31 August 2023, 10:00 a.m.
London, Cobham Training Centre press auditorium.
Cobham Training Ground was buzzing with an unusual excitement.
The media centre had never been this packed. Coffee mingled with the anxious sweat of reporters; cameras were already in position, and even the aisles were jammed with faces from the East. The moment the digital clock on the wall ticked past ten, the noisy hall fell silent.
The back rows bristled with long lenses, the air thick with restless heat.
Reporters from China clustered in small groups, faces glowing with the thrill of witnessing history.
'My article's ready—headline: "Prodigal Son Returns: Lin Yuan to Wear the National Colours in World Cup Qualifiers."'
'A friend at the Football Association tipped me off last night. Director Li's in a good mood—deal must be done.'
'We're set. With Lin Yuan we've got a shot against Thailand, against South Korea!'
They brimmed with confidence, as if Lin Yuan were already theirs.
The instant the hands hit ten, a side door opened.
Mourinho stepped in first, trademark half-smile in place. Behind him came today's protagonist—Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan wore Chelsea's deep-blue training kit and a peaked cap pulled low, hiding his expression. In one hand he carried an opaque black tote, which he slid gently beneath the table.
Flashguns exploded; shutters merged into white noise.
Mourinho sat, adjusted the mic: 'I'll skip the tactics for Nottingham Forest—I know you're not here to hear an old man ramble.'
He turned to Lin Yuan, the corners of his mouth curling in amusement. 'Lin, the stage is yours.'
Lin Yuan nodded, removed the cap, revealing a sharply chiselled, humourless face.
Before the press officer could call a name, a veteran reporter wearing a CCTV badge jumped up, dispensing with pleasantries:
'Hello, Lin Yuan. I'm from China. Everyone's calling for your return; now that the misunderstanding is cleared up, have you booked tonight's flight to Beijing? What can you promise fans for the coming World Cup qualifiers?'
At those words every Chinese reporter raised a recorder, waiting for the expected yes.
Lin Yuan looked at him, eyes flat as stagnant water.
'Misunderstanding cleared up?' he echoed into the mic, voice low through the hall. 'Who told you that?'
The reporter blinked. 'But… Director Li said…'
'What he says isn't what I say.' Lin Yuan cut him off.
The room froze for a heartbeat. English hacks, tuned in via interpreters, caught the scent of gunpowder.
Lin Yuan leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, sweeping every Chinese camera in sight.
'Since everyone's here, let me be clear.'
'In the past I was banned without cause, blackmailed, slandered. I owe no one, and I need no "forgiveness" or "way back."'
'As for the future…'
He bent down and from the black bag drew a neatly folded shirt.
Every gaze locked onto it.
Red.
Deep red.
China's home colour.
Chinese reporters' eyes blazed with joy; the questioner's hands shook. 'See? I told you it's red—shoot it!'
But the next second Lin Yuan snapped the shirt open for the cameras—
On the left breast, instead of the five-starred flag, was the golden armillary sphere and shield of the Portuguese Football Federation.
Across the back, two lines were clear:
Lin Yuan
And the number 16—the squad digit that says first sub, next in line.
Crack—
Something sounded like breaking glass.
The hall plunged into stunned silence, minds crashing.
Chinese reporters' smiles froze, faces contorted like ducks suddenly throttled.
'I'm honoured to announce,' Lin Yuan declared, each word a hammer, 'I've officially gained Portuguese citizenship and accepted the call-up from Roberto Martinez.'
'This international break I'll wear this shirt for Portugal.'
Boom—!!
The room erupted.
British reporters went wild; they hadn't expected an earthquake.
'Lin, is this for real?'
'Are you doing it for Cristiano Ronaldo?'
'Chelsea midfielder joins Portugal's golden generation?'
Meanwhile the Chinese reporters turned ashen, as if the world had ended.
'Lin… Lin Yuan!' the veteran screeched, voice quivering. 'Have you lost your mind? Treachery—this is betrayal! How can you not choose China? The FA has already forgiven you!'
Lin Yuan met his gaze, contempt undisguised.
'Forgiven?'
'You've got it backwards.'
He rose, slung the Portugal shirt over a shoulder like armour.
'Football is played with feet, not mouths, and certainly not by someone's charity. I chose Portugal because they respect strength, respect football itself.'
'As for you…'
He paused, leaving the line destined to haunt Chinese football:
'When you tossed me like trash, don't expect me to crawl back like a dog. That wreck of a ship—I'm not boarding; that old ticket—I'm tearing it up.'
Without another glance he strode off the stage.
Mourinho stood, shrugged at the dumbstruck reporter and added in English:
'By the way, the kid does look good in deep red—just not your shade. It's the red of European champions.'
…Ten minutes later.
Across the ocean, China's internet collapsed.
#LinYuanNaturalisedPortugal#
#LinYuanTearsUpOldTicket#
#FAFaceslapped#
Weibo servers crashed; Hupu ratings for the FA dived into negatives; Dongqiudi's servers imploded.
Countless fans who had waited all night for 'good news' stared at the photo of Lin Yuan holding the Portugal shirt, cycling through shock, rage, despair, and finally endless curses at the FA.
Comment sections became a sea of fire:
'FA, apologise!'
'You turned our only star into an opponent—nice job!'
'"I'm not boarding that wreck"—how hopeless must he be to say that?'
'Are we doomed to watch him feed Cristiano Ronaldo and then destroy us at the World Cup?'
Far from the uproar,
A private jet lifted from London Luton, slicing through clouds toward the Iberian Peninsula.
Lin Yuan sat by the window, gazing down at tiny London, toying with his brand-new dark-red passport.
[System prompt: Main quest 'Nationality Choice' completed.]
[Rating: Perfect. You chose the right path and slapped arrogance in the face.]
[Rewards: Free stat points +5, special skill draw x1.]
[Next stop: Lisbon. Target: Cristiano Ronaldo.]
Lin Yuan pocketed the passport and closed his eyes.
Goodbye, entangled past.
Hello, new battlefield.
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