"No one believed in my talent, but I still played those incredible matches."
"That's football."
"Football isn't just for players with talent."
"It can also belong to players like me—without talent, but with greater effort!"
Clatter!
The crowd erupted into continuous applause.
Su Hang knew exactly how to shape an image.
That was the approach he chose.
This time, he borrowed directly from Messi's genius persona—or rather, the undeniable fact of it—to craft his own identity as a hardworking player.
At first, people might think that talent attracts more fans.
But the truth is, only those who understand football deeply know that the courage to keep pushing in the face of despair is an even greater source of inspiration.
Su Hang was radiating his own unique charisma.
Every single moment.
Su Hang: "As for Puyol's talk about shutting out Real Madrid… I just hope that when I score on him, he doesn't get so scared he wets his pants."
A fierce counter.
The internet exploded instantly.
"Holy crap! My Su is fearless! Crush Barça!"
"Su Hang is overestimating himself. This season's Barcelona isn't the same—this is Invincible Barcelona!"
"Haha, did you forget Su's hat trick against your little Barça last season?"
"Real Madrid is all talk these days!"
"Haha, and they can hit hard too. Want to test it? Remember that one-vs-seven?"
Fans from both sides clashed online, trading insults like blows.
The war of words raged until kickoff, when attention finally shifted from keyboards to the screen.
"Alright, viewers, you're watching El Clásico."
"Today's match features Real Madrid and Barcelona, with Real Madrid at home. Their starting lineup is…"
"Goalkeeper: Casillas."
"Back four: Roberto Carlos, Samuel, Helguera, Raúl Bravo."
"Diamond midfield: Zidane, Gravesen, Figo, Beckham."
"Forwards: Ronaldo and… Suhang? Suhang? Holy crap! It's really Su Hang!"
Back in China, CCTV football commentator He Wei, wearing an emoji smile mask, waved his arms excitedly in front of the camera.
He was today's commentator.
He had been following the "Su Hang" story closely.
He desperately wanted to know the truth about him.
But with no overseas contacts, the information he had was a confusing mix of fact and rumor.
And since CCTV didn't hold La Liga broadcasting rights, he couldn't verify anything through official coverage.
So he secretly found a pirated stream and called the game himself.
If CCTV found out, he'd be fired on the spot.
But he couldn't resist—he had to know.
And then… Su Hang really was there!
Real Madrid really had Su Hang!
This had to be the famous "Siu" in Madrid!
But was he the same Su Hang Sports Weekly's Zhan Jun had reported on?
If they were indeed the same person...
That would make this moment truly historic for fans back home.
After all, they had cheered Ronaldo, Zidane, and Beckham for so many years, but none of them were theirs.
Now, someone they could call their own was stepping onto the biggest stage.
Still, He Wei had his doubts.
What if it was just a coincidence—just another "Su"?
What if it was all a misunderstanding, or worse, just a stitched-up clickbait story?
That would devastate the fans.
But the viewers in He Wei's stream were just as fired up as he was.
They had only one reason for tuning in: Su Hang, Su Hang—it really was Su Hang!
The chat flooded with comments:
"There really is a Su! That name has to be Asian!"
"Su Hang, so Sports Weekly was right? But the other papers kept questioning them!"
"Hard to say. Let's watch and see."
"What number is he? 24? That's a fringe number."
"Holy crap! Look! A Real Madrid fan is holding up a No. 24 jersey!"
"There are quite a few of them! Su Hang must be popular here."
"Of course! Didn't someone say he even had giant posters outside Madrid shopping malls?"
On the screen, both teams slowly entered the pitch.
The atmosphere was electric.
As the camera swept past Su Hang, He Wei's voice broke with emotion:
"It's true! It's really the player photo Sports Weekly published!"
"It's him—Su Hang!"
"Real Madrid's Crown Prince, Siu! He's really here!"
"La Liga! One of the most competitive leagues in the world!"
"El Clásico! One of football's greatest battles!"
"And we have a player stepping onto this stage—as a starter!"
"This is monumental for football back home! An unforgettable moment in our history!"
But his commentary was cut short.
Because El Clásico hadn't even started, and already sparks were flying.
After lining up, the players were supposed to shake hands.
But when Su Hang passed Puyol, Puyol didn't extend his.
Su Hang already had his hand out.
This…
How could Su let that slide?
"Hm?"
Figo, distracted, bumped into Su Hang from behind.
The entire line came to a halt.
Zidane, already ahead, turned to look back.
Su Hang's right hand remained outstretched, unmoving, right in front of Puyol.
Their eyes locked, tension crackling in the air.
Both teams' players turned to watch.
"What the hell's your problem!" Helguera shouted.
"Hey, show some respect!" Xavi snapped back, clashing with him.
"This is the Bernabéu! Don't bring that arrogance here!" Casillas barked.
"What, want to fight?" Eto'o grinned, always eager to provoke Real Madrid.
Boo! Boo! Boo!
The Bernabéu erupted in fury.
Boos rained down from every corner of the stadium.
The scene teetered on the edge of chaos.
The referee rushed over to take control.
But the truth was—Su Hang hadn't done anything.
So the referee looked straight at Puyol, his eyes warning:
Don't make me book you before the match even starts.
Reluctantly, Puyol extended his hand and gave Su Hang a quick touch.
He hadn't expected to be cornered like that.
What a bastard.
Su Hang's lips curled into a mocking smile as he turned away.
Puyol's face turned crimson.
Humiliation.
Rage.
Frustration.
Shame.
All boiled inside him.
He wanted to tear Su Hang apart.
That forced handshake, topped with that smirk, was the greatest insult Puyol had ever endured.
Su Hang: Don't worry. Next time we face off, this won't even count as the worst insult.
Clatter!
The Bernabéu erupted in a roar of triumph.
Real Madrid fans chanted in unison:
"Su Hang!"
"Su Hang!"
"Su Hang!"
...
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