All of England was talking about Chelsea's No. 44, the eastern demon in blue, while far away in the East the wind of public opinion was shifting in a strangely 'warmer' direction.
Ever since Director Li's phone call a few days earlier, Lin Yuan had offered no public reply, yet certain 'well-informed' insiders at home began stirring the pot with manic enthusiasm.
On Weibo's trending list, several hashtags refused to budge:
#LinYuanMayReturnToNationalTeam#
#FASeniorBrassFlyToLondonForThaw#
#ProdigalSonWorthHisWeightInGold#
A famous Chinese-football influencer declared on livestream: 'Reliable sources inside say Director Li's call worked. Young people—silence equals consent; he's just looking for a way down. Mark my words, after this Premier League round Lin Yuan will make a "move", almost certainly returning to serve king and country!'
In the comment section, curses still flew, yet humble hope outweighed the hate. After watching Lin Yuan punch Havertz and kick Rice in the Premier League, who wasn't drooling? Who didn't want to see him send opponents flying in the World-Cup qualifiers?
This one-sided carnival lasted right up to kick-off… Stamford Bridge blazed under the lights.
Chelsea hosted promoted Luton. The Hatters are Premier League's famous 'hard nut'—lowest squad value, built on brute force and long-ball chaos.
In the pre-game tunnel…
Luton's midfield enforcer Nakamba stared at Lin Yuan, eyes full of provocation. He'd heard of the Chinese man's notoriety but refused to believe the hype; Championship sides fear no brawl.
Lin Yuan felt the stare, gave a faint glance, then lowered his head to adjust his shin-pad—a look a lion gives a stray cur.
[System notice: Opponent provocation detected.]
[Side quest triggered: Who's the real hard nut?]
[Objective: Dominate Luton's midfield in number and success-rate of physical duels. Let these Championship upstarts taste Premier League intensity.]
[Reward: +1 free attribute point.]
'Interesting.' Lin Yuan's lips curved.
At the referee's whistle the game began.
Luton came out swinging, pressing like mad to disrupt Chelsea's rhythm—only to slam into a wall.
12th minute…
A Luton midfielder tried to carry the ball through the centre circle; Lin Yuan flashed in from behind like black lightning. No fancy tricks—just shoulder on shoulder—THUD!
The dull thump of muscle on muscle reached every corner of the globe via pitch-side mics.
The Luton player catapulted two metres like a rag-doll, rolling across the turf. Lin Yuan merely swayed, steadied himself, and slipped the ball wide to Sterling.
Stamford Bridge roared: 'Kill them, Lin!'
35th minute…
Nakamba sought revenge, elbow cocked in an aerial duel.
Lin Yuan's airborne eyes were ice. He didn't flinch; activating Savage Physique (S-class), he met the elbow with his chest, cored like a hydraulic press and sent Nakamba off-balance.
Lin Yuan landed upright; Nakamba sprawled face-first.
No whistle—perfectly legal contact!
Looking down, Lin Yuan spat one word: 'Soft.'
Such raw violence had Mourinho rubbing his hands in glee. This was the Chelsea he wanted—this was the Blues' DNA!
78th minute, score 2-0, Sterling and Jackson on the scoresheet.
The match was settled, yet Lin Yuan showed no mercy.
The free attribute points he had banked over twenty-odd chapters—two of them—had been dumped into Acceleration before kick-off.
Now he snapped up a loose ball in midfield…
Open prairie ahead.
Most holding mids would recycle safely.
But Lin Yuan, spotting Chinese students waving the five-starred red flag, felt a surge of complex emotion—farewell.
If he had to leave, he'd gift them a memory for life.
He kept the ball.
Lin Yuan exploded, a runaway heavy tank bearing down on Luton's box.
A defender stepped up—left behind by a burst and body-feint!
Another grabbed his shirt—shaken off like a rag!
At the arc he never broke stride, wound up, locked his ankle, and poured every ounce of force into one strike.
'Go… IN!'
The ball screamed off his foot, a shell rifling goal-ward, zero spin, arrowing top-right corner!
The keeper flinched but never moved.
SWISH! Net bulged! 3-0!
Lin Yuan's first Premier League goal for Chelsea—a solo rampage of brute force!
No roar, no knee-slide.
He simply stood, face blank, gazing toward the Chinese fans. Slowly he raised his right hand in a half-hearted wave.
In the commentary box Zhan Jun babbled: 'Heavens! Lin Yuan! A thunderbolt! Power incarnate—like a war-god! If he returns, China's midfield won't just stiffen—it'll be titanium!'
Bullet comments went berserk:
'Insane strike!'
'Director Li is a hero—drag this god home!'
'He waved—he's signalling home!'
'It's done—locked!'
Everyone clung to the fantasy of his return, reading that cold wave as the prodigal's promise.
Cameras even caught supposed FA officials in the stands beaming.
Only Lin Yuan knew—it wasn't hello, it was goodbye…
Post-match mixed zone…
Showered and in black tracksuit, bag slung, Lin Yuan emerged.
Seven or eight Chinese reporters thrust CCTV mikes and phones at him.
'Lin Yuan! Congrats—what a rocket!'
'Does that wave mean you've made peace with the FA?'
'Fans are waiting—will you report to Beijing for the next international break?'
Eyes sparkled; they smelled a scoop.
Lin Yuan stopped.
British press—Sky Sports, BBC—listened in.
He gave the CCTV reporter a playful smile and answered in fluent English:
'About my future, about what colour shirt I'll wear next match…'
Silence fell.
Scanning the cameras, he murmured:
'Three days—August 31, the final presser before the window shuts. I'll give everyone an answer.'
He tugged his cap low, pushed through the scrum, and strode away.
Behind him Chinese hacks buzzed louder:
'Definitely coming home—why else a presser?'
'Full red-carpet treatment!'
'This will be the biggest day in Chinese football history!'
Watching them, a Times man muttered: 'Poor sods. They've no idea how sharp the beast's teeth are.'
The storm had reached its hidden zenith beneath the sea.