7 kilocalories

During the first half of the charity match, objects had already begun to rain down, but even Karl didn't fully grasp the potential danger at the time. The fans' intense protests were expected; with the vote officially beginning next month, it wouldn't be Bayern fans if they weren't stirring up trouble. It was typical for a giant club with such a massive fan base to have various volatile factions.

During the halftime break, Müller was still making jokes to lighten the mood. He quipped that since the fans were paying for the privilege of protesting the match, he wondered if they would start protesting each other. He couldn't help but collapse into his chair laughing, but apart from Karl, no one joined in. Then, Müller’s abrupt, rising "honk-honk-honk" laughter, followed by Karl’s low, pleasant "haha," caused the rest of the team to suddenly break into uncontrollable giggles—not because the joke was funny, but because the bizarre duet of their laughter was so strange.

The laughter eased the irritability caused by the chaotic scene, and the massive rotation of players helped everyone relax. Because Karl was a physical specimen who usually had to act as the anchor in the backline to prevent the team from losing focus when he left, it was incredibly rare for him to play only half a game. It felt like a long-lost return to his student days—like a Friday afternoon when classes were effectively canceled—and he was in a good mood, gently helping Kimmich adjust his captain's armband and giving him some pointers.

Although Kimmich didn't know why, ever since he joined the team, he had been strangely cold toward Karl, who was at least liked by everyone else. But during working hours, Kimmich was quite cooperative, focused, and didn't stir up trouble. At times, his mental state bordered on that of a chihuahua—on match days, he was like a dog off the leash, wanting to devour every opponent, and he rarely caused issues with teammates until the final whistle.

So, for now, he was very quiet, staring at his arm with solemnity, not daring to move an inch. He had even forgotten to breathe, his cheeks puffed out like a little frog, his cheekbones flushed red, and fine beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Karl laughed to himself, finding him quite cute in such moments. Perhaps this was why, even though Kimmich would occasionally challenge his authority and Karl would ruthlessly suppress it, he didn't truly dislike him. Maybe when he retired, and Neuer retired or grew old, the armband would be passed to him. Karl told him to learn from the experience, not because he was afraid Kimmich would cause a scene, but because he genuinely had thoughts of passing the torch. Kimmich was serious, and Karl’s attitude was equally earnest as he adjusted the armband with meticulous care, finally nodding and telling him:

"Go have a look."

The teammates in the locker room whistled and cheered. Kimmich’s nose turned entirely red; he stood before the mirror, spun around twice, then ran back, his eyes sparkling as if waiting for Karl to impart more wisdom. Even though everyone knew what a captain was supposed to do, Kimmich seemed to feel that Karl should make this passing ceremony more formal.

"When you line up later, remember to stand in front of Manuel. If he says to you, 'Hey, little chick, you’d better hand that armband over to me,' just tell him, 'No, I'm the captain for the second half.'"

Karl’s first piece of advice made everyone burst into laughter, and Müller let out another "honk-honk-honk."

Neuer spread his hands: "Hey, Karl, what kind of image do I have in your mind?"

But Kimmich completely ignored them, taking this semi-joking instruction as a serious order, nodding vigorously with great solemnity.

"You know what to do for other things. Stand near me during the game. But since you're the right-back, you don't need to command the defense; let Manu do that. But if he doesn't, and the teammates up front become disconnected, or someone loses their position and isn't running, you need to remind them."

"Damn it." Alaba and others groaned: "Don't, Karl, it’s just a charity match. I beg you, he will execute that 100 percent, I beg you."

Karl laughed and asked, "If everyone doesn't listen to you, what will you do?"

"It’s a charity match, there’s no need to work so hard. It’s normal if they don't listen," Ribéry muttered as he passed by.

Kimmich clenched his fists, as if displaying his iron will and heart of stone. However, considering his lack of experience, he chose a gentle approach: "Yell. Yell until they acknowledge me."

Many players nearly collapsed on the spot. They wished they could rip the armband off Kimmich’s arm and toss it to Neuer, shooting death glares at Karl, convinced that the captain was pranking them.

"If this game of house goes any further, I'm out," someone warned. "I don't really want to listen to you, Joshua. Besides, it's your first time out there, why are you thinking about management instead of contributing? You need to think about what you can do for your teammates, understand?"

Karl took the opportunity to educate him: "Yes, Joshua. In a match like today, winning or losing doesn't matter; everyone should just enjoy the process and protect their bodies. The most important job on the pitch is actually to encourage everyone during the final half-hour and to communicate with the referee, to stand up for your teammates—I know you're already very good at that, but you can't be like last time, just fighting and forgetting the referee. Otherwise, if you get a red card and are sent off, the team won't have you as captain, and how terrible would that be?"

*How wonderful would that be?*

The locker room was now deeply worried that Kimmich would be too serious and trigger a massive "M" personality outburst, turning the nice charity match into a disaster. Alaba was already praying: "Red card, come to me, red card, come from all directions..."

But Kimmich was already nodding firmly, swearing solemnly: "I will never get sent off!"

Alaba laid back down.

The halftime rotation of six players left the whole team satisfied; the substitutes got a chance to perform, and the starters could rest. Müller could have been rotated too, but Karl took himself off, so Müller silently stepped in to replace him, so as not to put him in a difficult position. However, there were others like Lewandowski who intended to play the full match. He was already enjoying the center spot next to Karl on posters; marketing efforts aside, the player’s own dedication to his career was unmatched.

Karl specifically reminded him not to overexert himself. Lewandowski smiled crookedly, as if to say, "Don't you think I know what I'm doing?"

Patting everyone on the shoulder as he sent them out, Karl was the last one to leave the locker room, settling onto the bench with Robben and others. It was truly rare to be able to sit peacefully in a soft seat without injury, illness, or the tension of a competitive match, watching his teammates on the field. It gave him a sense of both peace and relaxation.

At that moment, neither the relaxed players on the sideline nor the ones on the pitch—who were huddled together at Kimmich’s command to cheer before breaking apart—expected that the most exciting highlight of the second half would have nothing to do with a hot-blooded captain playing house.

*Maybe I should be a coach after I retire—oh no, that's too much, and being an assistant is too tiring. But if I went back to get a medical degree, I'd probably be gone for ten years, and when I returned, there wouldn't be a soul on the pitch I knew. That would be boring. What a pity, couldn't they really give me a job as a water-cooler attendant? It might be a bit embarrassing, going from a seventeen-million-euro annual salary to seventeen hundred a month... Oh dear, why is Joshua busy looking at his teammates and then his opponents, shaking his head like a bobblehead? There's no need to be so nervous and hardworking, that won't do...*

As Karl’s mind wandered, the match began to go wrong.

First, the chanting from several fan groups became increasingly synchronized, then the noise on the roof of the bench grew louder. Karl looked up and saw that it was raining debris. Thinking, "This is bad," he stood up instantly. Looking ahead, he saw things bouncing off the roof and flying into the pitch. That sideline was Alaba’s, and he was standing nearby waiting for the ball; he was almost hit in the back of the head. Forgetting the match, he screamed and jumped back three steps like a mantis to dodge, only to collide with an unsuspecting Hummels, and the two of them tumbled out.

The chaos began. With a sharp whistle, a flare exploded above the stadium, followed by a screeching sound erupting inside. More smoke bombs were ignited, quickly shrouding the long stand and the block of stands belonging to Bayern in smoke.

The Augsburg fans in the opposite stands screamed. They had never seen such a scene and thought it was a terrorist attack. Many huddled together, shivering and hiding under their seats, men howling, women crying, children wailing. After a moment of despair, they realized that everything seemed fine except for the drifting smoke and stray smoke bombs. They looked up and saw—oh, for the love of the Virgin Mary, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Family—were those Bayern fans jumping down from the stands?

Were those Bayern players running away?

Was that Bayern player Kimmich grabbing a fan, trying to fight him? Oh, wait, no, he was trying to buy his teammates a chance to escape.

No wonder he put on the captain's armband for the second half. He might be too short to see clearly in the smoke, but he certainly had the spirit to fight!

That spirit was there, but it didn't seem to be working...

*Ah, is that Karl rushing in from the sideline???*

*Oh, my god, oh my god, that smoke bomb landed on his clothes, that smoke bomb landed on his clothes, right?*

Kimmich was indeed completely lost in the chaos, and one could even say his wrong first reaction exacerbated the situation. When the smoke bomb fell, he was still loudly directing his teammates not to be afraid, not to run, and to wait for security to enter. He even grabbed a teammate to reassure him. Little did he know, the security guards were already overwhelmed trying to block the fans jumping down like dumplings on the sideline; there was no way they could manage them. Then, the fans rushed in.

Although it was an extreme protest, their actions were quite purposeful—including tackling people to the ground, taking the opportunity to hug and kiss them, or chasing after their favorite/hated players, enjoying the madness (?).

For the fans, once they were on the pitch, close to the players who were once beyond their reach, their mental state was unpredictable. Anything they did wouldn't be strange. They might have originally intended to disrupt the match, but now, chasing stars was a nice bonus. This process was completely uncontrollable; it was entirely possible for a player’s arm to be dislocated.

The Bayern players hesitated and missed the best time to evacuate. Once the fans were down, there was no stopping them. Nobody listened to Kimmich anymore; they all started running for their lives toward the player tunnel, dodging the Augsburg players who were already scared to tears.

The Bayern half of the pitch couldn't be described by the word "chaos."

In the midst of this, everyone was running toward the sidelines or hiding in the player tunnel, but Karl was forced to rush onto the pitch, choking on the smoke. He had a strong ability to keep track of people in such chaotic situations and immediately realized that some teammates were definitely still on the field. Sure enough, as he ran across the half, he saw Kimmich sitting on the ground, being pulled by two fans, one on each arm.

"Let him go!!!" Karl roared. "Do you want to go to prison?"

Then *siu*, a fan from somewhere threw a lit smoke bomb at him. It descended from the sky, and as he instinctively turned to dodge, it hit his back.

Karl was only thankful he covered his hair. The flames ignited, and he immediately felt the heat on his back. Unable to distinguish between smoke and fire, he ripped off his jersey. It was indeed fire; his uniform was burning furiously.

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Fortunately, the material was good, and he took it off quickly. He touched his back with his free hand; his white undershirt was soft and smooth, only warm. But he was still shaken, his head buzzing, almost having the illusion that the flames were still on his back. He immediately ripped the undershirt off as well and felt his hair again to confirm it was safe.

The open flames on the grass made more spectators scream. Karl had truly never encountered such a thing in his life, but at this moment, he couldn't retreat. He didn't even let go of the shirt, fearing that if he dropped it, it would burn the entire pitch.

The Augsburg fans screamed: "It's on fire! The stadium, our stadium is finished!"

Karl was furious. Karl was truly furious.

For years, the subconscious necessity of always being tolerant of the fans—the ones who provided his livelihood—had become a constant. When he was insulted as a "kneeling dog" by his own fans during the opening match, he hadn't been truly angry, telling himself it was just a tiny minority. But now, he was livid. He thought of his potentially injured teammates, felt the burning sensation on his back, and thought: *they should all be locked in prison, every last one of them.*

With a cold face, he stepped out of the smoke, still clutching his burning jersey, his black hair flying in the wind.

"Oh my god, oh my god," people shouted. "It's not over, he's still holding that piece of clothing!!!"

When Karl walked toward them like that, the two fans were so scared they fell to the ground, barely able to crawl away. Karl grabbed Kimmich by the back of the neck, hoisted him up, and pushed him toward the player tunnel: "Go back, quick!"

He ran in the opposite direction, clutching the jersey—the Augsburg stands were closer, and there was less smoke there. His heart was pounding, and he didn't dare look down to see if the fire had reached his hands. He couldn't tell if the heat on the back of his hands was from the wind-blown flames or just because he was gripping the cloth too tightly. Regardless, he couldn't let go, and he rushed to the sideline.

Several photographers hurriedly pushed their equipment, worth thousands of euros, to the side and dodged away. Karl, holding a ball of flame, planted one hand on the ground and vaulted over the advertising boards like a cheetah!

Gasps rose like a tide.

*Damn it, this damn narrow pitch, the front of the advertising boards is all grass, and the ground behind them is full of cameras and microphone cables!*

Because of the swinging motion, the flames flared higher, and Karl felt as if they were about to engulf his fists. He looked up and shouted clearly:

"Water, water!"

Photographers and reporters snapped out of their daze, some shooting wildly, others shouting at everyone to bring water.

A little boy standing above him had already unscrewed a bottle cap, but his hand shook, spilling it all, and he burst into hysterical tears. But as water was passed and splashed from all directions like a small mountain torrent, he was soaked through. Even after the flames were extinguished, they kept pouring for a moment.

For a moment, the air in the area seemed to go quiet. Everyone just watched Karl, standing in the cleared space surrounded by people, holding the charred remains of his jersey, his face pale, his chest heaving as he breathed.

A few seconds later, the entire stand, like a struck musical instrument, erupted into thunderous applause.

"Karl Hellmann!"

"Karl Hellmann!"

They seemed unable to make any other sound, just shouting his name in excitement.

But Karl couldn't stand there like a superhero in a movie, raising his fists. He kept his wet black hair hanging down, his palms being rinsed over and over with bottle after bottle of cold water, yet they remained bright red. It was a miracle he hadn't been burned, but he was certainly suffering. Someone draped a jacket over his shoulders. He asked for a bag; since he couldn't use his hands, he tucked it against his chest. After a while, he seemed to calm down and prepared to walk back under the protection of police reinforcements.

The fans erupted into even louder cheers, as if Karl were their own captain, forcing him to turn and wave at them.

"Is the match over?" someone shouted in confusion.

Karl gave an unexpected, firm, and resolute answer: "No, not yet!"

Just then, someone who had been trying to scramble back over the advertising boards was pointed out by Karl, and the police immediately tackled him to the ground.

*My god, could this be the bastard who threw the smoke bomb?*

The Augsburg fans began hurling empty water bottles at him.

Karl, accompanied by security, walked back into the dissipating smoke.

*This is a disaster. A real disaster.*

*Playing a charity match, and the Bayern fans set their own captain on fire.*

If it weren't for Karl’s extremely quick and brave handling of the flaming jersey, the fire might have scorched a large patch of the turf by the time the fire suppression system started. The stampede that would have been triggered by such a fire was unimaginable.

Facing such a nightmare for his first time as captain, Kimmich sat dazed in the locker room, his eyes unfocused. His teammates were also going crazy. Ancelotti was shouting through a translator to the staff that the match must be terminated immediately. A police officer in charge stayed behind to communicate; the entire stadium was now locked down, with no fans allowed in or out, to identify the perpetrators.

Rummenigge and Hoeneß were not with the team, but they were furious and began handling the disaster caused by the fans over the phone.

As soon as Karl returned, his teammates hugged him tightly, checking for injuries. Müller’s grip and his tearful voice made Karl feel like he hadn't just been burned, but had died. Neuer tried to smother him against his chest muscles. It took a long time for him to break free. Even Hummels hovered nearby like a ghost, Ribéry’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, and the younger players were so scared they didn't dare move...

*Damn it, can you not be so dramatic?* Karl cursed, telling them to stop while he was led to rinse his red hands with cold water.

The pain made him bite his lip, but he didn't want to complain. He felt the space was filled with fearful, aggrieved, and hesitant discussions. He heard everyone talking about hiding, retreating, canceling, apologizing...

Karl didn't care about his hands anymore. He returned to the locker room, to the office, to the computer screen held by a panicked secretary, facing the large heads of Rummenigge and Hoeneß. He returned to where he was supposed to stand and said to everyone:

"Quiet! Stop arguing! No matter how bad the security was, it was our own fans causing trouble, and Bayern’s reputation is being dragged through the mud! To have a panic attack over something like this, acting like you’ve seen a cockroach and want to hide in the ceiling—your reputations are being ruined too! I’m the one who was burned, but I’m not afraid. Even if I’m the only one left, I will return to the pitch like a warrior and finish this match alone!"

"We are Bayern. We had fireworks set off for two whole hours in Hamburg, but where are 'The Northern Giants' now? And we are still here. In Bordeaux, several of our players had their heads smashed open, but we still lifted the trophy. In our match against Fenerbahçe, it was interrupted three times because someone kept reporting fake bomb threats, but we slaughtered them and sent them packing with a massive scoreline."

"If someone wants to intimidate us, we won't run. We won't be scared into idiots by our own fans, bowing down to a few smoke bombs! Kick out all the troublemaking fans. If it’s all of them, kick them all out! I don’t care what they are protesting; fans have no right to destroy a club’s match and wantonly hurt players. Not today, not ever!"

"We are here to be saviors, not clowns! We won't compromise with extremist fan groups—not in the past, not today, not in the future. If you have even a shred of dignity left, get back on the pitch! Even if we just walk, we will finish these ninety minutes and end this damn match!"

He took out his charred jersey, unfolded it in the air for everyone to see, and then angrily turned and pinned it to the tactical board in the locker room.

The remaining piece of bright red cloth looked like it was still burning, pinned to a heart.

Neuer was the first to stand up.

Kimmich was still staring blankly at Karl; he didn't even notice his captain’s armband was hanging loose. Neuer scoffed, snatched it from his arm, put it on himself with a few swift movements, and said nonchalantly: "Alright, children’s play time is over."

He walked toward Karl, opened his arms to embrace him, pressed his arm, and looked at him seriously: "Don't worry, you won't be the only man with guts here."

Everyone began to stand up.

Only at that moment did Karl feel his surging, near-abnormal anger recede a little. Looking into his teammates’ eyes, he saw they were thinking the same thing. *This is how it should be. This is their team.* Karl nodded:

"Well done, gentlemen. Well done—now, let’s go out there and show them what is inviolable and unshakeable."

When Karl was angry, Ancelotti, like all the staff listening in silence, stood there with his mouth slightly open, stunned. It wasn't until halfway through that he remembered he was the head coach, and he closed his mouth sadly.

He had no control over the match, but he was the one who suffered from the public opinion afterward. Among the headlines that were either clamoring or deeply admiring, only Löw’s criticism of Ancelotti stood out as so out of place. The national team coach attacked the Bayern manager directly, scolding him for not knowing how to protect players. The World Cup qualifiers were next week, yet Karl was injured. After it was already so dangerous in the first half, he still agreed to let the players return to the pitch—it was simply inconceivable.

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Ancelotti was a good-natured man, but he was furious at having to shoulder this blame.

*I can’t control the executives, I can’t control the players, I stand next to the captain like someone cleaning the chalkboard for him, and I still have to take abuse from you, a national team coach who has nothing to do with this???*

He retorted angrily: "Karl’s actions were those of an absolute hero. The Bayern players used their courage and tenacity to defend the club’s dignity and the rights of the thirty thousand spectators who bought tickets. They resisted extremist fans and saved the Augsburg club. Anyone who criticizes them for this is the one who is truly inconceivable!"

Karl didn't rest at all after the match. He protected his teammates, stabilized the situation, pacified the remaining fans, attended a high-level meeting, spoke as a representative, and did nearly two hours of media activities, saying everything almost flawlessly:

"My firefighting behavior? That was just an instinctive reaction; I couldn't let the fire drop onto the grass. Every Bayern player who was willing to return to the pitch was the most remarkable—everyone wanted to help Augsburg overcome its difficulties; they were full of love and a spirit of sacrifice. That is why, even though some extremist fans used violent means to oppose us, we felt fear and difficulty, but still insisted on finishing the match, because true justice and a heart of sacrifice are no joke. Bayern Munich helped Augsburg only to aid our Bavarian neighbors; for noble convictions, we can accomplish all of this."

"Those who try to solve problems with violence are merely paper tigers. Extremist fan groups can continue to use such despicable means, hurting their own players and their own captain to achieve their private desires, but they will not succeed; they will only send themselves to prison. Truly moral fans will not associate with such partners."

"Why give the armband to Joshua? The riot was not his fault. Our young players will take up the banner in the future, just like when I sat in the stands during a charity match years ago, watching Ballack and Kahn play. Back then, I thought, if one day I could wear the captain’s armband, I would surely dedicate my unreserved passion to Bayern’s cause, just like them. The spirit of Bayern will be passed down forever, so I don't understand how anyone could think it's a bad thing for young players to take the field."

"Finally, I want to clarify again: the charity match is certainly important, because the corrupt executives do not represent Augsburg, nor the thirty thousand fans on the sidelines working for the club’s survival. If you saw the tears of the Augsburg fans, ladies and gentlemen, you would know that anyone who truly loves football would choose to stand with them."

The reporters took notes as if they were drinking it in. Under the relentless flash of cameras, Karl didn't blink once, his expression so firm and calm that anyone looking at his face would feel that even if he said the sun rose in the west, they would believe it instantly.

The press officer was on the verge of tears.

No joke, he loved Karl to death. If he were Rummenigge or Hoeneß sitting in front of the TV, he would wipe the screen and kiss it right now.

A complete victory. A complete victory. Every Bayern player had become a football hero. Everywhere there were iconic photos of Karl walking out of the smoke holding the flames. No photo could better demonstrate the spirit of Bayern in this charity match, and the fan movement that had been raging since the summer finally died down.

The executives also adopted a chivalrous, kingly manner, talking at length about ideals and character. But the high-level meetings were still rife with undercurrents. Hoeneß used the extremist fan sentiment to clearly attack Rummenigge’s decision to introduce foreign capital as wrong, and using the chaotic charity match as an excuse, he smoothly ousted Rummenigge’s confidant, André.

Rummenigge suffered a loss, but he had to retaliate. Unwilling to be outdone, he took this opportunity to oust Hoeneß’s protégé, the third-choice goalkeeper Christian, under the pretext that there was no room in the first team, and sent him back to the second team.

Considering the kid’s previous stupid performance, Hoeneß remained silent, not even bothering to protect him.

During the meeting, Karl looked down at his phone. It was no surprise that retired teammates or those at other clubs, like Lahm, Schweinsteiger, and Reus, sent him messages of concern. Kroos sent him an annoyed emoji; if they were children, Karl knew he would definitely say "I hate you" many times.

He sent a smiley face back, and after a while, the other person replied with a hug.

Former coach Guardiola also sent a text to express his concern about the injury, telling him it was remarkable.

Karl replied: "Then take me to Manchester City as an assistant."

"You're being cheeky again."

Karl replied that his sense of humor had gotten worse, and ended the conversation. After replying to his agent, friends, teammates, and staff, he waited for a long time, but no new messages appeared. He couldn't help but click into the other person’s message box to see if he had blocked them—he hadn't, it was just empty, starkly white.

Feeling terrible, he slid down in his seat and accidentally bumped his hand, letting out an "ouch" in pain.

The meeting was interrupted. Hoeneß and Rummenigge leaned toward the camera at the same time, looking comical: "Karl? What’s wrong? Are you alright?"

Karl just wanted to know how Rummenigge had taken the letter he had sent him.

The next day, the team bus returned to Säbener Straße, and everyone went home. Because of the ordeal, Ancelotti generously gave them two days off, and the executives didn't object, so the players were overjoyed. Müller was afraid his palms hurt, so he helped him drive home. He gently complained that Karl was treating himself like Superman, how could he hold a fire and wait for water... But when he looked back, he found Karl had already fallen asleep. His heart softened instantly, and he didn't say another word, only glancing at Karl’s sleeping face in the rearview mirror, parking the car in the garage and waiting for a long, long time until he woke up.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"Hmm... I was a bit tired too, fell asleep by accident." Müller stretched, feigning it convincingly.

Karl laughed, leaned over to hug him, nuzzled his ear affectionately, and urged him to go home.

Müller actually wanted to stay—to chat, cook a meal, have a drink, anything. But he had big things to do today, so he sent Karl off and, with hands trembling slightly, opened the glove box and took out the letter—Rummenigge had returned it to him.

Karl didn't know what he had replied; his heart was in his throat. He was filled with thoughts of rejection or understanding, wondering if it would be "let's talk at my place at eight tomorrow" or "see you at the club." However, when he held the envelope up to the car lights to inspect it carefully, his heart stopped.

Then it sank, heavily, heavily.

The envelope, which he had sealed tightly, showed no signs of being opened.

Blue fountain pen ink was pressed on top, like two lines of a seal:

"I think I know what you’re thinking, Karl, but you can’t. Don’t regret this."

"I’m not reading it, let's pretend I never knew."

Karl slumped over the steering wheel, for a long, long time.

Back home, he lay silently in the darkness, letting the TV create noise.

The host was saying that the ten years of Lahm and Karl’s joint leadership were the best ten years for Bayern. Now, they had lost the best captain and the best vice-captain, Lahm, but it was clear that Karl could still shoulder the burden alone. He was constantly proving that he was the best captain imaginable. *Kimmich, want to take over? Still too early.*

Under the dim light, Karl stared at the ceiling. The host said this was Karl’s contract year, and asked how long they thought he would renew. The guest said he was in his prime, with at least five years left to play, so the club should renew for three to four years; he was absolutely worth that kind of treatment, blah, blah, blah...

Karl whispered to the air: "Tomorrow."

He would never renew his contract.

He wished he could retire tomorrow.

But who would agree?

Karl didn't own himself; he was possessed and occupied by the behemoth that was Bayern. From body to heart, if a soul existed, it had to be in the red, blue, and white of the club crest. Everyone enjoyed Karl, just like a fawn burying its head in a mountain spring; there was nothing more natural or refreshing in the world. Moreover, Bayern wasn't just purely using him; he had also received unprecedented money, honor, and love. He grew up here, he found love here, and his life had been saved by Bayern. In the great flood, Bayern was his Noah’s Ark; in Genesis, Bayern was the God touching his finger.

But he was tired, so tired he couldn't shed tears, so tired that the sharp, stabbing pain in his palms was so unbearable, so full of sorrow.

Wanting to retire? The whole world wouldn't stand on his side.

From the executives to his teammates, from the media to his friends, no one.

He had to... think of some special way to do it.