October in London was like a patient suffering from a severe cold; the days were filled with continuous rain, and the damp, cold air was pervasive, seeping into every inch of the turf at the Cobham Training Centre and into the very bones of the players.
This kind of weather was what physiotherapists hated most. Muscles would become stiff in the low temperatures, like old rubber bands; with just a little too much force, they would make a tooth-aching snapping sound.
And on this day, the atmosphere in the Chelsea dressing room was even gloomier than the sky outside.
The air was thick with the pungent, mixed scent of wintergreen oil and Yunnan Baiyao—the smell of injury.
In the internal scrimmage that had just concluded, captain Reece James had suddenly collapsed while sprinting back without any contact, clutching the back of his thigh. That cry of pain was like a rusty saw, grating on everyone's nerves.
As the stretcher entered the field, the usually cheerful English right-back buried his face in the turf, his fist pounding the ground fiercely. He knew what this meant—the hamstring again, another long recovery period, and the helplessness of having to sit in the stands watching his teammates fight.
But God seemingly felt that wasn't enough.
Only ten minutes later, midfield engine Enzo Fernández crouched down with a pale face after attempting a long pass, his hand pressing against his groin.
Mourinho stood on the sidelines, rain trickling down his graying temples into his collar, but he remained motionless, like a frozen statue. Only Lin Yuan could see that the usually passionate Portuguese madman had hands trembling slightly inside his trench coat pockets.
Training was forcibly terminated.
A deathly silence filled the dressing room, broken only by the sound of water in the showers and the hurried footsteps of the team doctors moving in and out.
Young Palmer sat in a corner fiddling with his shin guards, his eyes somewhat vacant. Sterling kept his head down, lost in thought. This Chelsea team was too young—so young that they didn't even know how to react when faced with a sudden disaster.
Lin Yuan sat shirtless in the center of a bench, his crisscrossing muscle lines looking particularly fierce under the cold fluorescent lights. He held a bottle of ice water, not drinking it, but simply pressing it against his burning forehead.
"If it's a fracture or a collision, that's a hard injury; once it heals, you're a man again," Mourinho said as he pushed the door open, his voice hoarse yet carrying an unquestionable coldness. "But muscle injuries are soft knives; they slit our throats bit by bit."
Everyone looked up at the head coach.
"Reece will be out for at least two months. Enzo has a groin strain and will likely be out for four weeks," Mourinho announced the death sentence calmly. "Combined with Nkunku and Lavia still in the infirmary, gentlemen, our spine is broken."
No one spoke.
Enzo was Chelsea's brain; he was the one who received the ball in the back, evaded pressure, and distributed play to the frontline. Without Enzo, Chelsea was like a tank without a drive shaft—possessing heavy armor and a massive cannon but unable to move.
Caicedo? He was a tireless sweeper, but his passing vision couldn't carry the banner of the attack.
Gallagher? He was a mad dog who only knew how to bite, not how to weave fine patterns.
As for Lin Yuan... in everyone's impression, Lin Yuan was meant for 'destruction,' not 'construction.' He was the man who smashed the piano, not the one who played it.
"Training ends here for today. Lin, come to my office," Mourinho said, turning back into the rain... Inside the head coach's office, the lights were off, with only the projector next to the tactical board emitting a faint blue glow.
The screen repeatedly played several clips. They were match segments of Manchester City, Arsenal, and Liverpool. Their midfields all had one thing in common: incredible ball-carrying progression.
Rodri, Rice, Szoboszlai.
"Do you know what is most scarce in modern football?" Mourinho sat in his executive chair, not looking at Lin Yuan but staring at Rodri on the screen. "It's not a goal-scoring striker, nor a shot-stopping goalkeeper. It's the person who can bring the ball safely and quickly from the back to the front."
Lin Yuan stood before the tactical board, arms crossed. "With Enzo out, Caicedo's distribution is too slow, and Gallagher is prone to losing possession."
"So, that is the reality we face." Mourinho turned his chair, a light bordering on madness flickering in his deep-set eyes. "The whole world knows Chelsea is now a lame wolf. In the next match, the opponent will press our defenders frantically, cutting off all passing lanes. They will isolate you on an island, leaving you with no choice but to pass back or hoof it long."
Lin Yuan frowned. "I can drop deep to receive."
"And after you receive it?" Mourinho countered. "You get the ball, and you're surrounded by three men. Who do you pass to? To Disasi, who's clumsy on the ball? Or to the wings, who are already marked out of the game? Without Enzo's press-resistance and distribution, our ball won't cross the halfway line."
The office fell into silence. The sound of rain outside grew louder, as if it wanted to drown the city.
Lin Yuan looked at the empty center circle on the tactical board. That was the heart of the team, but now it had become a massive black hole.
"Boss, what do you want me to do?" Lin Yuan's voice remained steady, showing no fluctuation despite the crisis.
Mourinho stood up and walked over to Lin Yuan. He was half a head shorter than Lin Yuan, but his presence at this moment was like a volcano about to erupt.
He extended a finger and poked it heavily against Lin Yuan's rock-hard chest muscle.
"Starting tomorrow, I want you to forget that you are a defensive midfielder."
"I want you to be more than just a shield; you must also be the spear."
"When Enzo is absent, I don't expect you to play exquisite curling passes like him—that's what Pirlo does, and you can't do that," Mourinho's speech quickened. "But you have a talent they don't—you are a beast."
"If the passing lanes are blocked, then smash through them!"
"If there are people in front of you, then run over them!"
"I want you to carry the ball forward. I want you to start from the center circle, dragging one or two defenders with you, and charge straight to the opponent's box!" A predatory look appeared in Mourinho's eyes. "Since we don't have a scalpel, we'll use a battering ram. Even if you have to knock the wall down, you will carve out a path for me!"
B2B (Box to Box).
This was the most physically demanding style of play for a modern midfielder, requiring the highest physical attributes. Back then, Yaya Touré was the pinnacle of this type of player; when that Ivorian got moving, he was like an out-of-control heavy truck—no one could stop him.
But Lin Yuan had never shown this kind of long-distance ball-carrying ability before. His dribbling attribute had always been a weakness on the system panel; although it had improved through the rigors of the Premier League, trying to carry the ball forward in the high-intensity Meat Grinder of the Premier League was practically walking a tightrope.
"You want me to be Yaya Touré?" Lin Yuan narrowed his eyes.
"No." Mourinho grinned, revealing a grim smile. "Yaya Touré was still too gentle. I want you to be the nightmare of this generation of midfielders. I want opponents to see you charging with the ball and have their first instinct be to run for their lives, not to tackle you."
"Lin, I know this is hard. You will face more fouls, you will consume double the stamina, and once you make a mistake, there will be a massive gap behind you."
Mourinho stared into Lin Yuan's eyes. "But besides you, no one in this Chelsea team can carry this banner. Tell me, can you do it?"
Lin Yuan was silent for a moment.
He turned to look at the rain-soaked training ground outside. The image of Reece James falling in pain flashed in his mind, along with the faces of those outside waiting to see them fail.
Arsenal fans were popping champagne on forums, Manchester City's Guardiola was expressing insincere regret at press conferences, and that Director Li was likely gloating in the shadows.
An injury wave? A midfield vacuum?
Isn't this kind of desperate situation the best stepping stone for a tyrant's ascension?
Lin Yuan turned back, his lips curling into a cruel arc. The scar on his brow twitched slightly with his expression, making him look less like a player and more like a mercenary ready to step onto a battlefield.
"Boss, do you know the design philosophy of the land rover defender?" Lin Yuan suddenly asked an unrelated question.
Mourinho was taken aback.
"It doesn't need a road. Wherever it drives, that becomes the road."
Lin Yuan grabbed a tactical pen from the desk and drew a fierce, straight red line through the center of the tactical board. The red line spanned the entire pitch, looking like a torn wound.
"Give me the ball." Lin Yuan dropped the pen, his voice low like the roar of an engine. "Leave the rest to physics."
Mourinho looked at that striking red line, the worry in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by the fervor of a gambler seeing one of his own.
"Good." Mourinho patted Lin Yuan's shoulder with great force. "Go prepare. Starting tomorrow, your training menu will double. I'm going to squeeze every drop of stamina out of you and push you to the limit."
"Whatever."
Lin Yuan turned and pulled open the door. The cold wind from outside rushed in, making the papers on the desk rustle loudly.
"Also," Mourinho shouted behind him, "tell those boys not to be so fucking dejected. As long as you are still standing on the pitch, Chelsea hasn't collapsed!"
Lin Yuan didn't look back; he simply raised his right hand high with his back to Mourinho, gave a thumbs-up, and strode into the wind and rain.
The rain fell harder, and the London night was as dark as ink.
At this moment, not many people knew that on this cold and rainy night, a transformation plan called 'Human Tank' was quietly being initiated.
And when this tank truly rolled out of the Cobham base, the entire Premier League would tremble at the shaking of the earth.
[System Prompt: Detected that the host is facing a major turning point in his career.]
[Current Environment: Injury Crisis (S-rank Difficulty).]
[Tactical Change: Shifting from 'Pure Defense' to 'Ball-Carrying Progression'.]
[Retrieving corresponding template...]
[Retrieval complete.]
[Would you like to consume all current notoriety points (12,000 points) to open the special training dungeon—'The Wild Elephant of Ivory Coast'?]
Walking in the rain, letting the cold water wash over his face, Lin Yuan coldly replied with one word in his consciousness:
"Yes."
If he was to be a tyrant, he couldn't just have a shield.
It was also time to sharpen the blade in his hand.
--------
Guys if you want to support me and read some chapters in advance please do check out Pitreon.com/AnonymousWriter6
Replace i with a in pitreon.