On the Hoffenheim training ground, the weather was gradually turning cold, yet this chill could not dissipate the heat radiating from the running and shouting. The news of Moscow Spartak's 1-4 defeat had already arrived, and the cheers of his teammates at home seemed to still echo in Oliver's ears. When all the players returned to the club, Gnabry and Amiri had expressions of relief and satisfaction on their faces. Both of them had goals and assists in this Champions League match. At the same time, they were even more grateful to Oliver, and even felt an indescribable'sense of indebtedness,' so they specifically apologized to Oliver.
Oliver didn't care about this, saying, "It's good that we won, why think so much? We can still play together next time."
He put his left arm around Gnabry and his right arm around Amiri, and the three of them walked back to the apartment from the training ground together. For Oliver, his daily routine these past few days was exceptionally clear: apartment—training ground—weight room—apartment. There's no need to mention watching matches daily; this was an old habit of Oliver's. Improving his tactical understanding was a long-term project for him, one that couldn't be neglected for a single day. The most obvious change was that Oliver added new training focuses to his daily routine.
Every morning, when the Hoffenheim base was still shrouded in mist, Oliver's figure had already appeared in the chilly training ground. He lowered his waist, settled his stance, held his breath, and repeated the fluid Aikido movements over and over. After several rounds of it, Oliver was covered in a light sweat, and his whole body felt much refreshed. Through Aikido, he wrestled with his invisible opponent, strengthening his lower body foundation, and using it to hone his body's coordination and stability.
The sun rose higher, and the temperature climbed, signaling the start of Oliver's main training content for the day. The weight room began to echo with the clang of equipment and low grunts; Oliver had been a frequent visitor there recently. He had recently shifted his training focus to strength and confrontation; the weight on his barbells was gradually increasing, the duration of his core anti-rotation training was lengthening, and the resistance from the resistance bands was getting stronger.
Because the weight room was well-heated, sweat quickly soaked through his clothes, clinging to Oliver's slightly more muscular latissimus dorsi and arms. By the fitness equipment, Oliver was gritting his teeth, fighting against the muscle soreness and the instinctive urge to give up.
"Ugh... ugh..." He exhaled, breath by breath.
"Hold on, kid, one more set!" Physical trainer Kabak encouraged him, looking at the boy's flushed face and sweat-beaded forehead.
"Ugh... ah..." Oliver clenched his jaw, his core stability being tested to its limits by the equipment.
...He took a deep breath, tensing his core and glutes again, resisting the applied rotational force. Sweat dripped continuously along his hairline, and his calves were already trembling from soreness. In recent training sessions, Oliver was no longer passively recovering, but actively seeking evolution, and his goal was clear. It was to forge this body into a tougher weapon, better adapted to high-intensity close combat on the field.
For the weekend match against Dortmund, and even more so for all possible defensive walls he might encounter in the future, he had to improve his confrontational ability. During confrontation training, Oliver also actively requested to be matched against stronger teammates. Facing experienced and physically strong defenders like central defender Hübner and captain Vogt, Oliver no longer simply tried to dodge or rely on speed to break free. He consciously began to drop his shoulder, turn sideways, and position himself, attempting to use his body to compete for space and shield the ball.
Although he would sometimes still be pushed aside by taller teammates, and his body would feel some soreness after confrontation, he never retreated. If he fell, he would get up, pat his jersey, and continue to face them.
"Hold your ground! Ollie! Use your legs to block!" Nagelsmann shouted from the sidelines, holding a tactics board, but at this moment, it wasn't routes drawn on it, but key points for confrontation.
This was a training session customized by Nagelsmann for Oliver, and he was very much looking forward to seeing the results. Once again, Vogt, relying on his stronger physique and lower center of gravity, forcibly leaned Oliver behind him and intercepted the ball at his feet. Oliver stumbled slightly, breathing a little heavily.
"Hoo... hoo... Again..."
He wasn't disheartened; instead, his gaze became even more focused. Rubbing his arm, which was a little sore from the impact, he took a deep breath and actively asked the sparring partner for the ball again.
"Again!"
"Again!"
"Oliver! Great breakthrough!" Vogt was broken through once.
"Again! Captain, you can use a little more force this time!" Oliver spoke in ragged breaths, sweat from his temples sliding down his chin and dripping onto the training ground's turf.
Vogt also wiped away some sweat: "Honestly... you're really hard on yourself."
He looked at the focus and seriousness in Oliver's eyes, feeling a bit of admiration, and became even more invested in "feeding moves" to Oliver.
...
Such repetitive training was incredibly monotonous and arduous, sometimes even leaving Oliver in a very disheveled state. But when he used a more stable stance to fend off an interference in a confrontation, or maintained core stability after physical contact and still completed the movement, a subtle, fulfilling sense of confidence quietly grew. Repeated failures, stumbles, and muscle soreness followed him like a shadow. But each time he was pushed out of bounds, each time he lost possession due to an unstable center of gravity, it ignited a stronger fighting spirit in Oliver's heart, like fuel.
Oliver's training duration was still the longest in the team; he was often one of the last few people to leave the field. This had already become his instinct. Just two days before arriving in Dortmund, at the end of a high-intensity strength training session, Oliver had just completed a set of weight squats that pushed his limits. He braced his knees, panting, calming his wildly beating heart and burning breath. Suddenly, a clear and unique sensation surged into his mind.
How to describe it? It was as if a dormant node deep within his body had been quietly opened. This wasn't a sudden surge of power, but a new, solid sense of control flowing through his bones and muscles. The previous feeling of powerlessness in confrontations, being easily shaken and stumbled, was replaced by a heavy stability. He could feel that his core was indeed much more stable than before, far more stable, and his leg's explosive support had also improved significantly, becoming more robust and powerful. The system sent a long-awaited and genuine prompt:
[Host's confrontation ability improved: C+ → B-]
[Assessment basis: Core strength enhancement (significant), lower limb strength foundation solid (significant), balance ability optimized, stability in continuous confrontation enhanced (significant)]
An indescribable warm current, mixed with the sweet taste of power, instantly surged through his limbs and bones. Oliver exhaled sharply, as if a heavy burden had been lifted, and his whole body relaxed, collapsing onto the mat in a rather amusing posture. He panted heavily, but a truly satisfied smile appeared on his face. A B- rating, though still far from top-tier confrontation, meant that the sweat and soreness of the past few days had not been in vain. This small improvement gave him a few more ounces of solid confidence for the tough battle ahead.
...
The weekend match day arrived, and it was time for them to depart for Dortmund. The bus drove smoothly on the German highway, and the scenery outside the window gradually took on the industrial and steel atmosphere characteristic of the Ruhr area. The pace of Dortmund city was much faster than the small town where Hoffenheim was located. Oliver sat quietly in his seat, wearing headphones, which played soft classical music. He was relaxing his mind and body, and also mentally rehearsing possible scenarios in the match, especially those high-intensity physical confrontations.
As the bus slowly approached the magnificent Westfalenstadion, even through the car window, an invisible sense of sound pressure began to permeate the air.
"How do you feel, Oliver? First time here, right?" Hübner, sitting next to him, turned his head and asked with a smile.
As a veteran player, Hübner was already accustomed to this place. Oliver took off his headphones, looked out the window at the increasingly close outline of the huge stadium, with a hint of awe in his eyes.
"Yes, Hübner, this... this atmosphere, I can already feel it before even entering," Oliver said, looking into the distance.
In the distance, the giant "Signal Iduna Park" (Iduna Signal Park) sign was clearly visible. But its more widely known name was Westfalenstadion.
"That's nothing," Gnabry, on the other side, joined the conversation. He stretched his neck, his eyes showing both solemnity and a hint of excitement,
"Wait until you walk through the tunnel into the stadium, especially under the 'Yellow Wall' of the South Stand... that's the real hellish experience. However," he patted Oliver's shoulder. In the tense atmosphere of an away game, interaction between teammates was especially precious,
"Playing our game in their home stadium and shutting those voices up is the most satisfying thing!"
After the bus arrived, the Hoffenheim players were led to the changing room to prepare, then gathered together in the player tunnel, ready to enter the field. A buzzing, heart-pounding sound echoed in the player tunnel. It was the immense background noise formed by the breathing, heartbeats, and anxious anticipation of nearly eighty thousand people.
"Both teams enter the field!"
Both teams walked out of the tunnel together. At this moment, the true sound wave of Dortmund's home stadium, like a materialized tsunami, crashed against them without warning! Massive! Oppressive! This atmosphere was even more terrifying than Anfield, where he had been before. Oliver faintly felt a gentle but firm impact on his chest, and his entire vision was instantly overwhelmed by yellow and black. The gigantic stands surrounding the stadium were like a boiling volcano; deafening shouts, synchronized chants, and drumbeats converged into an overwhelming roar, assaulting his eardrums and nerves.
"BVB!!! BVB!!!"
"Dortmund will never fall!!!"...
Dortmund's home fans were incredibly passionate. That famous South Stand, the "Yellow Wall," was now like the core of a hellish furnace, with fervent singing like a battle cry, sweeping through every corner of the stadium. Oliver squinted slightly, trying to adapt to this overwhelming home atmosphere that far exceeded his expectations. This was the first time in his professional career he had been here. Even though he had watched many TV broadcasts before, when he personally felt its power, the sensation was at least ten times stronger than what he experienced on screen. His teammates around him, although their expressions were also serious and tense, seemed more natural in their movements, as most of them were not experiencing this scene for the first time.
"Alright, guys, wake up!" Captain Vogt's voice was somewhat muffled in the deafening roar, but his eyes were exceptionally sharp,
"Focus on what we need to do. Our only goal here is to take home the victory!"
Oliver took a deep breath. He tried to imagine the roaring, tsunami-like noise as a pure background energy. He stretched his neck and shoulders, feeling the state of his muscles. This was Westfalenstadion. This was where he was about to fight.
"It's starting," Oliver heard Amiri whisper beside him, his voice swallowed by the immense background noise. He nodded seriously at his teammates beside him, and finally looked up, scanning this breathtakingly spectacular home stadium one last time. All the preparation, all the sweat, was for the next ninety minutes.
The referee in the center of the field raised his arm, his fingertip touching the timer button on his watch. The match was about to begin. Both teams were lined up, and Oliver slightly bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity, getting into his ready stance.
...
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