"Spain is pushing hard, trying to find an opening—but China's defensive shape is so compact that there's simply no room to break through!"
Duan Xuan's voice carried clear tension.
Even with China in the lead, he couldn't relax for a second.
Spain's overall strength was something no one dared to ignore. Yes, their World Cup campaign had been disappointing so far, but that didn't mean they were harmless.
Who could say they wouldn't explode in the next moment?
Elite European teams had always been frightening precisely because of their ability to adjust on the fly.
That said, Spain was clearly unsettled now. Ever since China scored, their passing rhythm had become hurried, their ball control noticeably less precise.
And when a team grows anxious, mistakes are inevitable.
China seized on that.
Several times, they cut out passes in midfield and immediately launched counterattacks. None resulted in a goal, but each one forced Spain to hesitate, preventing them from committing too many players forward.
At this stage, the flow of the match strongly favored China.
"They need to stay tight—no gaps, no blind-side runs, no easy breakthroughs!"
Duan Xuan kept glancing at the clock.
Thirteen minutes.
Only seven minutes since the goal—but it felt like an eternity.
His nerves were shot. His diction grew heavier, and every so often, he pinched his thigh, forcing himself to stay composed.
Every probing Spanish pass made his heart race.
Watching this match was pure torture.
If he had the choice, he'd much rather be at home like any ordinary fan—beer in hand, watching with friends—than enduring this kind of pressure in the commentary booth.
"Spain is coming forward again!"
Duan Xuan suddenly raised his voice.
And right on cue, Iniesta slipped the ball through to Cazorla.
Cazorla brought it under control, feinted left as if to drive forward, then abruptly slammed on the brakes, pulling his body back and nudging the ball to the right in one smooth motion.
The move was elegant, deceptive—classic Spanish flair.
But the moment he turned, someone was already there.
Bang!
Cazorla crashed shoulder-to-shoulder into Kai, while Kai calmly extended a leg and cleanly took the ball away.
"Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful—Kai again!"
Duan Xuan exclaimed.
Cazorla had been one of Spain's most dangerous outlets, but he was now completely neutralized.
"Cazorla tried to sell the feint, and Kai didn't bite," Tao Wei explained excitedly. "He showed a step to the left, but his supporting leg never shifted. His center of gravity stayed balanced—so he could recover instantly."
"And the moment Cazorla pulled it back, Kai was right there waiting."
Tao Wei couldn't help himself.
"That's world-class awareness."
Kai's performances throughout the group stage had been nothing short of exceptional.
Even international media were unanimous in their praise.
It wasn't an exaggeration to say that, among all defensive midfielders in the group stage, no one had outperformed him.
Against Chile, he balanced attack and defense flawlessly—the very definition of a midfield anchor.
Against the Netherlands, he became a living barricade, cutting off wave after wave of Dutch attacks.
And now, facing a specialist dribbler like Cazorla, Kai remained composed and unshaken, robbing Spain of their sharpest edge.
And he was only twenty-one.
How could anyone not be captivated?
If Arsenal hadn't already made it clear that Kai was untouchable—and if his release clause hadn't been so exorbitant—the transfer market would already be on fire.
After another interception, Kai quickly moved the ball forward.
But soon after, China lost possession again.
Spain's defensive structure and tackling were just as formidable.
With China effectively abandoning sustained attacks, Wang Yi and Chen Man alone simply couldn't cope with Spain's back line.
A quick strike was one thing.
A head-on confrontation was another matter entirely.
Still, every second mattered.
In the 21st minute, Spain earned a free kick on the left flank.
Kai and his teammates dropped deep into the penalty area.
"Heads up!" Kai shouted.
Iniesta delivered the ball.
Torres charged straight down the middle.
Kai and Gao Leiliang moved together, bracketing Costa. The three leapt at once, and under their combined pressure, Gao Leiliang managed to head the ball clear.
Hiss—
As he landed, Gao Leiliang instinctively clutched his ribs.
That hurt like hell.
Just a brief collision with Torres had nearly overwhelmed him.
He glanced at Kai—completely unfazed.
Compared to those two monsters, Gao Leiliang knew he was physically outmatched.
But backing down wasn't an option.
They had fought too hard to get here.
One more win—and they'd reach the World Cup knockout stage.
This was Gao Leiliang's final World Cup.
If not now, then when?
He charged back at Torres, locking into a relentless physical battle.
Both feet dug into the turf as he pushed with everything he had, face flushed crimson with effort.
Only when the ball sailed past them did he finally release his grip.
Before leaving the box, Torres turned back for a glance.
He had to admit it.
This Chinese defender was a nightmare.
It wasn't about technique—it was the persistence, the refusal to let go.
And Torres couldn't drift out of the box either. Doing so would only create bigger problems elsewhere.
His eyes shifted to Kai, wearing the number 4 shirt.
Those light-blue eyes held a trace of frustration—and resignation.
This match felt suffocating.
After two rounds, China sat at +2. Spain was at −4.
Even if Spain won, they would need to score six goals just to have a chance.
No—seven now.
Torres exhaled slowly.
The contrast between the two teams was stark.
China played with belief, energy, and cohesion.
Spain looked heavy, exhausted, weighed down by pressure.
Without the star above their crest, one might forget they were the defending champions.
Bang!
A diagonal ball flew across the pitch.
Torres took two steps, then stopped, shaking his head.
No chance.
He turned toward Villa, who had played the pass.
Villa had been magnificent in South Africa in 2010—instrumental in Spain's title run.
But now?
His form had clearly declined.
And it wasn't just him.
Spain was aging, and the next generation hadn't arrived in time.
2010 had been their peak.
And that peak had been beautiful.
Like so many champions before them, they were slowly being overtaken by time itself.
..
Kai kept pushing forward, never slowing down.
Spain's attack wasn't as sharp as it once was, but the pressure was still very real.
The most direct answer to that pressure was Kai himself.
Across the first two matches, his running numbers were off the charts—quite literally the highest in the entire World Cup. In terms of distance covered, no one came close.
But it wasn't just about statistics.
Kai's endless movement pulled everyone else along with him. When he ran, the rest of the team ran. When he pressed, the defensive line followed. His effort became the foundation of China's collective defense.
Every team needs a leader.
Wang Yi wore the captain's armband, but he wasn't the type to shout, to demand, or to constantly organize those around him.
Kai was the opposite.
Once the match kicked off, his voice never stopped. Instructions, reminders, warnings—you could hear him from every section of the pitch.
That presence became fuel for the entire squad.
Even head coach Liu Hongbo had picked up on it.
At one point, a thought crossed his mind:
What if Kai wore the armband?
Wang Yi was still the team's biggest attacking star, no question. But being the best attacker didn't automatically make someone the best leader.
Wang Yi did his job in the final third. Motivation and organization, however, weren't his strengths.
In that sense, Kai felt far more suited to the role.
Previously, Wang Yi had been the best available option—not outstanding, but reliable.
Kai was different.
He was already Arsenal's vice-captain. With Vermaelen gone, he was set to become the club's first Chinese captain.
In terms of leadership experience, he was on another level.
In Liu Hongbo's vision, Wang Yi should focus on scoring. Everything else—tempo, structure, discipline—could be handled by Kai.
Those who can do more should do more.
Of course, this kind of transition wouldn't happen overnight.
It had to be gradual.
Beep!
Referee Nawaf's sharp whistle cut through the stadium.
Kai got back to his feet. Cazorla was still on the ground.
Moments earlier, Cazorla had slipped past Fernando Kairui and Guan Zhe, nearly breaking into the box. Kai tracked back just in time and slid in hard, bringing him down.
The attack was stopped—but at a cost.
Kai was shown a yellow card.
His second of the tournament.
"Kai picks up another booking," Duan Xuan noted. "He only had eight yellows all season in the Premier League, but this is his second in three World Cup matches."
He shook his head lightly, then added, "Still—China's defensive structure is holding."
If the defense had been tighter, Kai wouldn't have needed such a risky tackle.
But from his perspective, the choice was simple.
A yellow card was better than a clear chance on goal.
Cazorla got up with Kai's help.
Spain earned another set piece.
This time, they sent Ramos forward as well.
The message was clear: all-in pressure.
Kai quickly adjusted. He left Torres to Fernando Kairui and Gao Leiliang, stepping up to mark Ramos himself.
As Kai closed in, Ramos placed a hand on his chest, trying to hold space.
Kai didn't slow down.
Ramos tried to shield him with his shoulder, but Kai suddenly checked his run. Ramos lost balance for a split second.
The ball came in.
It was aimed at Ramos.
But he never got off the ground.
The cross sailed out harmlessly.
"Hay una falta de coordinación", the Spanish commentator sighed. "Necesitan calmarse y recordar cómo jugaron hace cuatro años".
("There's a lack of coordination," "They need to calm down—and remember how they played four years ago."
Even the Spanish broadcast booth was losing patience.
Ramos steadied himself and glanced at Kai.
Kai was already walking away.
Ramos narrowed his eyes, clearly irritated.
He wanted to respond—but didn't dare.
Last time he tried that, it hadn't ended well.
As Kai exited the box, he turned and shouted, "Turn! Receive the ball!"
One by one, the Chinese players reacted, adjusting their positions.
Kai licked his dry lips and cleared his throat.
These matches were brutal on his voice. He barely stopped shouting.
He'd noticed something over the last two games.
Under pressure, his teammates tended to hesitate—not tactically, but mentally. In tight moments, they sometimes froze, slowed down, or made simple mistakes.
That's why he had to keep talking.
Constant reminders. Constant urgency.
If he hadn't shouted just now, a few players would've jogged forward, hesitated, then turned too late.
Laziness spread quickly.
Kai refused to let that happen.
He glanced at the clock, clapped his hands, and called out:
"Ten minutes left!"
The players instinctively looked up.
35 minutes.
Only ten more until halftime.
Fatigue was setting in. The heat was draining them. Water, rest—everything suddenly felt closer.
The mood lifted slightly.
Kai smiled to himself.
Spain kept attacking during the final ten minutes.
China stayed disciplined.
Kai dropped extremely deep, almost functioning as a third center-back.
Since the opening match, he'd barely ventured into the attacking third.
Part of it was tactical. Part of it was necessity.
With the lead in hand, his priority was simple: don't concede.
Attack if possible. Defend first, always.
Spain was growing visibly frustrated.
Once a team commits to defending deep, it only becomes more stubborn as time passes.
The longer it goes on, the more desperate the attacking side becomes.
For a team like Spain, falling behind against a side determined to defend was the worst scenario imaginable.
Time kept slipping away.
They needed a win.
And not just a win, an eight-goal margin.
After forty-five minutes of the first half, they had achieved nothing.
And now they were supposed to score seven more?
Was that even realistic?
"The pressure's dropped," Fernando Kairui muttered as he saw Spain pass backward.
Kai stayed alert, but he could feel it too.
Spain's urgency was fading.
Whether it was acceptance or exhaustion, their belief was slipping.
They hadn't fully given up—but the edge was gone.
Villa resorted to long-range shots, none of which truly threatened the goal.
Finally, the referee blew for halftime.
China 1.
Spain 0.
The Spanish players walked toward the tunnel, heads lowered.
The stands were chaotic—some fans shouted encouragement, others hurled abuse. A few even tried to push past the barriers before security intervened.
Kai walked off alongside Fernando Kairui.
The latter let out a breath and laughed quietly.
"That," he said, "was brutal."
...
"Those were… pretty harsh words," Fernando Kairui muttered.
Kai, standing beside him, looked confused. Although he understood Portuguese and with Spanish and it being similar, the Spanish words were said such rapid fashion that he couldn't decipher the meaning.
Fernando shrugged. "Sending their regards to their family."
That was football.
Play badly, and you'd hear about it—loudly.
It didn't matter if you were Spain, the defending champions. If your performance was poor, the fans wouldn't be gentle about it.
And none of that really concerned Kai.
On the Chinese side of the stands, the atmosphere was completely different.
"Great play!"
"Keep it up—go all the way!"
"Second half's yours!"
Fans leaned over the barriers, waving and shouting, faces lit up with excitement. Kai caught their expressions as he walked past, and the energy fed straight back into him.
As the players entered the tunnel, a cool draft swept through.
After forty-five minutes under the scorching heat, it felt like instant relief. Muscles loosened, breathing slowed, and for a moment, the exhaustion almost made them sleepy.
Back in the locker room, players dropped onto the benches, exchanging quick comments and half-jokes.
Then Liu Hongbo walked in.
The chatter died down.
He went straight into the tactical briefing for the second half.
Nothing fancy. Nothing heroic.
Against a stronger opponent, you defend deep and counter when you can.
Liu Hongbo was, by nature, an attacking-minded coach. This wasn't his preferred style. But realism mattered more than preference.
China was one step away from the knockout stage.
This wasn't the moment to gamble.
Play steady. Stay disciplined. Don't invite chaos.
If they stuck to the plan, their chances of advancing were very real.
...
The Spanish locker room told a very different story.
Casillas sat quietly, a towel draped over his head. No one could see his expression, but no one needed to.
This World Cup had been brutal for him.
First, the collapse against the Netherlands—Robben running riot.
Then, the mistake against China was caught out by Chen Man.
Three matches, and everything he'd built felt like it was being questioned.
Football could be cruelly simple.
Play well, and the world celebrates you.
Play poorly, and the world turns on you.
The line between "Saint Casillas" and "national scapegoat" was thinner than anyone liked to admit.
And he'd already crossed it.
Vicente del Bosque tried to rally the room. He spoke calmly at first, then more firmly—but the response was flat. The energy just wasn't there.
Eventually, he stopped.
His eyes drifted toward Casillas. After a moment, he sighed.
"Reina, start warming up."
It was rare—but not unheard of.
Del Bosque had lost trust.
De Gea was there as well, younger and talented, but in moments like this, Del Bosque still leaned on experience.
Reina jogged out to warm up.
Not long after, Diego Costa followed.
Two changes at halftime.
Casillas and Torres were both being pulled.
The message was unmistakable: Spain was under enormous pressure.
Seven goals.
That was the gap they were staring at.
Nearly impossible—but Del Bosque refused to give in.
News of the substitutions spread quickly through the commentary booths.
There was surprise, yes—but also understanding.
What raised eyebrows was the midfield remaining unchanged.
Fabregas stayed on the bench.
Once again.
Speculation flared up immediately.
Was it personal?
Tactical stubbornness?
Or simply too many stars and not enough balance?
Fabregas. Silva. Mata.
Spain had enough midfield talent to build another elite lineup.
But star power could be a burden.
Del Bosque had once famously said: "If Fabregas comes on, who do you take off?"
Too many good options could paralyze decision-making.
On the other side, Liu Hongbo faced a very different headache.
China's bench was thin.
A few starters were clearly running on fumes, but the substitutes didn't inspire confidence. Swap too early, and the rhythm might collapse.
He scanned the bench.
Aside from the experienced striker Ouyang Fei, there were no obvious solutions.
One side didn't know who to choose.
The other had too many choices.
Both managers were stuck.
The second half began, sides switched.
Spain immediately changed its approach.
Fewer patient build-ups. More direct balls into the box.
Everything was aimed at one target.
Diego Costa.
They wanted him to hold it, smash through defenders, force chaos.
But Costa quickly realized it wouldn't be easy.
Bang!
He brought the ball down with his chest, turned, and fired.
The shot slammed into Fernando Kairui's calf and deflected away.
"Damn it."
"You're late," Fernando shot back in Spanish.
Their relationship, forged back at Atlético Madrid, was neither friendly nor hostile—just professional.
They knew each other too well.
Costa was at his peak, a transfer to Chelsea looming.
Fernando, molded under Simeone, had become Atlético's defensive pillar behind Godín.
Now, with Kai dropping back to shield the space in front of him, China's defensive structure felt solid, layered, and stubborn.
The only weakness was depth.
But as a unit, they were holding.
Costa tried again.
Still no space.
For the moment, the battering ram had nowhere to swing.
...
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