A desperate plea for help—please, take a few steps forward.

To put it simply, the world of football is like a martial arts society existing outside the ordinary world. Blue Wind Club could be considered a reputable sect, though not quite at the level of Shaolin or Wudang. Sometimes, even sects like Kongtong or Huashan produce notable masters. As for the small club led by Ox, it's probably not even on par with the Five Tigers Blade School; it's more akin to a modest dojo or a minor escort agency. Bai Haonan choosing to retire here seems like a fitting decision.

Just as he described Isa, this way of living merely requires a foothold. As long as someone helps solve the basic needs of food and shelter, he has confidence he can enjoy life. So, at dinner, Bai Haonan was led by Ox to the open-air “dining hall” and met more than a dozen players who had been training here. It was said that only four or five semi-retired professional players trained offsite.

Even if it’s just a small dojo or escort agency, these men could tell from Bai Haonan’s physique and gait as he walked in that he was a skilled practitioner. Just as Bai Haonan had told his teammates in Chengdu, he was the archetype of a football player: tall and strong, with a lower body sturdier than his chest and shoulders, a pronounced backside, and robust outwardly turned legs. As soon as Ox introduced him as his former senior, every young man present was left only with enthusiasm.

Such is football; being a team sport, it requires cooperation, making it easy to accept others. Bai Haonan was also an easygoing and likable fellow, speaking with a standard Chengdu accent. Within ten minutes, he had memorized every player’s name, nickname, position, province of origin, and even their status within the team, even though Ox had merely led him around for quick introductions. It seemed his memory was made for such crowded situations, and at the dinner table he deliberately addressed everyone by name in conversation. This intentional familiarity at a first meeting easily made others feel respected.

The so-called iron camp with flowing soldiers—Bai Haonan had followed Old Chen at Blue Wind Club from youth teams to the main squad, witnessing countless players come and go. He was a seasoned veteran, slick and sociable, the atmosphere lively and warm. He even drank two bottles of beer with several teammates, though he steadfastly refused cigarettes offered to him: “As an athlete, drinking isn’t really a problem, it even helps with blood circulation, but smoking is absolutely harmful. It damages heart and lung function and the respiratory tract, which is crucial to improve in high-intensity matches.”

Of course, in any group, there would be someone who disagreed, shrugging off his advice: “I’ve heard smoking doesn’t mess things up, drinking does. Besides, plenty of big stars and top players smoke—what’s the big deal?”

Everything began with Bai Haonan losing his phone after drinking, prompting him to smile wryly, “People say all sorts of things, all sounding reasonable. But let’s talk stars. I know a top player from the Northeast, who started smoking at six or seven. He entered the premier league at eighteen, and even after thirty, he’s still going strong. But what kind of talent does he have? One hundred percent. Even if his heart and lung function isn’t perfect, his stamina only lasts half a game, but that half is still at a hundred percent. Coaches rely on him, willingly letting him play just half a game for a big salary. To be blunt, if you have one hundred percent talent, you can do whatever you like. Do you? Sixty percent gets you into the professional league, eighty into the top league, ninety to be a starter. Do you have that? Don’t compare yourself to the successful ones—among tens of thousands of players, only one makes it like that.”

The young man Bai Haonan rebuked turned red and looked displeased, but Bai Haonan pretended not to notice.

After dinner, several young players, clearly wanting to test his skills, invited him to play small-sided games. Bai Haonan arrogantly refused. After resting, he showily rummaged in his car for a training shirt emblazoned with “First Hospital” in English, changed, and headed to the gym to work out, recovering the fitness lost during these relaxed days. Even if he no longer played professionally, Bai Haonan knew his body was his asset—for flirting, escaping, even surviving. This was the lesson he learned as a teenager entering athletics: the body is the root of everything, which is why he cherished it more than most peers. As for anything else, he was too lazy to think about it.

This, perhaps, was Bai Haonan’s limit in striving for his profession—nothing more. At age twelve, he had already seen the gap in talent from his summer camp peer; some things are impossible no matter how hard you try.

The so-called gym was right next to several large round dining tables, with cheap red synthetic carpet laid over a plastered concrete floor, a few basic barbells and dumbbells, even the rowing machine and stationary bike were domestic models, with no proper multi-gym in sight. It was a disheartening sight.

But for Bai Haonan, as long as something was there, it sufficed.

He methodically worked through each exercise at his own familiar pace, slowly but always up to professional standards. The slower, the harder it became. For example, a simple dumbbell movement: doing it quickly with momentum and slowly relying on muscle alone are worlds apart in burning fat and stimulating muscle fibers.

Aside from a few who, out of interest, played small-sided games under one or two halogen lights outside, most of the twenty-something players were grouped, playing cards or mahjong. A few handsome ones were grooming themselves, clearly preparing to go out and party. Just like Bai Haonan used to do: skipping practice, sneaking out whenever possible, partying being his usual choice.

But stopping regular fitness training for just half a month after fleeing Chengdu, the drawbacks of breaking systematic training appeared: his upper body began to soften, and Bai Haonan, accustomed to his physique for over twenty years, felt uneasy and quickened his recovery, planning to firm up before heading out for fun.

And of course, to show off a little.

These young men were at least better than the likes of Enzyme, Old Song, and Old Zhou; the difference wouldn’t be so apparent on the field, so they could compete in fitness. Even if top league teams were criticized for their quality, their intensity and systemic training far surpassed these second-tier teams.

If the earlier equipment hadn’t shown much difference, Bai Haonan’s ease and composure drew attention, especially since he was quietly working while others played. Ox watched admiringly, leaning over the bamboo partition to help count reps. When Bai Haonan began barbell squats—forty, sixty kilograms, still lifting from the ground to his chest—at eighty kilograms, Bai Haonan gave a look, and Ox called a reliable teammate to help lift the barbell onto Bai Haonan’s shoulders for back squats. After finishing that set, they loaded one hundred kilograms, and nearly all the young players gathered around to watch.

Ox boasted, “Old... Wang, Jianguo’s squats were at one hundred and twenty kilograms ten years ago—now that’s strength!”

A young player quipped, “Maybe we should recruit weightlifters to play football!”

Ox’s face faltered and he quickly scolded, “Zhou Xiaopeng! Stop talking nonsense!” The young man fell silent, though his expression was unconvinced.

Bai Haonan finished, let the helpers take the barbell down, wiped his sweat with a towel, and advised Ox, “You should get someone to weld a squat rack. Remember Old Sun, the one from Western Jiangxi? He got injured doing squats—damaged his lumbar vertebrae and was paralyzed for life.”

It was already eight or nine in the evening. Aside from the halogen lights attracting moths, the surroundings were deserted and silent. These young men, recklessly using their new bodies, saw the bearded veteran casually clasp his hands at Ox’s waist, gesturing as if feeling the change in vertebrae. Their backs tingled with a chill, a sense of foreboding.

Bai Haonan turned to face everyone with a mischievous smile, “Ox, you hurt your knee. I have a permanent injury to my left metatarsal, but my right foot is fine…” He casually picked up a football from beside the greenhouse, tapped it in front of him with his right toe, and without any run-up or preparation, just stood there on one leg and powered through. His body didn’t set up at all, simply using his thigh strength—a hurried shot uncomfortable on the field—but the ball exploded with a dull thud and shot off like a cannonball. Bai Haonan smiled, “Anyone who can match that, I’ll pay them a thousand!”

With proper setup, a run-up, and technique, achieving that power is not hard for a professional, but doing it from a standstill is much tougher, requiring specifically trained thigh muscles. The young players exchanged glances, uncertain.

Bai Haonan, with less than fifty yuan in his pocket, was absolutely certain.

Hell, there isn’t even a squat rack here; training is half-hearted. Seems the coach isn’t particularly competent.

Right, must remind Ox—Wang Jianguo’s ID now says he’s only twenty-three. Who squats one hundred twenty kilograms at thirteen?