the sound of chants already rolling like thunder across the terraces.
"As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, Goodison Park is absolutely packed. Not a single empty seat in sight. The atmosphere—pure electricity."
He continued, voice smooth and rhythmic, perfectly in tune with the rhythm of English football commentary from that era.
"Let's take a look at the numbers so far. Both Merseyside giants have made solid starts to their campaigns. Liverpool—two wins and a draw from their opening three matches. They drew 1–1 with Sheffield United, then came back strong with a 4–0 victory over Newcastle at Anfield and a 2–1 win over West Ham United."
"Their neighbors Everton have also been impressive—2–1 over Watford, a 1–1 draw with Blackburn, and a convincing 2–0 win over Tottenham Hotspur at home. Manager David Moyes has his team playing confident, organized football."
"So after three rounds, both clubs are level on seven points. Everything's to play for."
The camera briefly shifted to the managers on the sideline—Benítez, calm and calculating in his dark suit, and Moyes, standing near the technical area, already barking early instructions to his players during warm-ups.
"Now, there's an important note here," McMahon continued. "During the recent international break, Liverpool were the side more heavily affected. A large part of their squad were away on national team duty in the European Championship qualifiers, which means fatigue could be a factor. Everton, on the other hand, had fewer absentees and have enjoyed a more stable preparation period."
"Still, at yesterday's press conference, Rafa Benítez insisted that his players would not hide behind excuses. He admitted the pressure of a Merseyside Derby is immense—but made it clear that Liverpool are here to fight and to win."
The broadcast feed displayed Liverpool's starting XI graphic, each player's photo flashing briefly across the screen.
"Here's how the Reds line up today. In goal, Pepe Reina. The back four: Fábio Aurélio on the left, Sami Hyypiä and Jamie Carragher at centre-back, and Steve Finnan on the right."
"Across midfield, it's Mohamed Sissoko, Steven Gerrard, and Xabi Alonso—a powerful trio full of energy, creativity, and grit."
"And up front, Benítez sticks with his trident attack—Yang Yang on the left, Peter Crouch through the middle, and Dirk Kuyt on the right."
"Danish centre-half Daniel Agger, who has been one of Liverpool's standout performers this season, starts on the bench today, with Carragher returning to the lineup after recovering from injury. Apart from that, this is very much Benítez's strongest side."
McMahon's tone grew more animated as he turned to the home team.
"As for Everton, David Moyes has made his intentions crystal clear. 'Liverpool won't take a single point from Goodison Park,' he said boldly in his pre-match press conference. The man means business today. He's sent his side out in an aggressive 4-5-1 formation, clearly designed to crowd the midfield and disrupt Liverpool's rhythm."
"It's a tactical gamble, but one full of intent. Moyes knows exactly what a victory in this derby would mean—for his players, for the supporters, for the city."
The camera panned back across the pitch. Everton fans were chanting in unison, blue flags whipping through the air, while pockets of Liverpool supporters—crammed into the away section—sang defiantly in response. The tension was almost tangible.
"And listen to that noise, folks," McMahon said, voice raised slightly over the roar of the stands. "This is Merseyside. This is football in its purest form—passion, pride, and ninety minutes of battle ahead."
...
...
Yang Yang didn't stand in the center circle.
He positioned himself just outside it, slightly to the left, crouched and focused, his eyes lowered but his senses razor-sharp. The air was heavy with tension, the kind only a Merseyside Derby could bring.
Benítez's plan was simple yet bold—attack from the first whistle. Catch Everton off guard. Force them onto the back foot before they could settle.
Yang Yang closed his eyes briefly, centering himself. Around him, Goodison Park thundered with noise—chants, drums, the deep roar of thousands of voices clashing in a storm of blue and red.
The sound was deafening, like a tidal wave crashing against him. Yet instead of fear, he felt a thrill rise in his chest.
So this is what it means to walk into the enemy's fortress.
He remembered a conversation Ibrahimović once had after joining Inter Milan: "There's no greater joy in football than silencing your rivals' fans—right in front of their own goal."
The referee, Graham Poll, England's top official, stood in the center, glancing at both captains. Earlier in the tunnel, he had been firm: "I don't want to see reckless tackles. It's a derby, not a battlefield."
But everyone knew better. This was the Merseyside Derby. Passion could never be contained by a warning.
"The game's about to start! Let's go, lads!" Gerrard shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.
Yang Yang opened his eyes, locking on to the Everton half. His pulse steadied. His breath slowed.
The whistle shrieked.
Crouch tapped the ball back to Kuyt, who immediately laid it off to midfield.
Yang Yang didn't even glance at the pass. He was already sprinting forward at full throttle.
Benítez's instructions echoed in his mind: "Press high. Stretch their lines. Force them to drop deep."
And it worked immediately. As Yang Yang surged ahead, Everton's defenders instinctively retreated, adjusting their shape to contain him.
From the back, Liverpool began to circulate the ball quickly—Reina to Carragher, Carragher to Alonso, then out wide to Fábio Aurélio on the left flank.
The Brazilian full-back surged across the halfway line, keeping the ball close to his feet. As he approached Everton's thirty-meter zone, the Toffees' midfield pressed forward aggressively, cutting off passing angles.
That was Yang Yang's cue.
He abruptly curved his run, pulling back from the defensive line and sliding into the half-space between Everton's midfield and defense. The move unsettled their shape—just enough.
Aurélio spotted it. A thin passing lane opened for a split second.
Without hesitation, he drilled a perfectly weighted ball through the gap between three Everton shirts. It skimmed the turf and reached Yang Yang's feet in stride.
The home defenders reacted instantly, turning to close him down. Yang Yang killed the ball with a deft first touch, turned sharply, and accelerated forward.
"Liverpool attack in the opening seconds!"
"Yang Yang on the left, driving forward—he's moving fast!"
The live ESPN commentary rose in excitement.
Ahead of him, Crouch and Kuyt dragged Everton's back line toward the edge of the box, forcing Joseph Yobo and Joleon Lescott to backpedal frantically.
Yang Yang advanced another few meters, eyes flicking across the pitch. His God Vision painted the scene before him in perfect clarity—the defenders' positions, the goalkeeper's stance, the fleeting space between them.
Then, like a flash, he remembered something Van Basten once told him:
"A long-range strike isn't just a weapon—it's a statement. It shakes defenders, changes rhythm, and tells the opponent you fear nothing."
And the space was there—between Yobo and Lescott, a corridor barely wide enough for a risk-taker.
Yang Yang let the ball roll half a step ahead, widened his stride, and accelerated to set up the strike.
Phil Neville, the veteran midfielder, sensed danger too late. He tore away from marking Crouch and sprinted toward Yang Yang, shouting—
"Watch out! He's going to shoot!"
But by then, it was too late.
Yang Yang's body arched like a drawn bow—left foot planted, right leg swinging back, his entire motion fluid, balanced, and lethal.
The strike exploded off his boot with a sharp crack, the sound echoing across Goodison Park.
"Yang Yang—strikes it from distance!!!"
"Oh my word, it's flying—!"
The ball screamed through the air like a missile, spinning violently as it ripped past the retreating defenders. Tim Howard launched himself to his left, full stretch—
But he was a fraction too late.
The ball struck the upper left corner of the net with surgical precision, nestling just inside the post.
GOAL!
"GOAL!!! Yang Yang has scored—just TEN SECONDS into the match!"
"An incredible start to the Merseyside Derby!"
"Yang Yang from twenty-five meters—unstoppable! Straight into the top corner!"
"Howard flew for it, but there was no chance—that's world class!"
The away section erupted, red flares and scarves waving violently as thousands of Liverpool supporters roared in disbelief and ecstasy.
On the pitch, Yang Yang froze for a heartbeat—his mind perfectly clear, his pulse steady. He knew as soon as he struck it that the ball was destined for the net. Unless Howard pulled off something miraculous, nothing could stop it.
And he was right.
He spun, arms spread wide, sprinting toward the corner flag like a plane taking flight.
Everton's fans stood stunned—mouths open, motionless. For a few precious seconds, Goodison Park fell silent.
Then came the boos, a wall of noise crashing back onto the pitch.
But the silence that preceded it—that stunned, breathless pause—was the truest form of acknowledgment a rival could ever give.
Yang Yang slid to his knees at the corner in front of the traveling Liverpool fans, pressing a kiss to the colored wristband on his left arm before raising both hands high toward the sea of red.
The away end exploded with joy, their chants cutting through the wave of hostility.
It was only the tenth second of the game—
and Yang Yang had already set Anfield's fire loose inside Goodison Park.
...
...
"Yes!"
Rafa Benítez leapt from the touchline, his fist pumping the air. His face, usually calm and unreadable, broke into an uncharacteristic grin.
That strike had come out of nowhere—spontaneous, instinctive, but hit with such precision and power that even the usually stoic Spaniard couldn't contain his excitement.
"What a goal! What a way to start!" shouted Paco Ayestarán, his longtime assistant, laughing as he slapped Benítez on the shoulder. "That kind of goal lifts an entire team's spirit!"
Benítez nodded, his eyes still locked on the pitch where Yang Yang was being mobbed by his teammates.
"I knew his form was climbing," Benítez said, voice raised above the noise. "He's the type who thrives on rhythm—once he gets going, he's unstoppable!"
He clenched his fists, still riding the adrenaline. "That goal was absolutely vital."
Only those within Liverpool's inner circle truly understood how much they needed that early breakthrough.
The squad's condition that day was far from ideal.
The international break had been brutal. Most of the first-team players had been scattered across Europe and beyond, flying thousands of kilometers for qualifiers, then returning exhausted with barely two days to recover.
And to make matters worse, the FA had scheduled this Merseyside Derby for 12:45 p.m. on Saturday—a midday kickoff, the bane of any manager.
For players just back from international duty, it was a nightmare. The body's rhythm wasn't yet adjusted; concentration dipped, reaction time dulled. Morning matches often felt like sleepwalking through fog.
Benítez had been furious about it before the season even began.
He had openly criticized the FA's fixture scheduling, arguing that Liverpool were being unfairly treated. "We have more early kickoffs than any other top-four team," he had complained to reporters. And he was right—Liverpool had over a dozen lunchtime fixtures lined up that season, far more than rivals like Chelsea, Manchester United, or Arsenal.
But now, none of that mattered.
Yang Yang's thunderous strike had sliced through all that frustration like a blade through glass. It was as if someone had injected energy straight into Liverpool's veins.
"That's his third goal of the season," Benítez muttered under his breath, still watching the celebrations. "He told me before the season he'd score twenty-five."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's ambitious—but looking at him now… I believe he just might."
Ayestarán followed his gaze toward the corner flag, where Yang Yang was still surrounded by cheering teammates. "Look at his body language, Rafa. Confidence, composure—he's in peak form. I don't doubt his ability at all."
Then his tone softened slightly. "My only worry is whether he can endure the Premier League winter."
Benítez's expression grew thoughtful. He knew exactly what his assistant meant.
The Christmas period in England was infamous—the so-called 'Devil's Schedule.' Four matches packed into just ten days, no winter break, barely any recovery time. For newcomers from continental Europe, it was often a shock to the system.
"You're right," Benítez admitted quietly. "That's the real test—for him and for us."
He remembered Sir Alex Ferguson's famous saying: "The Premier League title race begins at Christmas."
And it was true. Many promising teams had fallen apart under the sheer physical and mental toll of those weeks.
But as he watched Yang Yang celebrating, the fans roaring behind him and his teammates rallying with renewed fire, Benítez's eyes gleamed with confidence.
"If he keeps this hunger," he said at last, "he'll get through it."
The Spaniard straightened his jacket and turned back toward the touchline, calm once again.
"That goal," he murmured to Ayestarán, "just changed everything."