Chapter Two: First Encounter (A Midnight Offering)

When he was on the plane, Mo Mo’s mind was filled with countless thoughts.

Would there be hordes of fans waiting for him at the airport? Or would the terminal be deserted, leaving him to slip through like any ordinary traveler? Mo Mo had to admit, he found the 2002 mobile phones rather awkward to use, but at least he finally had one!

Mino Raiola hadn’t come with him to China. According to Raiola, someone would be there to pick him up and take him to the training base. When Mo Mo pressed Raiola about who this mysterious person might be, Raiola only responded with a cryptic smile and a teasing glint in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Mo Mo cast these idle thoughts aside. Once off the plane, he glanced around, unable to suppress a sigh.

China in 2002—so much to get used to, so much to remember and long for. He flicked his Nokia phone open and shut, open and shut, a gesture born of boredom. Just as he was about to lose himself in the monotony, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Turning, he found himself facing a man who bore a passing resemblance to Uncle Benshan—proudly set features, a mouth hinting at arrogance, the kind of person who didn’t seem easy to get along with. A faint circle of mustache shadowed his upper lip, which only reinforced the resemblance. His eyebrows were thick, his eyes deep-set, and he was lean, almost gaunt, with a touch of age about him. Mo Mo immediately knew who he was, though he had fewer white hairs than Mo Mo remembered from before his rebirth.

“You’re Hao Haidong, Asia’s Number One Striker?”

Mo Mo swore he wasn’t trying to flatter him. It’s just that, back then, whenever Hao Haidong’s name was mentioned, it was inevitably accompanied by the title “Asia’s Number One Striker.” And at that time, the team truly needed a striker like him.

“Hahaha! You must be Mo Mo, huh? You’ve got a sweet tongue, kid!” Hao Haidong’s laughter was hearty, suffused with the confidence of someone who believes no one else in the world can surpass him. When he smiled, the sternness, the aloofness, the weariness that usually cloaked him seemed to melt away in the sunlight.

“Yes, I’m Mo Mo.”

He didn’t know what else to say. Standing before Hao Haidong, there was so much he wanted to express, but all those words condensed into that single sentence, laden with emotion.

“Too skinny, much too skinny! Tell me, who’d you pull strings with to get here?” Hao Haidong’s grip was strong, his hand pressing down on Mo Mo’s shoulder so hard it seemed his bones might crack. But Mo Mo merely frowned, then raised his head to meet Hao Haidong’s gaze. He said nothing, but his eyes sent a clear message: let go of your hand.

“Oh, got some temper, have you?”

At this, Hao Haidong’s demeanor seemed to shift, his haughtiness coming to the fore. But in the world of football, especially as a striker, he was undeniably excellent.

When someone is described as “cocky,” there are usually two types: those who are arrogant with others, looking down on everyone, and those who genuinely have the skills to back it up. Hao Haidong embodied both.

“Senior, could you treat me with a little more respect?”

Mo Mo’s words made Hao Haidong’s face freeze for a moment. He said nothing more, simply turned and strode off in a huff. Mo Mo followed silently, both men heading in the same direction. After a while, Mo Mo suddenly heard a voice.

“Hey, punk, when did you go to the Bundesliga Second Division?”

Mo Mo looked up, thinking he must have misheard, but then again, maybe not. He ventured, “Are you talking to me?”

Hao Haidong stopped. When they were walking side by side, he turned his head, using his height to exert a subtle pressure, and replied, “Who else?”

Mo Mo was speechless for a moment, but soon understood. Though it was the first time Hao Haidong had met him, Mo Mo had been familiar with Hao Haidong for years, and knew well enough about his temperament. Was this the beginning of the notorious chatterbox mode? Sure enough, for the rest of the walk, Hao Haidong barely paused for breath.

Northerners are known for their gift of gab, but Hao Haidong seemed exceptionally talkative—and fast. He recounted how, back in 2001 when he talked about Bora Milutinovic, he’d been right on the mark. He believed that anyone who disrupted team harmony had no business being on the squad.

In that moment, Mo Mo realized that all those images he’d seen on television, everything he’d heard or read about Hao Haidong, were nothing compared to the real man before him: verbose, stern, proud.

He had no natural flair for joking, and always spoke with grave seriousness—sometimes to his own detriment. But Hao Haidong was at least genuine, always telling the plain truth. By now, they were almost at the training ground—and Hao Haidong had been talking non-stop for two hours.

Mo Mo didn’t even notice when he’d gotten into the car or arrived at the training camp. His ears were filled with nothing but Hao Haidong’s voice—nothing but that.

“Come, let’s have a competition!”

Just as Mo Mo breathed a sigh of relief, Hao Haidong appeared out of nowhere with a football at his feet, weighing it thoughtfully.

“A competition?” Mo Mo’s voice was puzzled. By now, a small crowd had gathered—Chinese fans, players in training, a few reporters—people of all kinds, surrounding them with curiosity.

“I heard you’ve already scored two hat-tricks in just four or five matches in the Bundesliga Second Division this season. I heard you’ve got explosive power. I want to see it with my own eyes. Come on, let’s compete!”

Damn it, damn it! Mo Mo cursed inwardly. How could he have forgotten? Hao Haidong was notorious for his aggressiveness and competitiveness. On the field, such traits could be virtues: energetic, professional. But right now, Mo Mo was starting to feel maddened. Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded testing himself against Hao Haidong.

“Uh, senior, are you sure you want to do this now?”

Hao Haidong seemed more than comfortable—perhaps even relished—being the center of attention. Without hesitation, he challenged Mo Mo again, sending the ball to Mo Mo’s feet. In an instant, Hao Haidong lunged forward, deftly hooking the ball away from under Mo Mo’s toes.

A murmur of whispers rose from the crowd. Mo Mo couldn’t make out the words, but he was certain his name was being mentioned.

All right, senior! Even if you are my senior, you’ve really provoked me now!

The next moment, Mo Mo’s explosive speed burst forth, and he shot toward Hao Haidong like a streak of wind.

Well, there’s a saying I’ve heard countless times since arriving in this world:

The waves of the Yangtze River drive the old ones forward—the old waves... end up on the shore!

A roar of excitement erupted around them. What just happened?