In the early morning, a flight from London descended through the mist and touched down at Liverpool's John Lennon Airport.
Not long after, Yang Yang, dressed casually, appeared at the terminal exit alongside his agent, Mino Raiola. The moment they stepped into view, a murmur swept through the gathered crowd before erupting into cheers.
"Hey, Yang! Welcome to Liverpool!"
"Yang, you're amazing—score a lot for us this season!"
"You'll be the best in the Premier League, Yang! Maybe even in all of Europe!"
Their enthusiasm filled the terminal. Some waved scarves, others held up homemade banners with Yang's name painted in bold red letters.
Yang Yang smiled warmly, folding his hands in thanks as he moved along the barrier, acknowledging their support. He stopped several times to sign autographs, taking pictures whenever he could. His expression was open and patient, his demeanor calm and kind—it was easy to see why fans already adored him.
But the crowd grew thicker by the minute. Airport staff struggled to maintain order as journalists began to pour in, cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward. Raiola exchanged a quick look with George Owen, the Liverpool club liaison sent to receive them. Both men knew they couldn't linger.
Yang Yang still had a packed schedule ahead—first a medical examination at the club's designated hospital, followed by a press conference at Anfield, where he would officially sign his Liverpool contract. Everything had to proceed on time.
At Raiola's urging, Yang Yang raised his hands apologetically to the still-gathering fans.
"I'm really sorry, everyone! I'll see you soon at Anfield!" he said, smiling again before security guided him and his entourage out through a side exit.
Under tight protection, the group made their way to the waiting car and departed the airport.
As soon as he sat down inside, Yang Yang took out his phone and called Su Ye, who was still in London.
"I just landed safely," he said softly.
Su Ye's voice on the other end eased with relief. They talked briefly—she would be joining him in Liverpool later that day. The university term wouldn't start until September, so she planned to stay with him until the end of August, helping him settle down—finding an apartment, managing household arrangements, and hiring a trustworthy housekeeper.
Once the house was rented, Yang Yang's belongings stored at Uncle Almere's place, along with his Porsche Cayenne, would be moved to Liverpool. His new life would then officially begin.
After hanging up, Raiola leaned back in his seat, patting Yang Yang's shoulder with a grin.
"It's good that Su Ye will be with you for a while," he said. "I'll feel more at ease. I'll head off later to sort out Zlatan's situation."
Yang Yang nodded. "Send my regards to him—and tell him if he needs anything, I'll help however I can."
"I will."
News had broken days earlier—Juventus had been officially relegated to Serie B after the match-fixing scandal. Their players were now scrambling to leave. No one in their prime wanted to spend a season—or perhaps more—outside top-flight football.
Especially not Zlatan Ibrahimović.
The Swedish striker had already told Yang Yang over the phone how complicated things were. Juventus were desperate to keep him and were even offering to renew his contract on improved terms.
"That's rubbish!" Zlatan had ranted through the receiver, his tone brimming with frustration. "That renewal was promised to me months ago. Now they're pretending it's some favor to make me stay? There was no sincerity at all!"
Yang could hear the anger in his voice—and beneath it, anxiety. For a player at his age, one or two lost seasons could change the course of an entire career. Juventus might not care whether promotion took one year or two, but for professionals like Zlatan, every season mattered.
...
George Owen drove Yang Yang directly to the hospital that partnered with Liverpool for player medicals. Inside, the club's medical staff—Dr. Mark Waller and Rob Price—were already waiting. Together with the hospital team, they carried out a comprehensive and meticulous examination on the new arrival.
After more than an hour of detailed testing—covering cardiovascular endurance, muscle elasticity, body fat index, reaction time, and recovery rate—the conclusion was highly satisfactory.
"It seems that even during the holidays, you didn't let your training slide. Just as I expected," said Mark Waller with a small chuckle as he reviewed the report.
Liverpool had signed several players that summer, yet among all the medical results, Yang Yang's report stood out the most. Even Dirk Kuyt, who had featured in the World Cup but played fewer minutes, couldn't match the physical data Yang presented.
His muscle strength was balanced, his heart rate recovery almost ideal, and his explosive acceleration numbers were exceptional. It was the kind of data that made coaches and fitness staff exchange impressed glances.
The old saying came to mind: "Where there's a great name, there's a great shadow."
Yang Yang's meteoric rise at Ajax had not been a coincidence. In barely three years since his debut, he had evolved from an unknown youth to one of the finest players in European football—a reputation clearly backed by substance.
Leaving the hospital, the car wound its way through the city streets. From the window, Yang Yang caught sight of Goodison Park, home of Liverpool's fierce local rivals, Everton.
George Owen smiled as he pointed out, "Only seven hundred and fifty meters separate their ground from Anfield."
It was an amusing contrast—two clubs, two histories, side by side, divided more by emotion than distance.
As they entered Anfield Road, passing the Shankly Gates, Owen mentioned, "The Hillsborough Memorial is right next to the gate."
Yang Yang fell silent for a moment. He had long known about the Hillsborough disaster—a tragedy born of negligence that claimed ninety-six lives and left an eternal scar on English football. It had marked the beginning of Liverpool's long fall from European dominance, a pain that still hadn't fully healed. The thought lent a quiet solemnity as their car pulled up before the stadium offices.
Inside, the air of professionalism returned. George Owen led Yang Yang and Raiola straight to the meeting room where CEO Rick Parry and manager Rafael Benítez were waiting.
Once the formalities were done, the lawyer representing Raiola double-checked the contract, confirming every clause and figure before handing it to Yang Yang. Without hesitation, Yang Yang took the pen and signed his name.
From that moment, he no longer belonged to Ajax. He was a Liverpool player.
According to the agreement, his weekly wage would be £120,000 before tax—a figure that placed him among the club's highest earners. The club would handle the 45% income tax, paying it directly on his behalf. Bonuses for goals, wins, and individual honors had all been improved significantly compared to his Ajax deal.
A special clause caught Yang's attention: if he were to help Liverpool win either the Premier League or the Champions League, or if he earned a major individual world honor, he would have the right to request a salary increase and renewal.
It was a generous contract—one that spoke of faith and ambition. But behind it, Adidas had also played a crucial role in negotiations.
Although Yang Yang retained full control of his portrait rights, Liverpool's partnership with Adidas allowed the sponsor limited promotional use of his image during specific campaigns—of course, with separate compensation. The details were complex, but Raiola would handle everything.
The contract was set for five years, excluding extensions. By its end, Yang Yang would only be twenty-four—still entering his peak.
When he finished signing, Benítez rose from his seat and offered his hand.
"Welcome to Liverpool," the Spaniard said with his usual measured tone.
Yang Yang immediately stood and returned the handshake. To his surprise, Benítez was smiling.
Just a few days earlier, during their long conversation in Beijing, Yang hadn't seen that expression once. Benítez had been calm, analytical—almost severe. Seeing him smile now felt strange, even a little disarming.
He realized then that the media might have exaggerated the coach's coldness. A truly emotionless man could never lead a club built on the fiery passion of its supporters. Even Steven Gerrard had once said that Benítez's passion burned quietly—buried beneath method and control, but very real.
Perhaps, Yang thought, he had simply poured all his passion into football itself.
...
England held a very different approach compared to other European leagues. Here, clubs rarely held public ceremonies to introduce their new signings.
"Normally," Benítez explained as he and Yang Yang walked through the corridor toward the dressing rooms, "we sign players quietly—almost in secret. But your transfer is different. The fee reached forty million euros, and fans around the world are watching. Here in Liverpool, countless supporters are waiting to see you. So today, we'll have to make your introduction public—right here at Anfield Stadium."
Yang Yang nodded. He had already prepared himself mentally for this.
He knew that when other players—like Xabi Alonso and several summer recruits—had signed, it had been a simple affair: they wore casual clothes, slipped on a Liverpool jersey, posed with a scarf for the club photographer, and that was it. The photos were quietly sent to the media with no ceremony, no spectacle.
But his case was different.
Benítez led him through the narrow passageway into the home dressing room. Yang immediately noticed how compact it was—smaller even than Ajax's back in Amsterdam. The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs from the Bill Shankly era, every frame steeped in the club's history.
"In this city," Benítez said, pausing to glance around, "you'll hear the name Shankly often. He built the spirit of Liverpool. What you see here—the humility, the pride, the unity—this is the foundation of our culture. The soul of the club lives in this very room."
Yang Yang's eyes lingered on the aged photos—the players of another generation, their faces hardened by competition and belief. Despite the modest surroundings, the atmosphere carried a weight that couldn't be measured in luxury or space.
As a Chinese player, he had a particular reverence for cultural heritage—for traditions that stood the test of time. Here, he felt that same respect stir within him.
"I've been here two years," Benítez continued quietly, "but even now, I feel I'm still trying to truly understand them—to walk completely into their hearts. That's my goal."
Yang Yang realized that in Benítez's tone there was sincerity, not distance. The "them" he spoke of were not just the players or fans, but the people of Liverpool themselves.
Soon, he was handed his new Liverpool jersey. The bright red fabric gleamed under the dressing room lights, the iconic white Carlsberg logo standing out across the chest. On the back: his name—YANG YANG—and beneath it, his number—11. The same number he had worn at Ajax.
When he slipped it on, the material felt oddly familiar. The deep red was close to the color of the Chinese national team kit, and for a brief moment, that resemblance brought a quiet sense of warmth and belonging.
Afterward, Benítez led him down the players' tunnel. The light at the far end poured in through the opening that led to the Anfield pitch. Above the tunnel's archway hung a large red sign, the club's crest shining at its center, and beneath it, the immortal words of Shankly:
"This is Anfield."
Benítez gestured for Yang Yang to place his hand on the sign while the club photographer took photos.
"Shankly had this put here," he said, "to remind everyone who walks out that they're about to step onto one of the greatest and most awe-inspiring stages in the world."
Yang Yang pressed his palm against the sign, feeling its cold surface beneath his fingertips. For a moment, the noise from outside seemed to fade.
It was his first time inside Anfield, yet already, he could feel the weight of history and pride that surrounded the place—the kind of reverence that no trophy or fame could ever replace.
Yang Yang stepped into the players' tunnel and began climbing the short staircase that led toward the pitch. At the exit, the same red sign with Shankly's words hung above the arch.
Seeing the sign for a second time, Yang Yang felt a distinct weight settle in his chest. There was pride, but also pressure. He finally understood what made Liverpool unique—how every corridor, every inch of paint, every photograph had been preserved to carry forward the club's traditions.
From the dressing room to the tunnel, everything felt deliberate—a living museum of football history. Anyone who set foot here could feel the culture pressing down on them, reminding them that they were stepping into something larger than themselves.
He also began to understand why Steven Gerrard had once patted his chest and told him that Liverpool possessed one of the most united, harmonious locker rooms in the Premier League—perhaps even in all of football. That spirit wasn't built overnight; it came from years of shared identity and belief.
Benítez continued guiding Yang Yang around the stadium, explaining the details of the pitch and the facilities. Yang's gaze eventually fell upon the substitutes' bench. It was positioned so close to the Main Stand that it almost blended with the first row of supporters. For a moment, he thought it might actually be part of the seating area.
Benítez noticed his curiosity and spoke in a firm, serious tone.
"I don't ever want to see you sitting here."
The statement carried weight—half warning, half expectation. Yang Yang immediately understood what it meant.
A few seconds later, Benítez's expression softened slightly as he clarified, "It's a tradition here. We say this to remind players that they belong on the pitch, not the bench."
Yang Yang smiled faintly. He could feel the gravity of those words.
The manager went on, "You know, we haven't introduced a big-name player in years. Since I took charge, you're the first to go through this full ceremony. Even Alonso and Kuyt didn't."
Yang Yang's smile deepened. It felt like an honor to be treated differently.
A handful of reporters, invited especially for the presentation, waited in the stands. As soon as Yang Yang appeared, camera flashes burst like sparks in the sunlight. He raised a Liverpool scarf high above his head, letting the red fabric ripple between his hands while the shutters clicked.
When the photo session ended, he returned to the dressing room to change. Once more, the black-and-white photos of Bill Shankly and his players caught his eye. The longer he looked, the more respect he felt for the man who had built this club's spirit.
George Owen met him at the door and took the jersey he had just worn. "The shirt will be used for a charity auction tonight," he explained. "All proceeds go to local charities. I heard there's an Irish businessman, a huge Liverpool fan, who's said he'll spend ten thousand pounds on it no matter what. If he does, it'll be the highest price ever paid for a Liverpool jersey."
Yang Yang laughed softly and shrugged. Anyone willing to pay that much for a single shirt truly loved the club.
After changing back into casual clothes, he followed Owen to the press-conference hall.
The event was carefully arranged, divided into several short sessions for different branches of the media—radio, daily papers, Sunday papers, and finally the club's own television and website. Reporters from China had also made the trip; not for special treatment, but because the Premier League preferred to separate interviews by outlet type, giving each platform its moment.
Yang Yang had gone through similar public-relations work at Ajax, so he handled the questions easily, though the segmented format made it more exhausting. In the Netherlands, all media usually came together at once; here, everything was formal, precise, almost ceremonial.
It was, he thought, one of the Premier League's trademarks—its professionalism and order.
...
...
"Welcome to Liverpool! I look forward to training with you. Wishing you all the best—I hope we'll achieve great things together!"
The sender was Steven Gerrard.
Another message soon followed with similar warmth—it was from Jamie Carragher.
Yang Yang read both messages with a faint smile as he left Anfield Stadium, heading to meet Su Ye. By then, it was already noon.
After the signing ceremony, Raiola had rushed straight to Turin to handle Ibrahimović's situation, leaving Yang Yang in Liverpool with George Owen.
When George noticed him glancing at his phone, he seemed to guess what had happened.
"Gerrard and Carragher?" he asked casually.
Yang Yang nodded.
Owen chuckled. "It's a tradition here—a way of welcoming new players."
As they drove through the quiet streets, George Owen began telling him more about Liverpool's captain.
"When Rafa first arrived, we'd just lost our flag bearer—Michael Owen. He left for Real Madrid, though it didn't last long; after a year he was off to Newcastle."
"At that time, there was debate inside the club about who should wear the captain's armband. Many thought Sami Hyypiä deserved it. He was the defensive leader, respected by everyone. But Benítez asked the players themselves—including Hyypiä—and they all agreed the captaincy should go to Gerrard."
He paused for a moment, watching the city roll by outside the window.
"In the Premier League, the captain isn't chosen just by seniority," he continued. "He's chosen for his character, his leadership, and his ability to embody the club's spirit. Gerrard is exactly that. Over the years, players have come and gone, but he's always been here. In 2005, he nearly left for Chelsea—but in the end, he stayed and led the team to one of its greatest triumphs. That tells you who he is."
Owen turned to Yang Yang with a knowing smile. "I think you and him will get along very well."
"Why's that?" Yang Yang asked curiously.
"It's just a feeling," Owen said. "You're the same kind of people. You're both obsessed with improvement, always thinking about how to play better, how to win, how to lead. That's what true leaders do—they lift everyone around them."
Yang Yang hadn't expected such words from someone he'd met only twice, yet Owen's tone carried complete sincerity.
"There's only one leader here," Yang Yang said with a smile, "and that's Gerrard."
His words were genuine—a sign of respect and self-awareness.
He had worn the captain's armband for both Ajax and the Chinese national team, but in Liverpool, the captaincy rightfully belonged to the local hero. That would never change.
Owen laughed. "You're not saying that because you're about to see him, are you?"
Yang looked puzzled. "We're going to see Gerrard soon?"
Owen simply nodded, amusement in his eyes.
"Why?"
"You'll see," Owen replied, chuckling.
And indeed, not long after, Yang Yang really did see Steven Gerrard—this time standing in front of a two-and-a-half-storey detached house with Alex Curran, his girlfriend.
"This is my house!" Gerrard said with a grin when he spotted Yang Yang.
Both Yang and Su Ye were surprised. She had spent the afternoon visiting several properties, finally choosing this one without realizing whose it was.
"I had no idea," Su Ye said quickly, a little embarrassed. "I only picked it because it's next to Sefton Park. You'll be able to train there every morning."
Yang gently reassured her that it was fine, then began looking around.
The neighborhood was peaceful, lined with old peach trees whose trunks were thick enough to take two people to encircle them. The road had clearly been designed to preserve those trees, making it wide and elegant.
The house itself was beautiful—bright brick walls, clean courtyard, tidy hedges. It was a two-and-a-half-storey detached home with five spacious bedrooms, two living rooms, a front courtyard, a small garden at the back, a private cinema room, and even an indoor swimming pool.
No wonder Su Ye liked it.
From the second-floor window, the view opened toward the twin peach trees at the entrance, while the rear overlooked the garden. The whole place radiated calm and order.
Its location was ideal—just a five-minute walk to Sefton Park, one of Liverpool's most scenic areas, and only ten minutes by car from Melwood, the club's training base. For someone as devoted to training as Yang Yang, that proximity mattered. Having a pool at home meant easier recovery sessions; having a small theatre fit perfectly with his quiet evenings.
Su Ye had chosen well—she knew exactly what he needed.
"How do you like it?" Gerrard asked with a smile.
While Alex Curran took Su Ye to stroll through the garden, Gerrard, Yang Yang, and George Owen remained in the living room.
"It's great," Yang Yang admitted. "Comfortable, quiet, and the surroundings are beautiful."
Gerrard nodded. "I bought it last year. Most of the lads live over in the Woolton area, but the security there isn't great. So I bought this one, renovated it completely, but in the end decided not to move." He turned toward Yang Yang. "If you like it, I'll rent it to you. Everything's new—furniture, fixtures. If there's anything you want changed, just tell me and I'll have someone fix it."
"There's nothing to change," Yang Yang said quickly, waving his hand. Gerrard's generosity caught him off guard, and it made him a little uncomfortable.
"If you're satisfied," Gerrard continued, "I'll have the housekeeping service come over and prepare everything. You could move in within a couple of days."
Yang nodded, still taking in how well the place suited him.
"How much are you asking for rent?" he finally asked. He noticed Gerrard hadn't mentioned a price once.
Gerrard glanced toward George Owen. "What did the agency say?"
"They listed it at three thousand pounds a month," Owen replied.
"Alright then—two thousand. I'll handle it directly with the agency," Gerrard said decisively.
Yang Yang immediately protested. "No, that's too low. Three thousand is fine."
"I'm the landlord," Gerrard countered, half-smiling. "Two thousand it is."
"I can't rent it like that."
The two went back and forth, neither willing to yield, until George Owen finally stepped in to settle the matter.
"Let's make it two-and-a-half thousand pounds a month," he said, laughing.
Both men paused, then exchanged a glance and nodded in agreement.
It was a fair compromise—and the start of a friendship that neither of them would forget.