Unconventional Center

Chapter 48: High-Octane Action Ahead

“There’s always a force bursting with passion that stirs your heart; there’s always an unparalleled goal that makes you cheer; there’s always a loyalty forged in fire that you’ll never forget; there’s always a player with boundless charm that keeps you devoted…” “A city—Valencia; a color—white; a kind of love—loyalty; a mood—poignant beauty; a man—Ugo…” When He Qingyuan walked into his study, he heard this passionate and heartfelt commentary, accompanied by tragic background music, which instantly made him pause in his tracks. Xiao Xinhuan, who had been gloating in anticipation of revenge, felt his heart skip a beat once again. Oh no, Grandpa’s about to defect! He Qingyuan patted Little He’s pouting head and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll let you play a little longer later.” Little He, who could no longer squeeze out any tears, gave up. She stomped her feet in a very girlish manner to express her dissatisfaction with the other two men in the house, then scampered off to tattle to Grandma and Mom. The subtitles in the lower-left corner of the video changed from “Absolute Superstar: The Fall of Glory” to “Absolute Rising Star: The White Legacy,” and the music became full of passion. On screen, Ugo—now in his forties—dressed in a suit and tie, handed a Valencia No. 10 jersey to a young man. “Cesc Moya, a Valencia native—he grew up here, became a professional player here, and here, following in the footsteps of his predecessors, he’s pursuing his dreams step by step…” Compared to the one-hour “Absolute Superstar” segment, “Absolute Rising Star” lasted less than twenty minutes. It primarily followed Mo Ya’s perspective to introduce Valencia’s past and present, naturally featuring various rarely seen footage and exciting on-field highlights. The comment stream, which had been filled with a sense of nostalgia, suddenly became lively again. “He’s so handsome—I’m staring at the screen.” “Is he a midfielder? Then I’m off to watch the Spring Festival Gala.” “Damn, my goddess is about to go on stage. I’m outta here—see you later, everyone.” “That assist was pretty slick—he’s been underrated in the Segunda División.” “His footwork is delicate, and his passing and ball control are top-notch, but I don’t know if it’s just the highlight reel talking—his true level remains to be seen.” There’s less than twenty minutes left in the video, and right now they’re showing a highlight reel from the field. Mo Ya faces the wall, hands on his hips, breathing slightly heavily, then takes a run-up and shoots. Everyone knows this is a highlight reel—the ball is bound to go in—so everyone assumes it’s another spectacular direct goal. But just as the ball reaches the goalmouth, it drops limply to the ground. “Huh? Did the editing go wrong?” thought some of the others watching this episode of *Green Field Magnifier*—who had their own agendas—with a touch of schadenfreude. He Qingyuan, sitting right behind He Feng, shook his head and was about to leave when he suddenly narrowed his eyes. A figure, like a ghost, caught up with the ball, leaped into the air, lightly swung his right foot, and tapped the ball with his heel—and it went in. It was crisp, clean, and elegantly stylish—the scene as dreamlike as a meticulously choreographed movie. The camera cut to Mo Ya, who was raising his arms in celebration after the assist. Viewers could only catch a fleeting glimpse of the figure running toward the sideline and the number on his back. Number 9. “That number 9 looks familiar,” He Feng murmured without realizing it. “It’s him!” He Qingyuan suddenly exclaimed, startling He Feng. He used to follow Chu Yang closely, but after Chu Yang moved to the Segunda División, his interest waned considerably. The only updates he received were statistics—things like average shots per game and goals scored. While impressive, they simply couldn’t match the impact of actual footage. “Um, Dad, who is that?” He Feng glanced at He Qingyuan, then back at the screen, and found the answer in the live chat. “Am I seeing things? That looks like Chu Yang?” “It’s definitely Chu Yang. Confirmed.” “No wonder the name Valencia sounded so familiar—it’s the club that signed Chu Yang.” “Newbie here—who is Chu Yang?” “I’m neither a newbie nor a noob, but I’m also wondering—who is Chu Yang?” Before anyone could answer, Chu Yang appeared on screen again. Once again, it was a pass from Mo Ya. Chu Yang controlled the ball by leaning against the defender’s chest, then—amidst a chorus of “Holy shit!” from the crowd of fans in front of their computers—gently chipped the ball over the defender’s head, turned, and unleashed a blistering shot. The comment stream seemed to have been suddenly swallowed whole by the “Censorship God,” and the screen instantly cleared up considerably. The video continued to focus on Mo Ya, who sprinted all the way to find Chu Yang—who was sweeping the field like a “machine gun”—and leaped onto his back… The comment stream suddenly exploded. “I must be seeing things—that’s not Chu Yang.” “Don’t be ridiculous—that’s definitely Chu Yang!” “That can’t be the Chu Yang I know!” “That’s the Chu Yang I know!” “I can’t stand you guys. I’ll go check it out myself and see who this Chu Yang really is.” “A goal like that calls for a toast.” “The Chu Chui fans are getting all hyped up again—just waiting for them to get their faces slapped.” “All he can do is dominate the weak teams in the Second Division.” “What’s Chu Yang’s background that Nirvana would go out of its way to promote him like this?” “You don’t even know that? Valencia has already been acquired by Nirvana. Now Nirvana is Chu Yang’s backer—so tell me, are you scared or what?” “I’m so scared, so scared. They’re doing a whole episode just to whitewash a player everyone agrees is a bust—I’m really scared.” “If you’ve got the guts, lead Valencia to La Liga—stop messing around with this nonsense.” Someone’s stirring things up. At Nirvana Video Headquarters, almost everyone felt a jolt of anxiety upon seeing the live comments—the crucial moment had arrived. “It’s probably people from Splendor and Leyi. Mr. Liu, are you going to make a move?” “Let’s wait and see. Tell the team over there to get ready.” Trolls? You’ve got them, and so do I. If they’re causing a ruckus on my turf and helping me generate buzz, who’s afraid of who? In the video, there was another free kick—but this time, the focus wasn’t on Mo Ya, but on Chu Yang. As a result, the tone of the comments targeting Chu Yang became even more pronounced. “The cat’s out of the bag, huh? They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.” “I naively thought that so-called ‘absolute rising star’ was Mo Ya. Turns out he was hiding right here—what a schemer.” “A well-meaning person who’s been following the Segunda División and Chu Yang offers a friendly warning: High-intensity content ahead—non-combatants, please take cover.” “A not-so-kind person who’s also been following the Segunda División and Chu Yang offers a not-so-kind warning: High-intensity content ahead—non-combatants, please take cover.” “High-intensity warning +3.” “Chu Chui reminds you: High-intensity content ahead—watch out for face-pains.” For a moment, all sorts of snide comments were drowned out by the endless variations of “Warning: High-Impact Content.” “Did our people make a move?” Liu Huai'an asked. “Nope.” “This is going to be fun,” Old Liu chuckled. “This is going to be fun.” Xiao Luo smiled and echoed the same words. Over in Spain, Chu Yang connected his computer to the TV so everyone could see the live comments. You have to admit, sometimes the comments are even more entertaining than the main content. “I didn’t realize you had so many fans back home,” Chu Yu said with a smile. “There are quite a few people with good taste,” Chu Yang boasted without a hint of modesty. “Is there something wrong with this goal?” Shen Qianwei asked curiously, having neither watched the match nor seen the video in advance. Xiao Luo didn’t answer, but said meaningfully, “The live comments are about to be cleared.” Besides Shen Qianwei, Comrade Old Chu was the only other person who hadn’t seen that goal. He was equally curious; influenced by Little Chu, he knew quite a bit about soccer. “That shot was over thirty meters away, right? Could you have scored it?” Little Chu just smiled without saying a word, his expression inscrutable. In the video, Chu Yang began an exaggerated long-distance run-up, swung his leg, and took the shot. The camera cut to Mo Ya’s perspective, showing the soccer ball—like a missile with a pre-set trajectory—curving around the wall and into the goal. The previously bustling stream of comments fell completely silent. The world fell silent.