London, Heathrow Airport.
A quintessential English drizzle drifted from the sky, cold and damp.
Yet outside the international-arrivals gate of Terminal 5 the atmosphere was as volatile as a powder keg.
Usually, when Premier League stars fly back after national-team duty, club staff meet them through the VIP channel—but someone had leaked Lin Yuan's flight details, and today the arrivals hall was split into two hostile camps.
On the left, die-hard Chelsea fans in blue shirts held up homemade placards:
Welcome Home, The Tyrant!
The Reaper of Stamford Bridge!
On the right, a group of obviously younger Chinese students—about twenty or thirty—waved national flags and a stark black-on-white banner:
Traitor Lin Yuan!
Betray the motherland and you'll be punished no matter how far you run!
Get out of every Chinese person's sight!
Security staff, caught between the two extremes, looked as if they were facing an enemy invasion.
When Lin Yuan appeared behind the automatic doors pushing a luggage trolley, a black cap pulled low and noise-cancelling headphones round his neck, the flash of cameras lit the hall like noon.
There he is—the traitor's coming out!
the right-side crowd erupted, hurling ugly curses.
Lin! Lin! Over here!
the Chelsea fans tried to drown the abuse with cheers.
Lin Yuan stopped.
He slipped the headphones down to his neck. Instead of lowering his head and hurrying out as security advised, he slowly lifted it, cold black eyes sweeping over the agitated compatriots.
Someone flung a plastic water bottle at him.
Smack!
Without even turning his head, Lin Yuan flicked it aside as if swatting a fly. The bottle hit the floor, water spraying everywhere.
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat.
A reporter from a major Chinese portal—also a mouthpiece for the FA—seized the chance, shoving a recorder almost into Lin Yuan's face:
Lin Yuan! Don't you have anything to say to your protesting compatriots? When you scored wearing the Portugal shirt, did you think of hundreds of millions of fans back home? Aren't you ashamed?
Looking at the greasy, calculating face, Lin Yuan curled his lips in a mocking smile.
He bent closer to the mic and said in clear, low Mandarin:
Ashamed?
I made Cristiano Ronaldo wipe my boots with my ability; I shut Europe up with my ability. And you people? You only know how to throw bottles at a nineteen-year-old.
He straightened, gaze raking the protesters like a blade:
Want an apology? Fine. Get the national team into a World Cup, or make Director Li cough up the money he's pocketed. Can't do that? Then shut up.
Gasps and uproar exploded through the hall. The reporter was stunned—he hadn't expected Lin Yuan to name Director Li in public. He'd just flipped the whole table!
Before the reporter could follow up, an enormous hand shoved the microphone away.
Get lost, hyenas. Stay away from my player.
A gravelly, authoritative English voice cut through the crowd.
The crowd parted automatically.
José Mourinho, silver-haired and sharp-eyed in a gray Armani trench coat, walked in flanked by four hulking bodyguards.
He gave the Chinese reporter a cold glance, then snorted at the traitor banners.
Traitor?
he said to the cameras, pointing at Lin Yuan. "He's a warrior. If your country doesn't want genius, that's your loss, not his. Right now Chelsea needs him, Portugal needs him. As for you lot—go home and do your homework.
With that, Mourinho threw an arm around Lin Yuan's shoulder like an old lion shielding a cub and bulldozed a path through the crowd:
Come on, kid. Don't waste time on trash.
Lin Yuan let himself be led; the two strode off through a sea of flashes, leaving the reporter gaping and the protesters staring at one another.
Inside the Chelsea people-carrier, cut off from the noise outside, it was quiet.
Mourinho handed Lin Yuan a bottle of water and looked him over: I saw the match. That long-range strike—reminded me of Lampard, but the power was more Adriano. Legs all right?
Fine, boss.
Lin Yuan cracked the cap and drank. "A match like that? Just a warm-up.
A warm-up?
Mourinho rubbed his temples. "Let's hope your stamina's as tough as your mouth. Look at this.
He passed him an iPad.
The screen showed Chelsea's first-team injury list—an ocean of alarming red.
Reece James: hamstring strain, four weeks out (the usual).
Lavia: ankle sprain, return date unknown.
Nkunku: knee discomfort, needs monitoring.
Enzo Fernández: just back from Bolivia's altitude, fitness red-lining, probably can't manage half a game.
Caicedo: same FIFA-virus problems, condition doubtful.
See?
Mourinho sighed. "FIFA virus. We're away to Bournemouth. Not a powerhouse, but in this weather, at that wretched Vitality Stadium, with our broken midfield...
He turned to Lin Yuan, eyes hard:
Enzo and Caicedo will likely be substitutes. On Sunday you may be the only fit midfielder. Gallagher will run around like a headless chicken, so... I need you to carry the whole damn spine.
You break up play, you distribute, you clean up after Sterling and those happy forwards.
Can you do it?
Lin Yuan saw the bloodshot eyes of a manager who'd stayed up wrestling with selection, then set the bottle down.
The system interface floated before him:
Savage Physique (S-Rank): stamina recovery +200%, injury resistance MAX.
Other players wilt after flying half-way round the world; he didn't. Ask him to run a marathon right now and he'd still finish in the front pack.
Leaning back, he gave Mourinho a grin that settled the old coach's nerves:
Boss, you forget? I'm No. 44.
The Grim Reaper doesn't get tired.
As long as I'm on the pitch, Bournemouth's midfield won't get the ball past halfway. As for Enzo and the rest... let them nap on the bench.
Mourinho stared, then burst out laughing and slapped the back of the driver's seat:
Step on it! I can't wait to watch this kid tear those Bournemouth bastards apart!
Meanwhile, back home, the internet detonated.
Lin Yuan's airport line about Director Li vomiting up the cash landed like a nuke.
What had been a moral crusade against a traitor instantly morphed into an anti-corruption drama. Netizens tore into the mystery of Director Li's identity, and paid shills who'd been fanning the flames suddenly went quiet to save themselves.
On the pitch or off, Lin Yuan was granite—hard enough to bloody the FA's mouth.
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