Chapter 062: The Guardian’s Hand

This story is purely fictional.

During halftime, Zhao Ming bought a bottle of drink from the bar and gulped it down in one go. Because of his nerves, he felt somewhat uneasy, pacing back and forth restlessly. The fifteen-minute break felt to him as if it stretched on for a century.

When the second half of the match began, he returned to the now-cold couch cushion and continued watching the progress of the game. Time slipped by, second by second. The Duelists’ attacks seemed relentless, blossoming with promise but never bearing fruit. Before he knew it, five minutes of injury time had passed. His thirty-thousand yuan bet still hung in the balance, unresolved, as if he had staked all he owned, the wager drifting atop the water, its destination unknown. He could only hope that in these last five minutes, the Duelists would perform a miracle—anything but an accident. He was at least grateful he had placed a ten-thousand-yuan bet on a low score, which would recover some of his losses. Shaking his head, he lamented the Duelists' failure. It seemed that, with ninety minutes gone, the match would end as it stood; no goals, and though the odds on the under 0.5 goal bet were low, he had increased his stake by another ten thousand. Winning five thousand back seemed a decent outcome.

But then, in stoppage time, the situation changed dramatically. The Hippies, as though awoken from slumber, attacked the Duelists’ goal like a tidal wave. The Hippies’ substitute striker took a long shot, sending the ball hurtling toward the Duelists’ net.

The Hippies’ fans erupted into a frenzy, their thunderous shouts reverberating above the stadium. As the ball rolled toward the Duelists’ goal, it seemed to lose momentum. Lava, the famed goalkeeper who played for a top club in OR Continent, dived to the side—not to clear the ball, but with a subtle movement, flicked it gently, nudging the ball over the goal line.

That goal utterly shattered Zhao Ming. His thirty-thousand-yuan bet on the Duelists had lost, and his last-minute under bet was gone as well. Of the forty thousand he had wagered, apart from a single small win before the match, he had lost it all.

All in a single match, undone by the famed goalkeeper from OR. He should have had a ten-thousand-yuan gain from the under, but with that goal, he lost almost thirty thousand more.

He was utterly devastated, with nowhere to turn for redress. He knew, in truth, that there was no point in seeking justice for such things. He only felt despair at this match, as if he were walking a path toward death—a moth drawn to the flame, courting destruction.

The group who had traveled with him to Liugong Island had already disembarked at the pier. They chatted and laughed among themselves. Some were discussing last night's Liberators' Cup match, saying the goalkeeper had deliberately flicked the ball into his own net. Zhao Ming trailed at the back of the group, blushing with shame. Even those who knew nothing about football recognized it as a fixed match—so why had he gambled on the outcome at all?

On the bus waiting for the return journey, others exchanged stories about their adventures on Liugong Island, all entranced by the beauty of the sacred isle. In twos and threes, they made their way to the bus, and once everyone had arrived, they set out for the hotel.

Leaving the internet café, Zhao Ming looked like a defeated rooster, his eyes bloodshot and his face numb. To outsiders, he seemed to have suffered a tremendous blow, or perhaps experienced some unknown calamity.

He clutched an empty drink bottle in his hand. Though it was empty, he still gripped it tightly by the neck. Suddenly, he struck his own head with the bottle, producing a series of dull thuds. The plastic was dented and misshapen. He glanced at the battered bottle, then, with a running start, hurled it high into the air.

He had no one to vent his resentment to; by now he was completely numb. It felt as if the world was playing a cosmic joke on him—one so cruel he found it hard to accept.

His head began to buzz, a sharp pain surging through it. He had to massage his temples with his forefingers to ease the pain, but the more he tried, the worse it became. In the end, he pounded his brow with his fist, which brought him a little relief.

His steps became unsteady, his back hunched, and he dragged himself toward the bus stop, a journey that should have taken ten minutes instead lasting half an hour.

His companions on the bus noticed his strange demeanor. What was supposed to be a joyful trip had, for him, held not a moment of happiness. He exchanged no words with his colleagues, not even a single phrase. Among the three from the station, it was rare to see Director Chi in such a state, but no one felt comfortable asking what was wrong.

The team leader, concerned, asked, "Are you feeling unwell? Or is something else on your mind? You look rather pale. If you're not feeling well, do you want to go to a hospital?"

"Thank you, but no need. I'll be fine after some rest. Please don't worry about me," Zhao Ming replied.

Once everyone was accounted for, the guide began explaining the return arrangements: "After about half an hour's journey, we'll arrive at the hotel. Please settle your luggage, then proceed to the third-floor restaurant for lunch. Afterwards, you'll have some free time. In the evening, we'll dine again on the third floor, then await the ship's departure. We expect to arrive at Dalian's passenger terminal early tomorrow morning, around four or five o'clock." As the guide described the sights along the way, they soon reached the hotel.

Meanwhile, Will and his two companions arrived at the Dahe Club’s parking lot, where the club’s executives had been waiting for some time.

They lined the walkway to offer him the highest level of welcome.

Inside the chairman's conference room, the top executives were seated around a round table. Fruit and bottled water were set out, and each person had a microphone before them.

The chairman cleared his throat, sipped some water, drew the microphone closer, and welcomed Mr. Will.

As the club’s financial backer, Mr. Will was held in high esteem at Dahe. The leadership understood that without MC’s support and sponsorship, and the considerable expense of hiring Yan Weiyi, a former national team coach, Dahe Club might have vanished from the national league years ago. They also knew that only by competing in the top league could they profit from the golden pot; without that platform, they would be nothing.

Will’s purpose was clear: he intended for the club to change ownership. At the meeting, he said, "After the recent player murder case, MC has reflected deeply. We believe that unless you firmly grasp the active control of the club, disaster will ensue. Such incidents can have far-reaching consequences. The last incident was due to a failure in your upper management's thinking, which conflicted with our expectations. Now, public opinion holds that your performance in that match was abnormal. Can you explain why?"

"Our opponents desperately needed three points to avoid relegation. The coach followed top management’s instructions, and we really didn’t expect that goal—it was pure accident."

"Regardless, our decision for Dahe to change hands stands. New ownership will guarantee enough funds for your club's development. I hear you intend to bring in the B-country star Rolacara next season. Without strong financial backing, your club has no hope of achieving anything. Otherwise, you’ll struggle for survival every year—what's the point? If we’re going to play, let’s play at a higher level. Small-time tactics will only hold back your club's growth." With that, Will signaled to his assistant, Nuo Bingyang.

Nuo Bingyang understood and produced a signed contract. This was an agreement already prepared by MC and the new owner; once Dahe signed, the new owner would take over next week.

The chairman examined the contract and saw that the new owner was the famous comic actor Hao Benshan. "Can someone who knows nothing about football really run the club?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter. What you need is capital injection. Whether or not he knows football is irrelevant. Look at your own Football Association: does anyone there know the game? Yet Chinese football clubs are still bustling and lively, aren’t they?"

"That's true. It's certainly a lively scene, but achieving real results is hard," the chairman interjected.

"Isn’t that statement a little funny? Since when did Dahe Club start worrying about the nation's fate? Other countries have leagues that have lasted decades, even centuries. During the Song Dynasty, you had cuju players with unmatched skill; no country in the world could compare to Chinese football then. Yet now, it's fallen to this. How can fans not be heartbroken—heartbroken for decades? As for results, let’s measure it by when China next qualifies for the World Cup. The gods themselves say they might not live to see it. No one knows when your team will truly achieve anything. Just concentrate on making money from our golden pot. Let everyone fill their pockets—what could be better?" Will seemed to see right through the ways of Chinese football.

His words left the club’s executives speechless; they glanced at one another, like schoolchildren listening to a professor’s lecture—half understanding, half not. But seeing Will’s expression, they could only nod in agreement, knowing that making money was the only hard truth.

"If anyone has comments, please speak freely," Will said.

"No objections; we'll follow your arrangements," answered the people around the table.

"Our thinking is mainly for the club’s long-term development: first, a new owner will raise the team's profile and bring its construction to a higher level; second, we’ll get rid of troublesome elements and take our collaboration with MC Entertainment to a new height."

After listening to Will’s suggestions, the club quickly agreed. In less than four hours, they had reached a consensus.

"Very well. Hao Benshan should take over next week. Make the necessary preparations. Also, he has one request: for his first match at Dahe—which is next weekend’s game—he wants a win. Let’s make the Dahe vs. Tigers match his debut; the opposition is relatively weak, so let’s help Hao Benshan get off to a good start." (To be continued)