Chapter 4 – Be Bold, and the Mansions Will Rise!
Spanning 22 square kilometers, London's Canary Wharf wasn't just a forest of skyscrapers and a hub for international corporations—it was also a glittering, bustling city that never slept, glowing with neon lights and overflowing with indulgence.
As night fell and the lights came on, tourists from all over the world would board river cruises, drifting along the Thames.
Not only could they enjoy the uniquely charming skyline of London's financial district, but also the rows of extravagant luxury yachts moored along the docks.
The daily mooring fee at Canary Wharf, often approaching £10,000, was enough to make jaws drop.
Among the many luxury yachts, none caught the eye more than the Blue Sea, Blue Sky.
With a sleek black hull and three-tiered white superstructure, plus several large auxiliary boats at the stern, everything about it screamed top-tier opulence.
While tourists marveled from afar on the Thames, inside the second deck of the Blue Sea, Blue Sky, a Russian tycoon holding an Israeli passport—Roman Abramovich—was poring over a map of London laid out before him.
"I'm preparing to buy land in the southern suburb of Cobham. I'm also thinking of acquiring property on Kensington Palace Gardens…"
Abramovich pointed energetically at various spots across London's western districts.
"Now, all that's left is that piece of land in Bayswater."
As he spoke, he looked up at the Israeli agent seated across from him—Pini Zahavi.
"Pini, I'm counting on you."
Zahavi's expression stiffened, but he quickly forced a smile.
"Don't worry, those Chinese won't be able to hold on much longer."
"I heard they've already found some money?" Abramovich said, turning toward the wine cabinet.
"Just £2 million."
Zahavi paused, then added, "And they're paying a heavy price for it—they have to repay £3 million within two years."
"Looks like they're desperate."
"Given their current situation—no players, no cash—selling the land, selling the club… it's only a matter of time."
"Then move fast," Abramovich said. "Buy the land if you can. If not, buy the whole damn club."
He grabbed a very expensive bottle of red wine, poured half a glass for Zahavi, and a smaller one for himself. He downed his in one gulp.
Then he returned to the map, pointing to Bayswater in North Hyde Park.
"This is prime real estate in London's West End. God knows how those Chinese got their hands on it in the first place."
Zahavi chuckled awkwardly.
He had asked around extensively, but no one seemed to know.
"This is without a doubt the best football-related plot of land in the world. I want to build the best football stadium right here."
"Only that would be worthy of the world's greatest club."
Zahavi noticed a flash of intensity in Abramovich's eyes as he spoke.
Possessiveness.
He had to have that land.
…
Lin Zhongqiu was anxious.
But Yang Cheng wasn't.
In his previous life, he'd spent over 30 years coaching in European football, witnessing countless once-dominant teams eventually collapse and fall apart—some of which he had been a part of.
And most of the time, the downfall boiled down to a single word:
Impatience.
Ironically, impatience was the most useless thing of all.
Especially now.
Building a team wasn't hard—not really. Whether you had money or not, there were always ways to play the game.
But building a competitive team? That was hard.
And for Yang Cheng now, it was even harder.
He wanted to create a team of his own—one that could adapt to the evolving tactical trends of football over the coming years.
And it had to reflect the characteristics of British football, and specifically the Premier League.
That made the challenge even more daunting.
But that was exactly what Yang Cheng wanted to do.
Aim for the highest, you might land in the middle. Aim for the middle, you'll fall short.
After decades in the dugout, Yang Cheng understood this truth more and more deeply.
So, he wasn't going to build his team to League Two standards.
He was going to build it to the standards of the Premier League. No—of the top Premier League contenders.
As a transmigrator with over thirty years of experience coaching in European football, Yang Cheng knew every professional player on the continent like the back of his hand.
The first name that came to mind?
Franck Ribéry, the French superstar.
Ribéry was a bit of a troublemaker, especially in terms of personality.
But Yang Cheng had coached him in his past life. They had a decent relationship, and Yang Cheng knew quite a bit about him.
The summer of 2003 was the lowest point in Ribéry's life.
Kicked out of Lille's academy in 2000, he returned home to Boulogne and joined their fourth-tier team.
He helped them win promotion in his first season, but when the owner refused his request for a raise, Ribéry left in 2002 for third-tier Alès, who offered him a modest €1,500 monthly salary.
But not long after, Alès went bankrupt.
Ribéry slunk back home.
Having left on bad terms, Boulogne refused to take him back. So he stayed unemployed, at home.
He had even trialed once with Guingamp, but they thought he was too short and didn't see any potential.
Right now, the future star of the 2006 World Cup—the scar-faced menace who would dazzle the world—was probably lugging bricks on a construction site with his father, François.
And yet, it was this harsh period that would become the turning point of Ribéry's life.
So, when Yang Cheng thought about building a team, Ribéry was the first name that came to mind.
But there was another player Yang Cheng valued even more—one who was arguably the most sought-after midfield core in all of Europe for the next two decades.
Recruiting him would be even harder.
Yang Cheng would have to plan carefully.
…
After returning from Elvino, Lin Zhongqiu immediately called home to report in.
Ever cautious by nature, he detailed Yang Cheng's transformation—and voiced his own deep concerns.
To his surprise, Yang Jianguo didn't get angry upon hearing that Yang Cheng had essentially taken out a "high-interest loan." Instead, he clapped his hands in approval and praised his son's ability to "find money."
According to Yang Jianguo, finding money was a talent in itself.
How to repay it?
That was a problem for two years down the line.
Still, to ease Lin's unease, he called Yang Cheng to hear the full story.
But before he could ask anything, Yang Cheng got in first—asking about the situation back home.
Naturally, Yang Jianguo didn't hold back with his only son.
Compared to the mess in London, the domestic situation was far better. Their foundation in China was stable.
"I've looked into some things," Yang Cheng said. "We've grown rapidly these past few years, but the truth is, we've got big problems—especially when it comes to brand building."
There was a beat of silence on the line—Yang Jianguo was clearly caught off guard.
He hadn't expected his usually timid, indecisive son to say something so insightful.
"Big international brands are holding us down. We can't break into the high-end market," he said with a sigh.
A common problem for domestic brands.
"Then acquire them."
"Acquire?" Yang Jianguo sounded stunned.
"Yes, acquire foreign brands that are struggling."
"We've actually considered that."
It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea. In fact, a leading domestic brand had already done just that back in 2002.
"Our past endorsements were all table tennis and basketball athletes. I think we should look into track and field."
"Track and field?" Yang Jianguo was even more surprised.
China had always been weak in track and field.
At least basketball had Yao Ming. But in athletics?
"No one?"
"2008 is our home Olympics. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Track and field has improved a lot recently. I've heard industry insiders are very optimistic about Liu Xiang in the 110m hurdles. They say he could become a breakout star at next year's Athens Olympics."
"Liu Xiang?" Yang Jianguo had never heard of him.
"In 2002, Nike noticed him—but they're only paying him £50,000 a year. We should poach him!"
"Steal a Nike endorser?" Yang Jianguo was in disbelief.
He thought he was bold—but his son was even bolder.
"It's worth it. Whatever it costs, it's worth it!"
Yang Cheng spoke with power and certainty: "If he does well at next year's Olympics, the whole country will be on fire!"
"The 110m hurdles is a gold-standard event!"
On the other end of the line, Yang Jianguo was stunned.
Yang Cheng had thrown him one surprise after another in this phone call.
He had originally called to check on his son's progress.
But now, it felt like he was reporting to a superior for instructions.
If not for everything that had happened recently, Yang Jianguo wouldn't have believed it.
But now... he was tempted.
Just as he was trying to recover his sense of authority as a father, Yang Cheng dropped another bomb.
"In the coming years, brand building is important—but investing in R&D and design innovation is just as vital."
"And aside from sticking to our core business, we must increase investment in real estate."
"Real estate?" Yang Jianguo was already numb.
In their coastal second-tier city, the real estate market had been stagnant.
The only reason they had dipped their toes in was because of a government invitation.
But now? Housing prices were already over 3,000. Should they still get involved?
"Trust me. Be bold, and the mansions will rise!"
Yang Cheng's words were infectious—even slipping into their local dialect.
So what if prices seemed high now?
Look back five, ten, twenty years from now—would they still seem high?
Yang Cheng had a simple reason for sharing all this and planning so far ahead with his father.
He wanted him to stay focused back home—and not get involved with the club.
"From now on, focus on your work in China. Go all in on real estate. Make a fortune. Be my strongest support."
"And you?"
"I'll stay in the UK. Clean up the mess you left behind. Run Bayswater Chinese FC. Turn it into a shining brand for you."
That had always been Yang Jianguo's original plan.
If he could have a club in the UK—especially in the Premier League—as a flagship, it would open many doors for his business in China.
"You really think you can pull it off?"
"I know what Uncle Lin is worried about."
Yang Cheng smiled faintly, speaking with calm confidence.
"Paying back £3 million in two years? I never thought that was a problem."
Before Yang Jianguo could ask how, Yang Cheng revealed the answer himself.
"If we get promoted to the Premier League in two years—would that £3 million still be a problem?"
"Promoted to the Premier League in two years?" Yang Jianguo blurted out.
Up to this point, Yang Cheng's bold strategies had merely shocked him.
But now—he was terrified.
He knew better than anyone how hard it was to build a Premier League-level team.
They'd struggled for years and couldn't even get promoted. And now Yang Cheng wanted to do it in two?
Was that even possible?
"Just wait and see. Getting to the Premier League in two years is just the beginning!"
"In the coming years, I'm going to turn Bayswater Chinese FC into the greatest powerhouse in Europe—no, in the world! I'll make every club tremble at our feet!"
Even across an entire continent, even through a phone line, Yang Jianguo could feel his son's sharp edge—his unshakable confidence.
Another kind of father—one more cautious and conservative—might have been worried.
But not Yang Jianguo.
In his generation, every man who made something of himself had one thing in common: audacity.
The brave thrived. The timid starved.
So instead of concern, he felt joy.
His son had the fire.
"You got it. Dad's got your back—no matter what!"
The decision was made.
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