The English media are always skilled at manufacturing wars.
If the Premier League of the past decade was the iron-blooded era of the "Red-Blue War" (Manchester United vs Chelsea/Liverpool) or the technical peak of the "Pep-Klopp Hegemony," then this week, every newspaper headline along the banks of the River Thames had been replaced with a more sensational title:
"Beauty and the Beast."
Manchester City was the "Beauty." Under Guardiola's tutelage, the Sky Blues were like a precision Swiss watch: Rodri was the balance wheel, De Bruyne was the hairspring, and Haaland was the hand that indicated the time with pinpoint accuracy. Their football was fluid and gorgeous, representing the highest art of the industrial age.
Meanwhile, Chelsea, against the backdrop of Mourinho's return and Lin Yuan's rise, was depicted by the media as a "Beast" that had run out from the wilderness.
Especially Lin Yuan.
The Sun even composited a poster: the Manchester City stars in sky-blue jerseys were performing a symphony, while in the shadows, Lin Yuan in a deep blue jersey held a blood-stained fire axe, preparing to smash the conductor's podium... Manchester, City Football Academy.
The press conference venue was packed with reporters from all over the world. Flashes made Guardiola's bald head shine brightly.
The Catalan tactical master was smiling at the moment, twirling a bottle of mineral water in his hand. But the words coming out of his mouth were like sugar-coated arsenic.
"Chelsea? Oh, of course, they are very competitive." Guardiola shrugged, his tone relaxed. "Mourinho always knows how to ruin the spectacle of a match in exchange for points. It's a... well, it's a way of survival that I also respect very much."
A ripple of low laughter came from the reporters below.
"Regarding Lin Yuan?" Guardiola raised an eyebrow, as if searching his mind for the name. "I've seen his match footage. His physical attributes are impressive. Truly, very strong. But at Manchester City, we value this more—"
He pointed to his temple.
"Football is an art of space, it's about the flow of the ball, not about who can knock whom into the hospital." The smile at the corner of Guardiola's mouth turned cold for a moment. "If anyone thinks they can stop Manchester City's passing and control with mere savage collisions, they might be disappointed. After all, this is the Premier League, not the NFL."
The video of this interview spread across the entire internet ten minutes later.
It was blatant contempt.
In Guardiola's football philosophy, players like Lin Yuan, who relied on physicality and destructive power, were "remnants of the old era," dinosaurs that should be eliminated by precision passing and control systems... However, Manchester City's frontline behemoth had a completely different view.
At the same time, by the Manchester City training ground.
Erling Haaland, who had just finished shooting practice, was shirtless and accepting an exclusive interview from Sky Sports. The Norwegian monster was steaming all over at this moment, his long blonde hair draped casually, like a Viking berserker who had just stepped out of myth.
The reporter handed over the microphone and asked provocatively, "Erling, Chelsea's Lin Yuan has been in the spotlight lately. Some even say he's stronger than you in physical confrontation. What do you think?"
The originally expressionless Haaland suddenly had a light ignite in his grey-blue eyes when he heard the name "Lin Yuan."
It wasn't contempt; it was the excitement of a predator smelling blood.
"I watched his match against Tottenham." Haaland took a towel to wipe his sweat, his voice deep and thick. "The way he sent Romero flying was very cool."
The reporter was stunned. This wasn't the script!
"Many people are afraid to compete with me." Haaland grinned, revealing that iconic, slightly eerie smile. "When Premier League center-backs see me charging, they subconsciously slow down or pull. Because they know they can't out-muscle me."
He paused, pointing a thick finger at the camera.
"But that number 44, I can tell from his eyes that he's a madman. He won't dodge."
"I'm looking forward to Sunday at Stamford Bridge." Haaland clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking. "It's been a long time since I've met an opponent who makes me feel like I don't need to slow down, someone I can just crash into at full speed."
"I hope it's as interesting as Mars colliding with Earth."
...London, Cobham Training Ground.
It had been raining outside for three full days, and there was no sign of it stopping. The English Meteorological Office had issued a yellow warning for heavy rain, but this didn't dampen the enthusiasm of Chelsea fans.
In the locker room, the TV hanging on the wall was replaying Haaland's interview.
"Mars colliding with Earth?"
Sterling peeked at Lin Yuan, who was sitting in the corner, while tying his shoelaces. "Lin, that guy is a monster. I saw him when I was training at Manchester City; even Ederson is afraid when he starts charging."
Lin Yuan was wrapping bandages around his knees.
One loop, then another. The bandages tightened into his flesh, bringing a taut sense of security.
Hearing Sterling's words, Lin Yuan didn't even look up, only saying faintly, "Since it's Mars colliding with Earth, one of them has to break."
His tone was as calm as if he were discussing what to eat for dinner, but the teammates around him felt a chill down their spines.
Break one.
As for who would be the one to break, Lin Yuan didn't say, but everyone saw his polished steel-studded soles flashing with a cold light under the lamps.
Mourinho pushed open the door, holding a damp tactical sheet in his hand.
"You all heard?" Mourinho's gaze swept over everyone. "Pep says we don't understand art, says we're playing rugby."
A wave of disgruntled commotion came from the locker room.
"To hell with art." Mourinho sneered, slapping the tactical sheet onto the table. "At Stamford Bridge, in this hellish weather, art is dog shit. Only survival is the truth."
He looked at Lin Yuan.
"Lin, it will rain heavily tomorrow. The pitch will be very slippery, the ball speed will increase, and the error rate for passing and control styles will rise." Mourinho lowered his voice. "Guardiola wants to play the piano? Then you dismantle his piano stand."
"As for Haaland..."
Lin Yuan stood up, his 1.89-meter frame casting a shadow. After these few days of special training with the "Yaya Touré Template," his temperament had undergone some subtle changes. If he was a hard stone before, he now had a surge of tension ready to be unleashed.
"Leave him to me," Lin Yuan replied briefly... Sunday, Match Day.
It was as if a hole had been punctured in the sky above Stamford Bridge; the rain poured down in torrents.
This kind of weather belonged to traditional English football, to mud, sliding tackles, and physical combat. Forty thousand Chelsea die-hards in the stands wore raincoats, singing the club anthem "Blue Is The Colour" in the heavy rain, their voices piercing through the curtain of rain, deafening.
Inside the player tunnel.
The two teams lined up to enter the field.
The air was thick enough to be suffocating. On the left was the sky-blue of Manchester City, and on the right was the deep blue of Chelsea.
Haaland, standing at the very front of the Manchester City line, looked past the mascots in front and stared straight at number 44 in the Chelsea lineup.
Lin Yuan sensed the gaze and turned his head.
Their eyes met for the first time in the narrow tunnel.
There was no trash talk, no provocative gestures.
Haaland licked his lips, the madness in his eyes undisguised.
Lin Yuan was expressionless, but his hands at his sides slowly clenched into fists, the veins on his arms throbbing under the lights.
Standing in front of Lin Yuan, captain Gallagher (filling in for the injured James) couldn't help but shiver. He felt that standing behind him wasn't a teammate, but a nuclear warhead with the safety pin already pulled.
"This is Stamford Bridge!"
The stadium DJ's voice exploded amidst the thunder.
"Let us welcome—Chelsea!!!"
Boom—!
With a blast of referee Oliver's whistle, the players from both teams charged into the curtain of rain.
The heavy rain stung as it hit their faces, and the turf turned into a muddy pit with every step.
This wasn't a football match.
From the moment both sides stepped onto the pitch, it was a bayonet fight in a muddy trench.
And those two heavy machines about to collide had already begun to warm up their engines.
--------
Guys if you want to support me and read some chapters in advance please do check out Pitreon.com/AnonymousWriter6