Slovakia, Bratislava.
Tehelné Pole.
Eastern Europe in September already carried a hint of chill.
As a crucial qualifier for the 2024 European Cup, the air in the stadium tonight was especially grim. Twenty-two thousand Slovak fans had turned the ground into a roaring blue sea, and whenever Cristiano Ronaldo's face flashed on the big screen, a tidal wave of boos swept through.
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere of the Portugal Team felt heavy.
Head coach Martinez was delivering final tactics while Lin Yuan sat in a corner, head down, adjusting his shin pads. This was his first time wearing the national-team shirt; the number was his customary 16—the national-team pecking order had temporarily denied him 44, but he didn't care.
"Lin."
A low voice sounded above him. Lin Yuan looked up to see Cristiano Ronaldo, already wearing the captain's armband. The 38-year-old's eyes were still as sharp as a hawk's, though the fine lines at their corners betrayed the years.
"The Slovak midfield is tough. Škriniar's a defender but he'll step out to press. And Kucka, that old man plays dirty." Cristiano Ronaldo extended a fist, holding it in front of Lin Yuan. "Tonight I need someone to clear the trouble behind me."
Lin Yuan stood; his frame, one size wider than Cristiano Ronaldo's, cast a huge shadow under the lights. He grinned, showing a set of gleaming white teeth, and bumped fists with the captain:
"Captain, you just keep your eyes on the goal. As for anyone trying to stick a foot in…"
Lin Yuan turned toward the tunnel leading to the pitch, a blood-thirsty glint flashing across his eyes.
"I'll make them regret lacing up their boots."
…Beep—!
The referee's whistle sounded; the match began.
Slovakia had clearly studied this Portugal side. Knowing Cristiano Ronaldo's physical edge had waned with age, they devised a targeted "strangle tactic."
12th minute.
Bernardo Silva lost the ball up front; Slovakia broke quickly. After a couple of passes it reached their centre-back Škriniar. The Paris Saint-Germain hard-man didn't hurry to clear, instead driving forward with the ball.
When Cristiano Ronaldo stepped up to press, Škriniar not only failed to avoid him but subtly raised an elbow, slamming it into Cristiano Ronaldo's ribs as they passed!
Thud!
A dull sound. Cristiano Ronaldo clutched his ribs and fell, face contorted.
Boooom!!! The Slovak crowd erupted in gleeful cheers, some even shouting "actor."
The referee, only metres away, merely gave Škriniar a verbal warning. Škriniar spread his arms in mock innocence; as he turned, a provocative smirk tugged at his lips, as if to say: that's what the old man gets.
Before that smirk could fade, however, a chill ran down his spine.
He instinctively turned his head and met a pair of black eyes, icy and lifeless.
Ten metres away Lin Yuan stood expressionless. No furious roar, no shoving—he looked at Škriniar as though at a corpse, then slowly pointed to his own eyes and then at Škriniar's knee.
It was a silent sentence.
[System prompt: Host's bond target "Cristiano Ronaldo" has suffered malicious foul. Passive skill "Bodyguard" activated! All attributes +10%, aggression +30%!]
Play continued.
19th minute—chance.
Slovakia tried to build from midfield; Škriniar collected the ball again, looking to lob it to Lobotka.
The instant the ball left his boot, a white blur shot in like an out-of-control heavy tank, wind howling!
Lin Yuan ignored the ball; his target was the man—Škriniar, still on his supporting foot after the pass.
"Who's that? He's lightning!" the commentator cried.
Škriniar's pupils shrank. He tried to dodge, but this was an all-out sprint powered by S-grade physique—Gattuso fused with Roy Keane!
BOOM!!
They collided on the Tehelné Pole turf.
No fancy technique—pure kinetic bone on bone. Škriniar felt like he'd been hit head-on by a 120-kph truck, sent flying horizontally, spinning half a turn in mid-air before crashing into the advertising boards beyond the touchline!
Bang—crack!
The LED billboard sparked and went dark.
Twenty thousand fans fell silent; a deathly hush swallowed the stadium.
PEEP!!!
The referee blew his whistle in panic, card in hand, sprinting over.
Slovak players charged Lin Yuan like madmen, desperate to mob the Eastern thug.
Yet Lin Yuan stood his ground, barely glancing at the writhing Skriniar. Facing two Slovak giants, he stepped forward, chest high, and let out a roar that froze the stadium:
SCRAM!!!
The murderous aura made the 6-footers slam on the brakes, fear flashing in their eyes.
That wasn't the look of a footballer—it was the look of a killer.
Cristiano Ronaldo rushed in first, shoved a Slovak aside and shielded Lin Yuan like a big brother, shouting at the ref: 'Legal charge! He played the ball first—self-defence!'
Though pleading, Ronaldo's eyes blazed with delight and gratitude.
The ref's hand trembled as he produced a yellow.
It could easily have been red, but the contact came the instant the ball was gone, no studs shown—just a shoulder barge. Under Ronaldo's pressure the ref buckled.
[Notoriety +500!]
[Notoriety +500!]
[Crowd boo level: S! Reputation Shop (Infamy) earnings doubled!]
Lin Yuan took the card as if accepting a medal.
He walked to Ronaldo, lifted his captain up, and said loudly enough for the Slovaks to hear:
'Captain, I told you—while I'm here, no one touches you.'
The remaining seventy minutes turned Tehelné Pole into a Slovak nightmare.
Still on a yellow, Lin Yuan didn't retreat; he ruled midfield like a tireless rabid dog, blanketing every blade of grass.
35th minute: Kucka tried to dribble—Lin Yuan scythed man and ball into the air, textbook tackle.
55th minute: Lobotka pulled back for a long shot—Lin Yuan chest-blocked it, then bulldozed him off the ball.
Slovakia's midfield collapsed in fear; when the No. 16 in yellow approached, their first thought was to protect their ankles.
With Lin Yuan's suffocating shield, Ronaldo played the freest game of his life—no tracking back, no wrestling, just ghosting round the box.
43rd minute—twenty minutes after the horror clash.
Lin Yuan stole the ball again near the centre circle, stayed calm, glanced right and slid a perfect grass-cutter to Bruno.
Bruno burst into the box and lashed it in at the near post!
1-0!
Instead of celebrating, Bruno pointed straight to Lin Yuan at halfway.
In the stands Slovak jeers turned to despairing sighs; Portugal now had both silk and a spiked hammer.
The final whistle blew.
Portugal took three points from the away leg, 1-0.
In the mixed zone Slovak captain Skriniar—subbed injured—raged: 'No. 16 is a criminal! He belongs in UFC, not on a pitch!'
When the mic passed to Ronaldo, asking about his new teammate,
a sweat-soaked Ronaldo, grinning like a kid, threw an arm round the stone-faced Lin Yuan and told the cameras:
'A criminal? No.'
He tapped the name on Lin Yuan's back.
'He's my sword and Portugal's strongest shield; if anyone thinks he's brutal, it's because you're too soft.'
That night Lin Yuan's Instagram surged by half a million.
A shot of him coldly staring down the flattened Skriniar was reposted by Chelsea's official account:
'Our boy taking a stroll in Bratislava. #TheTyrant'
Back home, forums turned uneasy.
'That's the Lin Yuan the FA dumped? With that physique… did we miss something?'
This was only the beginning.
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