On the eve of the 2026 US-Canada-Mexico World Cup finals, the Chinese team reached the finals for the first time.
I was the man behind it, but I didn't get to see the final whistle - I died of exhaustion at my desk.
Open your eyes again, 2014. I am 18 years old, the third substitute goalkeeper in the Chinese League One, and I will be laid off in three days.
But I remember everything about the next twelve years: the score of every game, the fall of every genius, the time and place of every shady deal.
Those geniuses who should have become national football players are now slipping into the abyss step by step at the mahjong table, in nightclub boxes, and in the trap of their agents.
This time, I'm going to fish them out one by one.
"Put down your cards and follow me."
"Who are you?"
"You'll thank me in twelve years."
From the Chinese League One to the Chinese Super League, from the Chinese Super League to the five major leagues, from studying abroad to the national team - it took me twelve years to save a generation of Chinese footballers.
But every time I save someone, the future memory in my mind will shift by one point. When the butterfly effect completely rewrites history, can I still lead the Chinese team to the 2026 World Cup?
