The next day was February 2.
Early morning.
Auxerre, the training ground at Stade Abbé-Deschamps.
Located in a small Burgundy town, this training ground was usually as quiet as a monastery cut off from the world. Apart from the players' shouts and whistles during training, there was barely a sound at other times.
The security guard's daily job consisted of sitting in the gatehouse drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and occasionally opening the gate for the few scattered visitors.
But today, everything was different.
At seven thirty in the morning, security captain Philippe Moreau drove up to the training ground entrance as usual. He had just parked and had not even switched off the engine when the sight before him left him stunned.
Outside the training ground's main gate stood a dense crowd of people.
Not fans-even a crowd of fans would not have surprised him this much.
They were reporters.
Some carried cameras on their shoulders, some held up voice recorders, and others lugged bags of equipment, large and small. There were at least fifty or sixty of them, blocking the training ground entrance completely.
French television broadcast vans took up an entire lane. TF1, Canal+, France Télévisions-almost all of France's mainstream media outlets were there.
The British contingent was not about to be outdone either. The reporters from The Sun stood out most, their photographers especially conspicuous in the crowd in fluorescent vests bearing the words "The Sun."
People from the BBC and The Times had come too. Although they were less ostentatious than The Sun, they were no less equipped.
Quite a few reporters had also come from Italy, Spain, and Germany. Milan Sports Newspaper, Marca, AS, Bild-these were all among Europe's top sports media outlets.
What Moreau truly found unbelievable were the Asian faces.
Most of those reporters were from Japan and South Korea.
The Japanese outlets included Sankei Shimbun and Kyodo News, while the South Korean ones included NAVER Sports and Yonhap News Agency. There were even a few national flag logos that neither he nor the people nearby could identify. Only later did they learn those belonged to media outlets from Malaysia and Indonesia.
"My God..." Moreau muttered, his hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel.
He picked up his radio and pressed the call button. "This is the gate, this is the gate. You won't believe what's happening here-there are close to a hundred reporters outside the training ground. Not fans. Reporters. From all sorts of countries."
The other end of the radio fell silent for two seconds.
"What did you say?" The security supervisor on duty sounded deeply skeptical.
"Reporters," Moreau repeated. "At least fifty or sixty, possibly more. They've set up cameras outside the gate and are waiting for someone. I think we need backup."
Ten minutes later, the news had spread throughout Auxerre.
From the gatekeepers to the management, from the youth-team coaches to the first-team players, everyone was caught off guard by this bombshell.
Some ran to the windows to look outside, only to shrink back in alarm at the dark mass of people and densely packed cameras. Others started calling reporters they knew, trying to figure out what exactly had happened.
Still others stood in the corridors, staring blankly at their colleagues coming and going, repeatedly muttering the same question: "Why are there so many people here?"
Why were there so many people here?
Over the next few minutes, that question made the rounds of everyone who knew about the situation before finally reaching head coach Fernandez's ears.
The veteran coach was watching tactical footage in his office when his assistant coach, Stéphane, pushed the door open, his forehead covered in sweat.
"Jean, there are a lot of reporters outside." Stéphane still sounded alarmed. "Not just a lot. An enormous number. French, British, Italian, Spanish, German-and Japanese and South Korean too. They've blocked the entrance so tightly not even water could get through."
Fernandez pressed pause and turned to look at Stéphane. He did not speak immediately, first picking up the coffee cup on his desk and taking a sip-it was still cold.
"How many?" he asked.
"At least seventy or eighty," Stéphane said. "And the number's still growing. Another group arrives every few minutes."
Fernandez set down his coffee cup, stood up, and walked to the window. He pulled back the curtain and glanced outside.
Beyond the training ground's main gate, heads bobbed in a sea of people, and cameras stood like a forest. His initially calm expression shifted into a slight frown before returning to calm.
"What are they here for?" he asked. The question was entirely serious, not a joke.
Stéphane looked at him, unsure where to begin.
"Jean... didn't you watch the news yesterday?"
"I spent last night watching footage of our next opponents. Watched it twice. I didn't have time for the news."
Stéphane took a deep breath and gathered his words. "The Sun published a report about Zhang. They interviewed four women who'd been involved with him. That report has spread all over the world. The reporters here today probably want to interview him in person."
Fernandez was silent for a long time.
"These reporters," he finally said, "were all drawn here by Zhang Kuang's private life?"
"From what we can tell, yes."
Another silence followed. This kind of turnout was like the coverage of a world-class superstar. Did Zhang Kuang command that much attention now? Wasn't this far too exaggerated? At present, surely only a handful of top stars like Cristiano Ronaldo, Messi, Rooney, Gerrard, and Drogba attracted this level of attention?
"Has Zhang arrived yet?"
"Not yet. He should be here any moment."
"Then let him handle it himself. Give him a call and tell him to get rid of these reporters himself. Don't let them interfere with today's training."
"All right. I'll call him right away."
Fernandez sat back down, picked up the remote, and unpaused the tactical footage. It continued playing, showing a compilation of Montpellier's defenders in action this season.
Outside the training ground.
More and more reporters gathered, their numbers swelling from the initial fifty or sixty to nearly a hundred. The little road outside the training ground was crammed with all kinds of vehicles, with several simply parked on the roadside grass.
When Zhang Kuang received the assistant coach's call, he was almost there. Hearing that reporters were lying in wait for him, he shook his head helplessly. Since the head coach wanted him to send them away, he would send them away.
Soon, as the reporters captured his Porsche Cayman approaching from the distance, someone shouted, "He's here!" The entire crowd instantly stirred.
Camera operators hoisted their equipment onto their shoulders and charged forward. Reporters pulled out voice recorders and microphones, and the previously somewhat orderly crowd descended into chaos.
Someone rushed into the middle of the road, blocking his path. Zhang Kuang had no choice but to stop-if he drove any farther, he would run someone over.
He looked through the windshield at the sea of people outside, then lowered the driver's window. The first to react was France 1 reporter Jean-Philippe Dupont.
He thrust his microphone toward Zhang Kuang and spoke rapidly. "Zhang, I'm a reporter from France 1. Have you read yesterday's report in The Sun? Is there anything you'd like to say in response?"
"How about letting me park first? Then I can take my time answering your questions."
"Just tell us now. No need for all that trouble."
"All right. I read The Sun's report. The article was well written and basically in line with the facts. That's my answer."
"Huh?"
"But you can't possibly expect us to remain unmoved after seeing a report like that, can you?" a British reporter interjected-Zhang Kuang recognized the press pass on his chest. He was from The Sun. "Four women, all describing you as 'interesting,' 'thoughtful,' and 'someone who understands art.'
"Those aren't assessments an ordinary person receives, Mr. Zhang. We want to know-what do you think of those assessments yourself?"
Zhang Kuang glanced at that reporter. He was from The Sun.
"Then how am I supposed to react?" Zhang Kuang said, his tone level.
"This behavior of yours challenges society's moral bottom line. Aren't you going to apologize or something?" a reporter asked.
"Huh? I crossed a moral line? Which moral line? Did I sleep with a married woman, or a minor? Or a friend's wife? Or did I gather a group in public? I took them home, you know. Or are you saying I forced them and broke the law?"
Zhang Kuang shot back.