UNBELIEVABLE.
TRULY UNPRECEDENTED.
When Ajax returned to Amsterdam from Mandemakers Stadion in Waalwijk, the scene that awaited them defied belief.
From the highway interchanges leading into the capital to the gates of De Toekomst and all the way to the forecourt of the Amsterdam Arena, fans had gathered in droves. Ajax supporters painted the city red and white—chanting, singing, crying. Some had waited for hours. Others had followed the team bus in caravans. But all of them had come for one reason: to celebrate history.
They weren't just celebrating another Eredivisie title. No, this moment transcended trophies.
They came for Yang Yang.
Fifty league goals.
Not since the earliest days of European football had anyone achieved what the 19-year-old Chinese prodigy just had. In the eyes of many, the Eredivisie wasn't as competitive as the Bundesliga, Serie A, La Liga, or the Premier League. But even in this league, scoring 30 goals in a season was considered exceptional. Reaching 50? It bordered on the mythical.
Not even legends like Johan Cruyff, Marco van Basten, or Ruud van Nistelrooy had touched that number.
But Yang Yang had.
And he was only nineteen.
If there had ever been doubts about his future, they had now been utterly silenced. The football world unanimously agreed—only injury could derail his rise to greatness. And just like the Netherlands once watched stars like Van Basten and Ronaldo depart for the elite stages of Europe, now all eyes turned to Yang Yang. His next step—whether La Liga, Serie A, or the Premier League—felt inevitable.
The return journey from Waalwijk took a little over an hour. By the time the team bus pulled in at De Toekomst, Yang Yang had recovered enough to step out first, holding the Eredivisie trophy high above his head. The eruption from the crowd was deafening. Flags waved, confetti burst into the air, and fireworks cracked over the skyline of Amsterdam.
It wasn't just a trophy he had brought back. It was a memory. A symbol.
Three consecutive Eredivisie titles.
And now, a European scoring record to go with them.
From this day forward, no one could ever question Ajax's ability to develop forwards. Yang Yang had elevated their academy's legacy to new heights.
Club chairman Michael van Praag and director Arie van Eijden were among the first to greet him with open arms. The embrace was sincere, the pride in their eyes unmistakable. One by one, the club's senior figures came forward to congratulate him. Then came the embrace from Van Basten himself—his smile betraying layers of admiration and melancholy.
"This isn't just Yang Yang's achievement," Van Praag declared to the press. "This is a moment of pride for all of Ajax. For Dutch football. For Europe."
In the crowd of supporters and dignitaries, Yang Yang spotted two familiar faces: Van Basten and Arie Haan. The former Ajax greats came forward, clapping, beaming with pride, and embracing the teenager whose name was now etched in history.
"Today, the whole of Amsterdam, no—the whole of the Netherlands—is cheering for you," Van Basten said, gripping Yang Yang's shoulder with an emotion few could understand.
He had once chased the same glory, and he knew how rare these moments were. Sometimes, history opened a narrow door. If you missed it, there was no second chance.
Dirk Kuyt, the pride of Feyenoord, had vowed last summer to challenge Yang Yang for the Golden Boot. But in the end, Kuyt barely scored half as many goals.
And even if Yang Yang remained in the Eredivisie next season, it was unlikely he would replicate these numbers.
Form fluctuated. Teams changed. Players came and went. Seasons were unpredictable.
But this season, he had seized the moment.
He had dragged greatness out of himself and pulled his teammates with him.
What made it all the more remarkable was not just talent, but diligence. Tenacity. Work ethic. The quiet hours on the training ground, the pain he bore behind closed doors. That's what made this more than a breakout—it was a triumph of willpower.
Tomorrow, his name would be everywhere.
From Amsterdam to London, from Madrid to Shanghai, the world would speak of Yang Yang.
Media outlets would scramble to publish interviews and retrospectives. Sports papers would feature his goal maps, analysts would compare him to legends, and agents across Europe would draw up offers.
Van Basten, however, had a different concern.
As he clapped a hand on Yang Yang's back, his voice was low and firm.
"Celebrate tonight, Yang, but don't let this be your ceiling. Promise me that."
Yang Yang nodded, his expression solemn. "I won't stop here. I can still go further. I must."
Van Basten smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes as he pulled Yang Yang into a tight embrace.
No one—not even Yang Yang—could truly understand what that meant to Van Basten.
The world saw him as a genius, but he knew the truth: he had worked harder than anyone, trained longer, suffered more. And just when his legacy was within reach, injury had robbed him of a career that could have been even greater.
He was a legend. But he had once dreamed of being immortal.
Now, he watched Yang Yang walk the same path he once trod.
He felt pride. And also fear.
But deep down, Yang Yang had become more than a protégé.
He was Van Basten's second chance. His unfinished symphony.
...
...
Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Barcelona, Spain.
Tucked between the gymnasium and the first-team dressing rooms at FC Barcelona's state-of-the-art training facility, there lies a modest yet vibrant recreation space — a player-only rest zone often buzzing with laughter, shouts, and bouncing balls.
It's a rectangular alcove enclosed on three sides by high walls, bathed in natural light through a transparent glass curtain wall. Though seemingly ordinary at first glance, the space had long been transformed into a sacred battleground for Brazil's most beloved pastime: futebol de rede — a fast-paced version of foot-volleyball with strict technical demands.
Ever since Ronaldinho arrived in Barcelona, the charismatic Brazilian playmaker had turned this area into his unofficial domain. Together with compatriots like Sylvinho and Belletti, they laid down adhesive tape to mark the boundaries, strung up a makeshift net using bandages, and declared the arena open. Matches were played one-on-one, with a strict rule: no more than three touches per player before returning the ball. Any violation? A point to the opponent.
Soon, the game became a daily ritual. All the Brazilian players adored it — a joyful echo of home in the heart of Catalonia. Even Frank Rijkaard once joked in front of the media, "Sometimes I think they're more serious about this net football than actual training."
It didn't take long for Lionel Messi, then still a teenager, to be pulled into their circle. Ronaldinho and Sylvinho personally invited him, and he quickly became a fixture in their spirited contests.
Eventually, the club itself relented to the players' enthusiasm. The open concrete surface was replaced with a springy, injury-resistant court. A proper nylon net was installed, reinforced by steel posts. The glass wall remained, giving the area a scenic openness — and in time, it became the most beloved leisure spot at La Masia and among the senior squad alike.
It was a place of smiles, tricks, and competitive camaraderie.
But not today.
Today, Messi sat slumped on one of the low sofas outside the court, chin buried in his hoodie, a scowl etched across his boyish face. His mood was far from the usual light-heartedness that permeated the air inside.
Just beside him, stacked neatly on the coffee table, were the early editions of Spain's and Europe's leading sports newspapers — Marca, Sport, L'Équipe, Gazzetta dello Sport, De Telegraaf.
Every single front page was dominated by one man: Yang Yang.
The Dutch league had witnessed something historic the previous afternoon. With a hat-trick against Waalwijk, Yang Yang reached fifty goals in the Eredivisie this season — shattering not only the domestic record but setting the highest tally in any top-flight European league in modern football history.
The football world erupted. Media hailed it as an era-defining feat. Pundits compared it to Gerd Müller's efficiency, Van Basten's elegance, and even Ronaldo Nazário's explosive dominance. And Messi? He sat there, bitter and contemplative.
While Yang Yang was lighting up stadiums across the Netherlands and Europe, Messi had been sidelined at the Ciutat Esportiva, recovering.
The injury occurred in the second leg of the Champions League Round of 16 against Chelsea. A four-centimeter tear in the upper region of his right femoral biceps had ruled him out — again. It was the same muscle group he had injured earlier that season, in a clash against Atlético Madrid.
That setback cost him twelve days.
This time, it was six weeks.
Barcelona's medical team explained that the biceps femoris is central to acceleration and sprint bursts — critical for players like Messi. Yet two injuries in the same spot within one year was a red flag. Not just bad luck.
Muscle damage, they argued, is almost always preventable. It's typically a result of inadequate warm-ups, poor recovery routines, or neglect of strength conditioning.
Messi was guilty of all three.
But it wasn't only on him. The club's medical and performance staff had come under criticism too. In fact, over the past three seasons, Barcelona had suffered an unusually high number of soft-tissue injuries — far more than what elite-level preparation should allow.
During this enforced spell on the sidelines, Messi had been undergoing intensive rehabilitation. Each day, he worked closely with Barcelona's Dutch fitness coach — who, during one gym session, casually uttered something that stuck with him like a knife:
"If you trained your core and legs daily the way Ajax's Yang Yang does, I promise you wouldn't just avoid injuries — you'd surpass your current level."
The words haunted Messi. The comparison cut deep. But instead of sulking, he quietly began showing up at the gym each morning. He changed his diet, trimmed the sugar and red meats, cut out late-night gaming, and doubled down on recovery protocols. Determination replaced frustration.
Finally, as April wore on, he returned to full training — just in time for the first leg of the Champions League semi-finals.
Against Ajax.
This wasn't just another European night. For Messi, it was personal.
It was a duel.
A test of fire between two prodigies born of different lands, now on a collision course.
And yes, on paper, Barcelona were far superior. They were tournament favorites, stacked with experience, and backed by a fortress-like Camp Nou. But Messi didn't care.
He wanted to play.
He wanted to face Yang Yang — and beat him.
He wanted to score in Amsterdam, on Yang Yang's turf, and silence the Dutchman's story with one of his own.
It was that hunger that drove him through weeks of painful rehab, tasteless meals, and grueling strength sessions.
But now — just days before the flight to the Netherlands — Yang Yang had stolen the spotlight again.
Fifty league goals. Likely a second consecutive European Golden Boot. At just 19, he was about to become the youngest ever to retain the award in history.
Messi clenched his fists, his thoughts racing.
Inside the glass arena, Ronaldinho had just finished another fiery net football match. Sweating and grinning, the Brazilian noticed Messi sitting alone, distant and moody.
He handed his spot in the next game to Deco and strolled out, grabbing one of the newspapers from the table before plopping down beside Messi.
He glanced at the headline and chuckled.
"Don't stress, hermanito," he said, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "Midweek, I'll give you the pass. You'll score. And we'll steal those headlines back."
Messi didn't answer at first. But a spark lit in his eyes — not of joy, but burning intent.
"I'm going to beat him," he said quietly. "With a goal."
...
While Lionel Messi sat brooding inside Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, grappling with headlines that sang Yang Yang's praises, Cristiano Ronaldo, over 1,500 kilometers away in Manchester, was having a similar morning.
The newspapers in England — from The Times to The Guardian, from The Daily Telegraph to The Sun — all carried some version of the same front-page declaration: Yang Yang had rewritten history.
The numbers spoke for themselves. Fifty league goals in a single Eredivisie season, a feat unprecedented not only in Dutch football, but across the modern top flights of Europe. Editorials called it "the dawn of a new golden age," while commentators debated if the young Ajax star had already surpassed the achievements of his generational peers.
Cristiano Ronaldo slammed the newspaper shut with a snap, frustration radiating from his voice.
"These journalists are ridiculous — anything for headlines," he muttered, tossing The Times onto the table. "Even they are treating him like he's Pelé reborn. Is that really necessary?"
He reached for The Sun next, only to scoff louder. "And this is even worse. Page Three — they're openly trying to seduce him now."
Ronaldo, as proud as ever, was visibly fuming. The Portuguese winger had grown used to attention — to being the one the press chased, the one draped in gossip and glory alike. But now, the spotlight had tilted. The crown of Europe's young star was in contention, and the man challenging for it wasn't in Manchester or Madrid, but Amsterdam.
His agent, Jorge Mendes, merely shrugged.
He had expected this. After all, Yang Yang had eclipsed Wayne Rooney in the eyes of many pundits, and that was no small thing — especially at a club like Manchester United.
As Cristiano rose through the ranks at Old Trafford, his ambitions grew in lockstep. The bigger he became, the more inevitable it was that comparisons would turn toward Yang Yang — the name dominating headlines, social media, and scouting reports across Europe.
"It's routine," Mendes said, almost amused. "Page Three loves attaching itself to the brightest rising stars. Maybe you should root for them to succeed in seducing him — could throw him off his game," he joked, tongue in cheek.
But Ronaldo shook his head, snorting in disdain as he glanced at the tabloid's glamour shot.
"If Yang Yang wanted women, he could have an army of them knocking at his door. But he doesn't seem interested in that kind of thing. If he falls for something this cheap, it'll be disappointing — unworthy of him as a rival."
He leaned back in his chair, more serious now. "If I'm going to beat him, it has to be on the pitch — clean, fair, and direct. If he loses his edge chasing women, I won't even bother considering him an opponent."
That, Mendes thought, was the Cristiano Ronaldo he knew. Arrogant, yes — but disciplined. Proud. Ruthless in his own ascension.
Still, his declaration caught Mendes slightly off guard. Not because of the sentiment, but because it revealed a rare crack in the armor — an emotional response, a rival that clearly mattered.
To steer the conversation elsewhere, the agent changed tack.
"So… what do you make of Real Madrid's latest interest?"
Cristiano's eyes flickered with intrigue, but he masked it quickly. Madrid was football's ultimate temple — the club of Di Stéfano, Zidane, and the Galácticos. And he knew it. Every ambitious player in Europe dreamed of the Bernabéu.
But even so, he waved the idea away.
"I won't be another Figo," he said firmly.
This time, the overture had come from a Madrid-based lawyer — an influential figure with deep ties to Florentino Pérez. Though Pérez had recently stepped down, the lawyer was now backing Lorenzo Sanz's successor, Fernando Martín, as the club's interim president. Martín was unpopular and seen by many as little more than Pérez's puppet, lacking the charisma and credibility to lead independently.
Facing internal pressure, Martín had called for early elections set to take place that summer. In an attempt to build his campaign around marquee signings and bold promises, he floated a dream plan: constructing the next Galácticos project around Yang Yang and Robinho.
The strategy, while eye-catching, raised eyebrows. Critics scoffed at Martín's ties to the old regime. They argued the reform he promised was hollow, his leadership a shadow of Pérez's, with whispers that the former president was still pulling strings from behind the scenes.
In a bid to boost credibility, Martín's camp approached Pedja Mijatović, a former club icon, to be his running mate. Mijatović in turn reached out to Mendes, asking him to broker a move for Cristiano Ronaldo — the same way Florentino once courted Figo.
But Ronaldo was no fool.
"I'm not sticking my neck into Real Madrid politics," he said flatly. "They can chant all the slogans they want. That's their business."
He paused, a gleam returning to his eyes.
"I'm more interested in where Yang Yang will go next."
His voice carried a tension — part anticipation, part challenge. It was clear: Cristiano wanted to face him, to beat him, to measure himself against the very best.
Mendes exhaled slowly, picking his words.
"No one knows for sure," he admitted. "He's ruled out Real Madrid for now. Barcelona? Unlikely. Messi's presence complicates things — and frankly, they don't seem interested."
He ticked off options on his fingers.
"Serie A clubs are circling — Juventus and Inter Milan have both shown serious intent. And then there's the Premier League…"
At that, Mendes cast a glance at his client.
Cristiano smirked. "If he comes here — even if it's to United — we'd make a hell of a front line. But if he signs for another Premier League club…" He let the words trail off, eyes narrowing. "Then it gets interesting."
The fire in him was unmistakable.
Yang Yang's exploits had lit a fuse. Since January, Ronaldo had been training harder, fine-tuning his finishing, pushing his physical limits. His goal involvement had gone up, and his confidence remained unshaken. Yet, no matter how well he performed, the headlines kept drifting east — toward Amsterdam.
Cristiano didn't begrudge him the attention. Not really.
After all, Yang Yang had dragged Ajax — a club from a league no longer feared — into the Champions League semi-finals. He had embarrassed defenders, broken records, and made pundits eat their words.
Even as a rival, Cristiano Ronaldo had to admit — that was special.
...
...
April 18, Evening – Amsterdam Arena
The floodlights of the Amsterdam Arena bathed the pitch in a white glow as over 50,000 fans packed the stands, buzzing with anticipation. It was the first leg of the UEFA Champions League semi-final, and Ajax were hosting European giants FC Barcelona.
Only 48 hours earlier, Ajax had wrapped up their domestic campaign — a 34-match marathon in the Eredivisie — sealing the title in Waalwijk. Now, after just two days' rest, they were thrust back into high-stakes European combat.
The fixture congestion had taken its toll. Over the past two months, Ajax had played nearly every three days — between league, domestic cup, and European competition. Fatigue clung to the players' legs like invisible chains.
Knowing his team's physical limits, Ronald Koeman made a decisive tactical choice: Ajax would sit deep, play compact, and rely on disciplined defensive counterattacks.
Yang Yang, the team's talisman and captain, led the line once again. Despite obvious signs of exhaustion, he fought tirelessly on both ends of the pitch. His commitment was total — pressing when out of possession, and launching forward the moment Ajax won the ball.
In the 35th minute, Yang Yang received a long diagonal pass near the halfway line, turned with a deft first touch, and surged past Van Bronckhorst, only to be met by Carles Puyol. The Barcelona captain had no choice. With Ajax threatening a breakaway, he deliberately tugged Yang Yang's shoulder and clipped his ankle. The referee didn't hesitate: yellow card.
It was a professional foul, and an important one — had Yang Yang broken free, it might have spelled danger for Barcelona.
From there, Barcelona took full control.
If Ajax had looked overwhelmed against AC Milan in the previous round, this was something else entirely. Barcelona's fluidity, quick-passing triangles, and positional rotations were suffocating. The tempo, the movement — it was all elite.
Up front, Ronaldinho, Samuel Eto'o, and Ludovic Giuly played with rhythm and menace. Behind them, the midfield trio of Van Bommel, Edmílson, and Iniesta pulled the strings, controlling tempo and distribution with ease.
Though critics often questioned Barcelona's backline, it held firm. With Puyol anchoring the defense alongside Oleguer, Van Bronckhorst on the left, and Julián Belletti waiting on the bench, the Catalans looked solid enough against Ajax's weary legs.
Ajax were pinned back. Possession became a dream. Every clearance was a gasp for air.
The breakthrough came in the 57th minute.
Ronaldinho, stationed wide on the left, received the ball just past midfield. With one fluid motion, he flicked the ball between Maicon's legs with a nutmeg, skipped around the recovering De Jong, and then drove diagonally into the right half-space. Sensing the movement, Giuly darted forward from deep. Ronaldinho's disguised through ball was inch-perfect, slicing through Ajax's back line. Giuly didn't break stride — one touch, then a low, angled finish past Stekelenburg. 1–0, Barcelona.
The Arena fell silent.
Ajax remained pinned. Koeman knew he couldn't ask his players to open up — not without being torn apart. The game plan stayed the same: defend, wait, counterattack.
In the 64th minute, a rare opportunity arrived.
After clearing a corner, Ajax sprang forward. Sneijder released Yang Yang down the right. He sprinted from his own half, gliding past Edmílson, drawing the full attention of the defense. Now just outside the Barcelona box, he faced Oleguer one-on-one.
A subtle feint. A step-over. Then a drop of the shoulder.
Yang Yang beat Oleguer — only to be chopped down before entering the area.
The crowd roared in protest. The referee produced another yellow card — this time for Oleguer. A dangerous foul, tactically timed.
The free-kick was central, 22 meters from goal. Sneijder stepped up — and skied it over the bar.
Ajax had squandered their best chance.
Frank Rijkaard didn't wait. Concerned by Oleguer's card and vulnerability, he immediately brought on Julián Belletti in his place.
Barcelona, undeterred, kept coming.
Ronaldinho grew more rampant by the minute, orchestrating attack after attack from the left. He toyed with Maicon, beat De Jong with sombreros and stepovers, and drew fouls with clever body positioning. Ajax's right side was stretched thin.
Once, as Ronaldinho surged past De Jong and Maicon yet again, Yang Yang tracked all the way back, desperate to help. Unable to reach the ball cleanly, he tugged Ronaldinho's arm and brought him down.
The whistle blew. Yellow card.
His third of the tournament.
It meant suspension for the return leg at Camp Nou.
Yang Yang didn't protest. He lay still on the turf for a moment, chest heaving. When he rose, he didn't even look at the referee — just walked away, slowly, eyes cast toward the pitch. He had known it the second he went to ground.
No foul, and Barcelona might've scored again. It was a decision made with the team in mind.
The cameras caught the moment clearly. As he turned away from the referee, the lens zoomed in on his expression — drained, furious with himself, yet resigned. He had fought all night, but Ajax were outmatched.
Unless Ajax made the final, Yang Yang's Champions League journey would end here.
A minute later, Rijkaard made another change.
He turned to his bench and called over Lionel Messi.
The teenager removed his bib, hugged Giuly as he came off, and jogged onto the field for his first appearance after six weeks of injury recovery.
His eyes locked immediately on Yang Yang.
No words were exchanged, but the message was clear — provocation, challenge, and a hunger that mirrored the one Yang Yang had shown all season.
He had begged Rijkaard to let him play tonight.
He was here for one reason: to face Yang Yang — and to defeat him.
Ronaldinho jogged over and gave Messi a bear hug before the restart.
"Pay attention to your runs," the Brazilian whispered. "I'll find you. I'll assist you."