The changing room at Cobham Training Centre looked like the VIP lounge of a five-star hotel.
Ergonomic leather recliners, a personal screen at every seat, the faint scent of premium fragrance in the air—all reminded Lin Yuan: this is Chelsea, the pinnacle of money-drenched football.
Yet beneath the luxury lay a chill you could almost see.
When Lin Yuan pushed open the door, the noisy room fell silent for a heartbeat.
A few eyes flicked over, then slid away as if nothing had happened.
In the corner, Argentina's €120-million midfielder Enzo Fernández was sipping mate and chatting; his gaze brushed Lin Yuan like he was a security guard who'd wandered into a gala, then turned back to Spanish banter.
Sterling had his boots on the bench, rocking to his music; he didn't bother lifting an eyelid as Lin Yuan passed.
To these stars on £200k-plus a week, a €18-million "water carrier" from a second-tier Primeira Liga side didn't merit a hello. Management had probably bought him to balance the books or please broadcasters in the East.
"Hey, locker forty-four over there."
A teasing voice—winger Madueke, lacing his boots while grinning at Mudryk: "Heard this is the guy who put someone in hospital in Portugal? Doesn't look scary—more like a harmless college kid."
Stifled chuckles rippled.
Lin Yuan said nothing. He walked to the corner, to locker 44, and shrugged off his jacket.
When his shirt came off, the low murmur dimmed another notch.
His back was layered muscle like armour; on bronze skin, several old scars glared—clawed open in a Primeira Liga relegation scrap, souvenirs from underground fights.
His body was a roadmap of violence.
Madueke's grin froze; he shut up.
Lin Yuan pulled on the grey bib of the substitutes, turned and left without a word to anyone.
He was here to play, not to make friends… Ten minutes later, on the training pitch.
The drizzle had stopped but the grass stayed slick. Mourinho stood on the touchline, whistle in hand, eyes hawk-sharp.
"Small-sided game! Blues for starters, greys for reserves! Losers run fifty laps!"
At the whistle the match began.
Lin Yuan was with the reserves—youth call-ups and fringe players—facing a front line of Enzo, Caicedo and Sterling.
From the first minute it was one-way traffic.
"Here, pass!"
Lin Yuan called for the ball; the teenage defender, seeing Enzo pressing, panicked and knocked it back to the keeper.
The starters strolled, almost toying: the ball zipped between Enzo and Caicedo like a game of keep-away, leaving Lin Yuan lunging at shadows.
"Too slow! Too slow!"
Sterling collected, danced a showy step-over, then exploded past.
Lin Yuan's big frame looked leaden; Sterling left him standing.
"That all you got?" Sterling glanced back. "Back to Primeira Liga, big man!"
The starters howled.
The assistant turned to Mourinho: "José, Lin's off the pace. Premier League speed will turn him into a traffic cone."
Mourinho chewed gum, deadpan: "Watch."
Play rolled on.
15th minute: another attack.
Madueke—fancying a highlight—eyed the lumbering 44 and dribbled at him.
He twitched his ankles, hunting a nutmeg.
"Easy as an empty street," he thought, poking the ball between Lin Yuan's legs.
As Madueke darted round to collect—and hear the cheers—
A red glint flashed in Lin Yuan's eyes.
System passive triggered: [Territorial Instinct].
Instead of turning, the big man stepped sideways like a runaway truck—no-nonsense blocking… no, a full-blooded shoulder charge!
Crunch!
A sickening thud echoed.
Madueke's skinny frame rag-dolled across the wet turf.
"Agh!!"
He clutched his ribs, curled up, gasping.
Silence.
The ball rolled dead.
"You mental?!"
Enzo shoved Lin Yuan. "It's training—you'll kill him!"
Sterling and the rest swarmed, shouting.
Lin Yuan rocked half a step, set himself, then stared down at Enzo—eyes cold as a morgue.
"This is the Premier League, not a ballet."
Quiet, but every word cut:
"Want past me? Leave the ball—or leave a leg."
"You bast—"
Peep!!
Mourinho's whistle shrieked.
"Shut it!"
He strode on, ignored Madueke, pointed to the ball: "Fair charge! Since when do we cry on the grass? This is men's football!"
He swept his gaze across the hushed stars, settled on Lin Yuan, lip twitching:
"Play on—ball to the reserves!"
The message was clear: at Chelsea, violence is currency—and encouraged.
The mob backed off; Madueke, helped by the physio, stood gingerly, fear in his eyes.
The session's mood flipped.
Whenever Lin Yuan loomed, flair players knocked the ball early—no one fancied another freight-train hit.
The kids started feeding him passes, backs straighter with the beast behind them.
After training, Lin Yuan walked off alone.
Mourinho murmured as he passed: "Nice. But Saturday needs more."
Lin Yuan kept walking, flinging the soaked vest over his shoulder: "Don't worry—when it's real, I'll show them cruel."