London's sunset bathed Stamford Bridge in a fiery gold.
It was Chelsea's first home game of the new season, and the atmosphere in the stands had reached fever pitch. Forty-thousand Blues diehards belted out the club anthem, Blue is the Colour, while a colossal tifo unfurled: a giant blue lion baring its fangs, paws planted on a shattered cannon.
The air reeked of gunpowder, not only because the visitors were bitter city rivals Arsenal, but because the Gunners' starting XI contained one particular name:
Kai Havertz.
That summer, the former Champions League hero for Chelsea had defected to the enemy. When the stadium announcer called his name, Stamford Bridge erupted in a wall of booing loud enough to lift the roof.
Inside the players' tunnel.
Arsenal captain Ødegaard was rallying his teammates: "Ignore the boos. Play our game. We're title contenders—they're still a building site."
Havertz, in red, looked stiff, avoiding the eyes of his ex-teammates.
Then he felt a scorching stare.
He turned and met a pair of ink-black eyes. Chelsea's new No. 44 stood at the back of the line, lips curled in playful amusement, watching him like a shepherd eyes a lost lamb.
Lin Yuan flexed his wrists as Mourinho's pre-match instruction echoed in his mind:
"Kai's mentality is fragile. The whole stadium's booing him—he'll be desperate to prove himself. Lin, help him 'calm down' completely."
…Whistle!!
Kick-off.
Arsenal took control at once. Arteta's possession machine was precise; Ødegaard, Saka and Martinelli weaved through Chelsea's lines like scalpels.
For fifteen minutes Chelsea were passengers.
"Arsenal's technique is exquisite!" BBC's Lineker exclaimed. "Look at that heel-pass from Ødegaard! Chelsea's midfield are bears chasing shadows. Lin Yuan's strong, but what's the use if he can't touch the ball?"
18th minute.
Havertz received the ball near the centre circle and tried to turn away from pressure.
The instant he spun, a huge force hit him from behind.
It wasn't a wild charge that sent him flying; it was a pair of iron pincers clamping his kidneys. Lin Yuan had latched on.
Havertz tried to shove back, but the man behind him didn't budge; instead, a hidden elbow dug into his ribs.
"Welcome home, Kai."
Lin Yuan's voice drifted into his ear, laced with mockery: "The turf's a bit hard today—remember to cover your face when you fall."
"Get off!" Havertz snapped, swinging an elbow to shield the ball.
The moment he raised his elbow, Lin Yuan anticipated it, jerking his body backward while surreptitiously brushing the striker's standing ankle.
A tiny touch—just enough to wreck balance.
Thud.
Havertz sprawled face-first, ball lost.
The referee stood nearby, but with Lin's hands behind his back it looked like Havertz had simply slipped—no whistle.
"Soft-legged shrimp." Lin Yuan stepped over him and moved on.
For the next twenty minutes Lin Yuan gave a masterclass in Mourinho defending.
Gone was the reckless charging of the previous match; now he ghosted through the midfield, clinging to Arsenal's core.
Whenever Ødegaard received, Lin arrived half a beat late, "unable to brake" and crashing into him just after the release. These delayed collisions left the Norwegian in pain every pass, yet barely punishable.
For Havertz, it was psychological warfare.
35th minute, dead ball. Lin Yuan shoulder-barged him, then instantly raised both hands in innocence.
40th minute, corner. Before jumping, Lin whispered: "Hear them? They're calling you traitor."
Havertz's face reddened, breathing ragged. He was cracking.
The climax came in the 44th minute.
Arsenal attacked; Havertz collected on the edge of the box, shaping to shoot.
[System skill triggered: The Special One's Shadow Lv.1]
[Effect: Taunt success rate up; opponent sanity down.]
Lin Yuan slid in from behind—not at the ball. The instant Havertz drew back his leg, Lin roared, "HEY!!"
The bark froze Havertz; Lin's perfectly timed tackle sent the ball spinning out for a corner.
As momentum carried him onward, Lin's studs "accidentally" scraped Havertz's calf.
Light—but the final straw.
Havertz's bottled fury detonated. He leapt up, shoved the prone Lin and screamed, "Are you ****ing mental!!"
The push was hardly vicious.
But Lin Yuan had waited for it.
The 1m89 muscle-mountain flew backward as if hit by a truck, rolling twice on the grass, hands clamped to his face as though his nose were shattered.
The stadium exploded.
"He's been assaulted!" Chelsea players swarmed, Enzo leading the charge to shove Havertz back.
Stamford Bridge erupted; boos and debris rained down.
Referee Michael Oliver sprinted over, face like thunder. He'd seen the retaliation clear as day.
A dead-ball offence—zero tolerance in the Premier League.
Without hesitation he reached for his pocket and produced a flash of red.
Red card!
Havertz—sent off!
Arsenal players surrounded him; Ødegaard hopped in desperation.
Meanwhile Lin Yuan, still "in agony", peeked through his fingers, saw the card, and—once confirmed—was "helped" slowly to his feet.
He rubbed an uninjured face, watched the despairing Havertz trudge off, and curled a cold smile. Saying nothing, he tapped the Chelsea crest over his heart.
The broadcast camera caught it all.
In the commentary box Gary Neville gasped:
"My word… look at that grin. That's no victim—that's a trap! Lin Yuan's bones are hard, but his brain's harder. Havertz is naïve; he's been played like a fiddle by a teenager!"
On the touchline Mourinho, hands in pockets, chewed his gum a fraction faster.
Well done, butcher.
Down to ten, Arsenal imploded. Chelsea won 2–0.
At full-time Lin Yuan stood at the centre circle as forty thousand voices chanted:
"Lin! Lin! Our mad butcher!"
He knew that, from this night on, he had conquered the Bridge.
[Ding! Newbie quest – Premier League arc completed.]
[Rating: Perfect. You beat your opponent—and broke their mind.]
[Rewards: Free attribute points +2, Skill draw x1]