In Mayfair, London's West End, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sweet rot of money.
This was one of the most exclusive private clubs in all of England, booked tonight by David Beckham. There was no special reason for celebration; the England legend simply wanted to gather the old and new powers of the Premier League for a drink.
Compared to the muddy turf of Stamford Bridge and the sweat-stinking locker rooms, this was clearly another battlefield.
Crystal chandeliers cast an ambiguous warm light, reflecting off the glasses of high-priced stars, top models, and business moguls. When Lin Yuan, dressed in a custom black suit, entered the hall, there was a momentary, subtle pause in the originally noisy social scene.
That Armani haute couture suit didn't show a gentlemanly elegance on him as it did on other stars; instead, it was stretched tight by his brutal muscle lines, like a thin layer of paper barely wrapping a beast. Especially the pink scar on his left eyebrow bone, which had just had its stitches removed, looked out of place under the soft light, carrying an aura of "do not approach."
"Hey, Lin! Over here!"
Beckham, holding a whiskey, walked over with a smile. Although the "Golden Boy" had been retired for years, his charm remained in every gesture. He patted Lin Yuan's granite-like shoulder and whispered:
"Relax, mate. There are no referees here, and no one's going to slide-tackle you. Stop staring at the waiters like they're prey."
Lin Yuan loosened his tie, the suffocating feeling around his neck making him a bit irritable: "David, you know I don't like these occasions. I'd rather be at the gym pushing some barbells than here."
"That's work, this is business." Beckham smiled mysteriously, stepping aside to reveal a middle-aged white man who had been waiting for a long time. "Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Williams, the Marketing Director for Adidas Europe. He's come with the greatest sincerity we've seen in years."
Williams was a typical business elite, his hair meticulously combed and his smile so standard it looked like it was welded onto his face.
"Mr. Lin, I've heard so much about you." Williams extended his hand, his eyes glinting with shrewd calculation. "Your performance in the Premier League has been... impressive. Especially that power-packed destructiveness; it fits the positioning of our new 'Predator' series perfectly."
The three went to a corner booth. Williams didn't waste any time, pulling a thick contract from his briefcase and pushing it toward Lin Yuan.
"Five years, six million pounds per year. Aside from Haaland and Bellingham, this is the highest sponsorship fee in the Premier League." Williams' tone carried a condescending confidence. "As long as you sign, you'll be the top spokesperson for Adidas."
Lin Yuan took the contract, but instead of looking at the tempting figure, he flipped directly to the additional clauses page.
His gaze swept over the rows of dense small print, finally settling on Article 7, Clause 3.
His finger tapped lightly on the table, the sound almost inaudible amidst the noisy music, yet it made Williams' heart skip a beat.
"What does this mean?" Lin Yuan pointed at the line, his voice cold.
Williams leaned in for a look, then put on a matter-of-fact expression to explain: "Oh, that's a standard 'Brand Image Maintenance Clause.' You know, Mr. Lin, while your playing style is... robust, as a global brand, we advocate sportsmanship. Therefore, we need you to promise to minimize those highly controversial fouls that are likely to cause serious injury to opponents in future matches. We need a 'cleaner' hero image."
"Cleaner?"
Lin Yuan repeated the word, a playful arc suddenly curling at the corner of his mouth.
He closed the contract but didn't return it to Williams.
In the next second, to Williams' shock, Lin Yuan grabbed an unopened bottle of Dom Pérignon from the table, flipped it over, and shoved it directly into the silver ice bucket used to chill the drinks.
Then, he took that thirty-million-pound contract and stuffed it into the bucket full of ice and water like it was scrap paper.
The paper was instantly soaked, the expensive ink beginning to bleed, and the tempting numbers became blurred and illegible.
"You... are you crazy?!" Williams jumped up in shock, his elegance instantly collapsing. "That's thirty million pounds! You're insulting Adidas!"
The surrounding crowd was drawn by the commotion and cast surprised looks.
Lin Yuan leaned back on the sofa, picked up a wet towel to wipe his hands, and looked at Williams with eyes as cold as if he were looking at a pile of trash:
"Listen, Williams."
"I play football; I'm not here to act in an idol drama. Chelsea pays my salary to break my opponents' attacking legs, not to help old ladies cross the street."
Lin Yuan stood up, his tall frame looming over the trembling executive:
"Want to put a collar on a dog? You've got the wrong person. Go buy a Teddy; it'll wag its tail. I'm not for sale."
With that, Lin Yuan turned and left, leaving Williams with a face of iron-blue, staring at the ruined contract in the bucket.
Just as Lin Yuan was preparing to leave this suffocating vanity fair, a magnetic, rough voice called out to him.
"Hey! You, the kid who threw the contract!"
Lin Yuan stopped and looked back.
A man with a thick beard, wearing a leather jacket and looking like he'd just crawled out of a mud pit, was holding a glass and looking at him. This man was completely out of place among the suited gentlemen around him.
"I'm from Land Rover's Global Brand Department." The man pointed at Lin Yuan, then at himself. "I like your spirit. How about it? Interested in endorsing the Defender?"
Lin Yuan raised an eyebrow: "The conditions?"
"No conditions." The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of stained teeth. "The only condition is—don't get soft. You can break opponents' legs, you can even smash the stadium's advertising boards, as long as you don't fall apart yourself. We want the real deal."
Lin Yuan looked at this crude man and suddenly found him much more agreeable.
"Deal." Lin Yuan extended his fist.
"The lawyers will go to the Chelsea base tomorrow." The man bumped fists with Lin Yuan. "By the way, your Land Rover Defender will be delivered to your door tomorrow morning. Top spec, bulletproof."
...Having settled all that, Lin Yuan went to the bar and ordered a soda.
Just then, a burst of piercing laughter came from nearby.
"Oh, if it isn't our 'Kung Fu Panda'?"
Jack Grealish of Manchester City walked over, swaying with half a bottle of vodka in his hand, his face flushed red. This England star was notoriously fond of partying and was clearly wasted right now.
He wobbled up to Lin Yuan, pointed at his chest, and slurred: "I heard you just rejected Adidas? Ha! What are you trying to prove? That way you play... is that even football? That's just a street brawl!"
Grealish's group of hangers-on followed behind, jeering.
"Jack, be careful, he bites!"
"Don't worry, this isn't the pitch. Does he even dare to make a move here?"
Lin Yuan looked down at this drunken "Hundred-Million-Pound Man."
He didn't speak, nor did he explode in rage as Grealish expected. He simply narrowed his eyes.
[System Passive Triggered: Tyrant's Gaze (S-Rank)]
[Effect: Releases killing intent through the eyes, causing physiological fear in those with weak wills.]
The air seemed to freeze in an instant.
Grealish's mouth, which had been rambling, suddenly froze. He met Lin Yuan's pitch-black eyes.
Those were not the eyes of a human.
In that moment, Grealish felt as if he had been transported back to a primeval forest, his throat locked onto by a hungry apex predator. That cold killing intent surged up his spine to his scalp, making every hair on his body stand on end.
His drunkenness was instantly flushed away by fear.
Lin Yuan slowly leaned in half a step closer.
Grealish instinctively backed away but tripped over his own feet, stumbling. The vodka in his hand spilled everywhere, leaving him in a pathetic state.
"This... this is a private party..." Grealish's voice was trembling, his previous arrogance completely gone.
Lin Yuan reached out and adjusted Grealish's messy collar. The movement was gentle, yet it made Grealish go rigid, not daring to move.
"If you've had too much to drink, go home and sleep."
Lin Yuan's voice was low and raspy, like a wind blowing out of hell:
"And, don't be in such a hurry."
"In a few weeks, we'll meet. When we're on the pitch... you can say what you just said again. I hope your legs can still stand that straight then."
With that, Lin Yuan patted Grealish's pale cheek and turned to stride out of the venue.
Behind him, Grealish leaned against the bar, gasping for air. In his eyes, besides fear, there was a rapidly rising sense of shame-filled hatred.
"Bastard..." Grealish gritted his teeth, staring at Lin Yuan's back. "Just you wait. Guardiola will make you crawl and beg for mercy."
The moment he walked out the door, the system panel in Lin Yuan's mind flickered:
[Detected that the host has remained true to himself in the vanity fair, rejecting commercial hijacking.]
[Gained notoriety points: 300 (from the resentment of the Adidas executive).]
[Foreshadowing Triggered: Wrath of Manchester City.]
[Next Target: North London.]
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