September 28th, Auxerre's ho ground, the Stade de l'Abbé-Deschamps.
As the stirring Champions League anthem echoed throughout the stadium, the group stage clash between Real Madrid and Auxerre began.
When the broadcast caras swept across the two teams lined up on the pitch, they suddenly cut to Real Madrid's bench.
Granero, Dudek, Canales, the newly recovered Lassana Diarra… and that infamous "deadweight" attacking midfielder.
Many fans who had been following the recent internal turmoil at Madrid chuckled knowingly.
anwhile, thousands of Chinese fans watching the live match in the dead of night back ho erupted.
"He really does look like a corpse! Those dead fish eyes, and he still thinks he can take Li Ang's minutes? Rot on the bench!"
"Seriously, what was Mourinho thinking when he signed this guy? He's ugly as hell. Even Khedira looks better!"
"Diarra, sitting next to him, looks ten tis better. At least Diarra doesn't run to the dia. He earns his place with skill. That's how it should be!"
That so-called attacking midfielder probably had no idea that, halfway across the globe, he was being relentlessly flad by thousands of furious fans.
And it reflected a broader truth—Li Ang's public image in China had undergone a dramatic reversal.
Even fans who once blindly followed the narrative and criticized Li Ang were beginning to realize the truth.
Why would soone like Li Ang, who had just beco the captain of the U-19 national team, suddenly fall out with the federation?
If he truly never wanted to play for the national team, why accept the call-up in the first place?
Veteran fans, familiar with the murky politics of the Chinese Football Association, had their suspicions.
And maybe, just maybe, Li Ang was right.
Maybe he had tried to tolerate things. Maybe he had been pushed too far by the greed and shalessness he once alluded to in that now-famous social dia post.
"He took the hardest road to make the loudest statent."
After all, a young man capable of starting for Real Madrid didn't need to tank his reputation in China for no reason.
Once they saw it that way, an overwhelming number of fans changed their stance.
Combined with those who had supported him all along, Li Ang now had the majority of Chinese fans firmly in his corner.
Even the state-run dia wasn't censoring or ignoring him.
After all, the Football Association had no authority over the country's top broadcasters.
So CCTV kept airing La Liga as usual. And when they wanted to hype soone, they hyped Li Ang.
Comntator He Wei, who already covered La Liga regularly, had gotten first dibs on most of Li Ang's matches. He was loving it.
Tonight's Champions League match was his again, co-comntated with tactical expert Zhang Lu.
As soon as the cara showed Li Ang's calm and striking face during the player lineup, the two comntators were already in full swing.
"The new Makélélé!"
"Castilla's Essien!"
"Little Marcos Senna!"
Nickna after nickna was tossed onto Li Ang's shoulders.
And this ti, it wasn't just playful exaggeration. These were titles already circulating in the Spanish press.
Li Ang, with his steady, mature performances, had already earned genuine recognition from the Spanish dia and fans alike.
In an era where the Chinese overseas player pool was shrinking year after year, where the talent pipeline was basically dry, Li Ang was a rare gem.
A player even the foreign dia praised—how could the Chinese broadcasters not be thrilled?
And as for the political stuff? That wasn't their departnt. They had neither the power nor the interest to address those issues.
Right now, watching a legitimate Chinese footballer shine on the La Liga and Champions League stage was more than enough to make them feel proud.
"Alright, the match is about to begin! Director Zhang, could you walk us through the starting lineups?"
"Sure. Real Madrid is once again lining up in the familiar 4-3-3 formation that's been working so well for them lately.
In defense, it's Ramos and Pepe as the center-back pairing, with Carvalho resting. Marcelo starts at left-back, Arbeloa on the right.
Midfield sees Li Ang and Alonso as the double pivot, with Khedira ahead of them in the central role.
Up front, Cristiano Ronaldo stays on the left, Higuaín starts as the center-forward, and Benzema gets the nod on the right. Di María is on the bench tonight.
For Auxerre…"
As Zhang Lu droned on, millions of Chinese viewers turned their eyes toward Real Madrid's dazzling starting lineup.
And as they spotted Li Ang among the stars, many still felt like they were dreaming.
But the referee's whistle snapped them back to reality.
Benzema passed the ball back to Alonso, who, under imdiate pressure from the Auxerre forwards, returned it calmly to Li Ang.
This was real.
For many fans tuning in to see Li Ang work with the likes of Alonso, Marcelo, Di María, and even Ronaldo, this was a surreal mont—one filled with pride.
Even those who had watched all of Madrid's matches this season couldn't help but be moved again.
"Li Ang's passing is so composed—no signs of nerves at all! He got rave reviews in his last Champions League match against Ajax, but people said it was only because he was playing at the Bernabéu.
Now look at him at the Stade de l'Abbé-Deschamps—sa composure, sa confidence.
What do those critics have to say now?"
Five minutes in, both sides were still testing the waters.
Li Ang wasn't doing anything flashy—yet.
That's normal.
A defensive midfielder shines most when under siege—when the other team pours forward or hits on the counter.
But that didn't stop He Wei and Zhang Lu from showering him with praise.
Because Li Ang was calm, precise, and already guiding the defensive line with mature communication.
Nineteen years old. Starting in the Champions League. Holding midfield. No mistakes.
What more do you want?
What else can you ask for?
And across the country, in dimly lit living rooms glowing with midnight light, as comntators tried to suppress their excitent, the focus of an entire nation locked onto one boy.
In the eyes of countless fans, the other Madrid stars faded away.
Only Li Ang remained.
So thought back to six months ago—when this sa boy had faced the rage of millions, accused and insulted by his own people.
He hadn't defended himself.
He simply posted quiet thanks to the few who encouraged him.
But inside… did he really feel no bitterness?
No resentnt?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But what mattered was that he kept going.
He carried all the weight on his own shoulders, never wavering.
From Castilla, to Real Betis, to Real Madrid.
His journey had been lonely.
His fight, lonely.
And in this pursuit of a professional football dream, even lonelier.
There was no elder, no predecessor in China who could show him the way.
He had no guide.
Only himself.
He was the one who endured the sars, the betrayals, and the backstabbing.
And maybe—just maybe—when he decided to fly to Spain six years ago, to embrace the cruel intensity of European youth training, his path was already set.
His path.
The loneliest.
The most glorious.
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