Time passed quietly, and before anyone realized it, the group stage had reached its third round. The World Cup fever had surged to a whole new level.
In China, especially, the atmosphere was far more intense than in previous tournaments.
The national team's outstanding performances in the group stage had ignited enthusiasm across the country.
Even people who usually didn't follow football found themselves glued to their televisions. Some who barely understood the rules still joined the discussions, swept up by the excitement.
Football, at its core, is just a sport.
But at the World Cup, it represents something much bigger—a contest of national honor.
Every strong performance by the China Team deepened the sense of pride and collective identity among the people. It wasn't just about winning matches anymore; it was about belonging, about being seen.
In just eleven days since kickoff, World Cup viewership had skyrocketed. What began as attention from die-hard fans quickly spread into a nationwide phenomenon.
The team's performances, relentless media coverage, and wall-to-wall promotion across major platforms all pushed the atmosphere toward a boiling point.
Now, the tournament had reached the decisive third round of the group stage—the match that would determine whether China advanced.
Naturally, attention to this game climbed even higher.
Warm-up highlight clips alone racked up tens of millions of views in a matter of hours in China.
Celebrities, football commentators, and former national players all stepped forward to praise this generation of China Team players.
Results spoke louder than anything else.
When the team performed well, the criticism vanished almost overnight.
"It's insanely tense," Zheng Xin muttered.
Outside the Baixada Arena, his press pass hung from his neck as he stood near the entrance, rubbing his hands together.
It was the height of summer, but between the heat and his nerves, sweat streamed down his face, soaking through his shirt.
"Spain hasn't looked good at all this World Cup," said Liu Wenhan, a reporter from Sina Sports standing beside him. "We've got a real chance."
Zheng Xin turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
"You actually believe that?"
"Believe what?" Liu Wenhan shot back. "Their poor form isn't an opinion—it's a fact."
He paused, then sighed.
"Still, I just hope they don't suddenly find their rhythm against us."
Spain's condition in this tournament had indeed been disappointing.
They stuck rigidly to their trademark tiki-taka style, but the obsession with possession and short passing had severely reduced their attacking efficiency.
On top of that, several midfielders were clearly past their peak.
Iniesta, for instance.
And Fabregas—arguably in excellent form—had been glued to the bench.
After the opening-round collapse and a frustrating draw in the second match, rumors of internal friction began circulating. On the pitch, they looked disjointed, nothing like the unified force people remembered.
For China, that was good news.
Spain could not be allowed to regain confidence.
"They're here!"
Someone suddenly shouted, and the crowd erupted.
Zheng Xin, Liu Wenhan, and the other reporters immediately raised their cameras, lenses locking onto the slowly approaching team bus.
The vehicle bore the Chinese flag, unmistakable even from a distance.
Cheers thundered from both sides as the bus rolled to a stop.
One by one, the China Team players stepped down, led by head coach Liu Hongbo, and made their way into the stadium.
Every appearance sparked a fresh wave of applause.
Players like Wang Yi, Chen Man, and Fernando Kairui received especially loud cheers.
But when Kai appeared, the reaction was on another level entirely.
The place seemed to shake.
"Kai—!!!"
"Kai—!!!"
"Kai—!!!"
His name echoed again and again.
Across the first two matches of China's World Cup campaign, Kai's influence had been undeniable. It was no exaggeration to say that without him, the China Team would not have come this far.
A tough, uncompromising midfielder.
A genuine core—one who dominated both attack and defense.
His arrival didn't just adjust the team's rhythm; it reshaped their entire approach going forward.
The willingness to fight to the very end, even when cornered.
Relentless pressure. Refusal to back down.
Against powerful European opponents, the China Team no longer shrank away. They played their own football, with confidence and bite.
That was what thrilled the fans most.
This version of the China Team no longer collapsed when things got difficult, as it so often had in the past.
As the roar of the crowd washed over him, Kai simply raised a hand in acknowledgment before walking into the stadium.
Zheng Xin lowered his camera.
His thoughts drifted back to their first meeting three years ago.
The boy from then had grown into a pillar of the national team.
Back then, Kai wasn't nearly as solidly built as he was now, and he certainly didn't have a growing beard.
Just as Zheng Xin was lost in thought, a thunderous cheer erupted from the opposite end of the stadium.
His eyes narrowed instinctively.
The opponent had arrived.
The reigning World Cup champions.
Spain.
...
Inside the two locker rooms, the contrast was striking.
In China's locker room, the players stood or sat in silence, listening intently as head coach Liu Hongbo explained the tactics. Every face was serious, focused.
Spain's side, by comparison, felt disordered.
Some players looked confused. Others chatted casually. A few wore expressions of obvious tension.
Even Casillas, the captain, sat quietly on the bench with his head lowered, deep in thought.
The internal issues clearly hadn't been resolved.
...
"This is CCTV," Duan Xuan announced energetically, "and you are watching the third round of the 2014 Brazil World Cup group stage—China versus the defending champions, Spain!"
Without pausing, he continued, "China's performances in the first two matches were outstanding, especially in the second round. If not for that penalty, they might have even topped the group."
Tao Wei shook his head with a sigh.
"Robben's done this before, but I didn't expect the referee to actually blow the whistle. That was a clear dive."
Duan Xuan nodded firmly.
"After the match, the referee reviewed the slow-motion replay and issued an apology—but what's done is done. Time to move on."
Duan Xuan quickly refocused.
"Alright, back to the match at hand. For both teams, this is a decisive battle. Whether they advance to the knockout stage depends entirely on what happens tonight."
His tone grew solemn.
"The national anthem of the China Team has played three times at every World Cup we've attended—and each time, we were sent home after the group stage."
"But this time is different. These young players have fought hard to give us real hope."
"Will March of the Volunteers echo once more across Brazil? Will China advance to the World Cup knockout stage?"
"Let's wait and see."
...
In the player tunnel, Kai stood quietly, eyes forward.
Spain's players lined up beside him.
Earlier, he had spotted his club teammate Cazorla trying to greet him, but Kai gave a curt nod in acceptance before looking forward.
This wasn't club football. This was the World Cup.
Now was not the time for familiarity.
Kai had already glanced over Spain's starting lineup. Coach Vicente del Bosque had once again chosen the midfield trio of Iniesta, Xabi Alonso, and Koke.
Stubborn to the end.
Unwilling to change until forced.
For China, that was good news.
Iniesta's form had clearly declined. Had Fabregas been installed as the core, Spain would have been far more dangerous.
Up front, without David Villa's past magic, Spain's scoring efficiency had dropped sharply.
Costa, powerful as he was, still hadn't fully integrated—often isolated, playing his own game while the midfield played theirs.
As for Torres, he looked no different from his Premier League days.
Frankly speaking, Spain's frontline was in poor shape.
That was why they had reluctantly pushed Cazorla out wide, hoping to maintain midfield control while relying on his finishing ability from his Arsenal days to spark something.
But everyone knew—
That solution was far from reliable.
...
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