The cheers in the Boavista locker room were locked behind a heavy iron door.
The corridor was empty, the only sound the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Lin Yuan leaned against the cold wall and pressed answer.
"Hello?"
A middle-aged man's voice, thick with bureaucratic drawl and careless laziness, came through; in the background mahjong tiles clacked.
"Lin Yuan, isn't it? I'm Team Leader Wang from the FA's National Teams Department."
No pleasantries, no check whether it was dawn or midnight on Lin Yuan's side—arrogance so thick it almost oozed down the line.
Lin Yuan's fingers tightened round the phone, yet his voice stayed calm. "What is it?"
"Oho, a couple of days in Europe and your temper's grown." Wang gave a snort of laughter, half warning. "All right, short and sweet. Next month's National Games qualifiers plus Olympic-team training—you'll be back in China for reporting within the week."
Lin Yuan laughed in sheer anger.
The National Games? That so-called "youth tournament" stitched together by every provincial sports bureau for political points?
It was the decisive stretch of the Primeira Liga season; Boavista were charging for Europe, and these people wanted him to fly halfway round the globe for a meaningless fixture?
"I have league matches," Lin Yuan refused coldly. "And this isn't a FIFA window; the club can refuse to release me."
Two seconds of silence: the man hadn't expected the "discard" they once squeezed to talk back with regulations.
"Lin Yuan, get the picture." Wang's tone chilled; the mahjong noise stopped. "This is a political task—your chance to serve the motherland! Think a bit of fame abroad lets you ignore the organisation?"
"Serve the motherland?" A sneer entered Lin Yuan's voice. "Two years ago when I couldn't pay your 'entry fee' and was booted from the youth team, where was the motherland?"
The breathing on the other end grew heavier.
"Why bring up the past? Look forward." Wang grew impatient, the dagger now bare. "Coming back now gives you a way down. Behave, be sensible… getting you into the Olympic starting XI isn't impossible. Of course there are still some fees—about two hundred thousand. Small change for you now, right?"
Two hundred thousand.
The price of an Olympic-team place.
And on top of that abandon a Primeira Liga starting spot to be a political paint-brush for these parasites.
A deep disgust surged from his stomach. Staring at the night outside the corridor window, Lin Yuan found it all beyond absurd.
He'd bled, fought, even broken a leg on European pitches just to prove himself; in their eyes he was only a fat sheep waiting to be bled, a pawn to be moved at will.
"Team Leader Wang."
Lin Yuan cut through the man's chatter.
"Hmm? Seen the light? Good, I'll text you the account—"
"Get lost."
One word.
Clear, forceful, no flab.
The man froze, as if mis-hearing. "What did you say?"
"I said: get lost."
Lin Yuan's voice was low, yet each syllable hit like a sliding tackle. "Take your National Games, take your two hundred grand, and get lost. Don't call again—you make me sick."
"Lin Yuan! You think you're above the sky! This is refusal of summons—believe me, I'll have you blacklisted—"
Beep—
Lin Yuan ended the call.
Blocked the number in one smooth move.
Silence at last.
He wasn't furious; instead he felt a lightness he'd never known, as if a long-rotten chunk of flesh had been gouged away. It hurt, but it was bliss.
He glanced at the screen.
A "Recorder" app showed: 3 min 42 s.
Save, back-up, upload to cloud.
In an age where traffic is king, he might be reckless, but no fool. Without a blade in hand how do you cut?
…Yet he still underestimated their shamelessness.
He didn't wait long; retaliation came faster than expected.
Barely twenty-four hours later, every major Chinese sports forum and portal was flooded with negative headlines about Lin Yuan.
"Shock! Overseas prodigy Lin Yuan spurns Olympic summons, sneers 'domestic games aren't worthy'!"
"Got too big? Boavista midfielder insults team leader, zero patriotism!"
"Expert: no matter how good his skills, bad character equals trash!"
Even an "insider" (Team Leader Wang) revealed: "We sincerely invited him to serve the nation, but he demanded huge appearance fees and insulted the coaching staff… such a black sheep must never be picked!"
Public opinion exploded.
Netizens who didn't know the truth were whipped into a frenzy; tens of thousands of curses flooded his social media overnight.
"Scum! Get out of Chinese football!"
"A few games abroad and you forgot your surname?"
"Traitor! Don't ever come back!"
"Appearance fee? Money-crazy!"
…Portugal, a cheap apartment by the Porto seaside.
Lin Yuan sat in the dark, phone-light carving out his angular face. He scrolled through the venom, some even Photoshopping his black-and-white funeral portrait.
These were the compatriots he'd desperately wanted to prove himself to.
This was the homeland he'd missed day and night.
"Heh…"
A low laugh escaped him, echoing eerily in the empty room.
Nothing could have sobered him more.
He had always been alone.
Since you want to hurl me into the abyss, then I'll crown myself king inside it.
Just then the doorbell rang.
He pocketed the phone and opened the door.
Outside stood a girl in Boavista medical-staff kit, a medicine box in one hand, a steaming seafood rice in the other.
Anna.
The Portuguese trainee physio with curly brown hair and doe-bright eyes.
Seeing his gloomy, frightening face and the unlit flat, she seemed to understand. Without mentioning the online storm she pointed at his knee.
"Coach Pacheco sent me."
Her voice was soft, lilted with Portuguese warmth. "He says you took a nasty knock last match; skip physio and you'll wreck yourself for next week's cup final."
She paused and offered the seafood rice, careful:
"Whatever happens outside… the fans at Estádio do Bessa love you. So do I."
The last three words brought a blush, but her gaze didn't flinch.
Lin Yuan looked at the girl—hardly stunning, yet warm as a winter hearth.
The ice sealing his heart cracked.
He stepped aside.
"Come in."
It was the first time he'd let anyone into his private space.
That night he made a decision.
Since the homeland didn't need him, since the so-called "home" was only a trap to drain his blood—
Then here, on this foreign soil, he would hack out a bloody path.
[System notice: drastic mentality shift detected.]
[Hidden quest chain activated: Lone Demon King.]
[Objective: capture the Portuguese Cup amid universal vilification.]
[Reward: unlock S-tier body modification privileges.]
Outside, Atlantic wind howled; a storm was coming.