In late autumn London, the chill had already crept along the River Thames and into the very bones of the city.
Inside the physiotherapy room at Chelsea's Cobham Training Ground, Lin Yuan was lying face down on a massage table, shirtless. The physiotherapist's large hands, slick with essential oils, were forcefully kneading his stiff back muscles.
The aftereffects of the previous physical battle against Tottenham were obvious. There was a large purple bruise on his left shoulder—a medal of honor from his mid-air collision with Romero. His calves also bore several bloody gashes from boot studs; though they had scabbed over, they still looked gruesome.
"Damn, Lin," the physiotherapist hissed as he pressed down. "Your muscle density is like granite. If that Argentine (Romero) hits you again, I suspect he'll be the one with a fracture."
Lin Yuan kept his eyes closed and didn't speak. He was listening to his agent, Mendes, read today's briefing.
"The Guardian named you to the Premier League Team of the Week. The headline is: 'The Man Who Suffocated White Hart Lane'."
"Daily Mail is still being stubborn, but even they admit you are currently Chelsea's most indispensable defensive shield."
Mendes paused, his tone suddenly becoming strange, even carrying a hint of mocking laughter.
"But, Lin, I think you should see the news from your home country. A wonderful farce is being staged there."
Lin Yuan opened his eyes and took the iPad Mendes handed him.
The screen didn't show the familiar sports news interface, but rather the front-page headline of a mainstream domestic portal.
The headline wasn't in black, but in a festive, bold, oversized red:
"A True Genius! Young Overseas Talent Zhang Zifeng Delivers Exquisite Assist in Eredivisie; His Vision Completely Outclasses Certain 'Premier League Brutes'!"
Lin Yuan raised an eyebrow.
Zhang Zifeng?
He remembered him. He was a member of the National Youth Team, a year younger than Lin Yuan. He was an obedient boy with decent technique, but his physique was as thin as a sheet of paper. He currently played for a lower-mid-table team in the Eredivisie and had spent most of the season warming the bench.
As he scrolled down, the press release below was even more nauseating:
"...In this impetuous era, what we need are humble, technical players with vision like Zhang Zifeng. His cross in the 85th minute in the Eredivisie demonstrated extremely high football IQ. In contrast, certain 'pseudo-stars' in the Premier League who rely on physical play and only use fouls and insulting gestures to grab attention are simply a disgrace to Chinese football..."
The article didn't name names, but every word was a stab at Lin Yuan's back.
"Is this their counterattack?" Lin Yuan tossed the iPad back on the table, a cold sneer curling his lips.
"It's 'god-making'," Mendes, a veteran of the industry, saw through the trick instantly. "You refused Director Li's recruitment and slapped them hard in the face. The more popular you become, the more they panic. To save face and shift attention, they must build up a new 'idol' to rival you."
"An obedient, easily controlled puppet who can satisfy their vanity."
Mendes shook his head. "It's a pity for that Zhang kid. Being propped up to this height... once he falls, it will be brutal."
...Beijing, Football Association Office Building.
Director Li Jianguo's office was shrouded in smoke. Even the leaves of the expensive kaffir lily were covered in a layer of ash.
Director Li leaned back in his leather executive chair, holding a purple clay teapot. He watched the skyrocketing comment count on the computer screen and nodded with satisfaction.
"Director, this move of 'besieging Wei to save Zhao' is truly brilliant."
Team Leader Wang (who was under suspension for investigation but remained Li's confidant in private) handed over a cigarette with a fawning expression. "The internet trolls have been deployed. The public opinion is now entirely praising Zhang Zifeng. Everyone is saying Zhang Zifeng is the hope for technical football, while that Lin Yuan... is just a thug who only knows how to fight."
Director Li took a sip of tea and snorted. "Young people don't know the height of the heavens. Does he think he can ignore the organization just because he's made a name for himself abroad? In this country, public opinion is the knife that kills."
"Isn't that Lin Yuan arrogant? Didn't he say we were a sinking ship?"
A flash of ruthlessness crossed Director Li's eyes. "Then I'll build a 'new ship'. I want everyone to feel that even without Lin Yuan, the world keeps turning—and turning even better. As long as we prop up Zhang Zifeng, everyone will forget that traitor."
"But..." Team Leader Wang hesitated slightly. "The level of the Eredivisie isn't as good as the Premier League, after all. And Zhang Zifeng's assist was during garbage time..."
"Who cares?" Director Li slammed the table. "What do the common people know? They only watch highlights! They only read headlines! Go, have the editing team cut Zhang Zifeng's pass into something spectacular, add some stirring music, and distribute it across the entire network!"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
...Over the next 24 hours, the domestic internet fell into a surreal carnival.
On one side was Lin Yuan's solid achievement of man-marking Son Heung-min and dominating the North London Derby in the Premier League, which was being deliberately given the cold shoulder by domestic mainstream media. Some reports even snidely remarked that his "shut up" gesture showed a lack of class.
On the other side was Zhang Zifeng's ordinary assist in an inconsequential Eredivisie match, which was being hyped up as a stroke of genius "comparable to De Bruyne."
The hashtag #ZhangZifengLightOfEredivisie was bought into the top three trending topics.
In the comment sections, countless accounts with specific agendas began to drive the narrative:
"This is the football we want! Clean! Pure!"
"This pass is so soulful, ten thousand times better than that brute who only knows how to crash into people."
"Support Zhang Zifeng as the core of the national team! As for that banana who took Portuguese citizenship, get out of here!"
Of course, there were clear-headed fans arguing back, but their voices were quickly drowned out by the massive volume of press releases and troll abuse.
This was the arrogance of power.
They called a stag a horse, trying to package gravel as pearls, all to cover up the fact that they had thrown a true diamond into the sewer... London, Soho.
Inside a hotpot restaurant called "Shu Jiu Xiang."
This was one of the few places in London where one could eat authentic beef tallow hotpot.
Inside the private room, steam rose as the red oil bubbled.
Lin Yuan, wearing a black hoodie, held long chopsticks and skillfully swished a piece of beef tripe in the red broth—"seven up and eight down."
Sitting opposite him was a silver-haired old man also in casual clothes—José Mourinho.
The world-class manager was currently clumsily holding his chopsticks, trying to pick up a slippery beef ball. After several failed attempts, he threw the chopsticks down in frustration and used a slotted spoon to fish it out directly.
"Damned Eastern sorcery," Mourinho grumbled, stuffing the beef ball into his mouth and huffing from the heat. "Lin, are you sure this stuff is edible? With all this chili, my backside will be protesting tomorrow."
"It's for disinfection, Boss," Lin Yuan said, placing the cooked tripe into Mourinho's bowl. "Eat something spicy to ward off the cold. And while you're at it, ward off some bad luck too."
Mourinho chewed the tripe, took a swig of ice-cold beer, and let out a satisfied sigh.
"I heard from Mendes," Mourinho said, putting down his glass as his eyes grew sharp. "Those bureaucrats on your end have started disgusting you?"
Lin Yuan shrugged and continued cooking duck intestines. "Just a bunch of jumping clowns. They're hyping up an Eredivisie benchwarmer, saying he's better than me."
"Ha!" Mourinho laughed so hard he nearly choked, as if he'd heard the joke of the century. "Eredivisie? That League where the defensive intensity is like playing house? Comparing that to the Premier League?"
Mourinho wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth and leaned forward, his deep eyes fixed on Lin Yuan.
"Lin, do you know why I like you?"
"Because I'm tough enough?" Lin Yuan asked.
"No, because you're like me. Not only are you tough, but you also hold a grudge." Mourinho pointed to his own chest. "In this world, there are always hypocrites trying to teach us how to live. They use morality, public opinion, and those nonsensical grand principles to bind us."
"But against people like that, the best way isn't to explain yourself."
Mourinho took out his phone, opened the camera, and switched to selfie mode.
"Come on, give us a smile. Though I know you don't smile much."
Mourinho put his arm around Lin Yuan's shoulder, with the bubbling red oil hotpot and a table full of empty beer bottles in the background.
Lin Yuan cooperated and looked at the lens. He didn't smile; instead, he picked up a bottle of beer and looked at the camera with cold eyes, just as he looked at opponents on the pitch.
*Click.*
The photo was captured.
In the photo, one was the most arrogant manager in world football, and the other was currently the fiercest "villain" in the Premier League. Their auras appeared exceptionally harmonious and domineering amidst the steam and smoke.
"Post it," Mourinho sent the photo to Lin Yuan. "Since they want to make a god, we'll tell them that the god is busy eating hotpot and has no time for mortals."
Lin Yuan looked at the photo, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.
He opened his long-unused Instagram (which also synced to certain domestic social media platforms that could see it).
No long-winded rebuttals, no aggrieved explanations.
He uploaded the photo.
The caption was just one short line in both Chinese and English:
"Enjoying the spice. Can't hear the dogs barking."
(Hotpot is very spicy. Can't hear the dogs barking.)
...The moment this post went out, it was like a resounding slap that flew across the ocean and struck Director Li Jianguo right in the face.
No need to name names.
No need for excuses.
One phrase, "Can't hear the dogs barking," defined all those carefully planned press releases, bought trending topics, and frenzied trolls as nothing more than meaningless barking.
This was the ultimate form of contempt.
His domestic supporters instantly boiled over with excitement:
"Holy crap! Brother Lin is awesome! This response is so badass!"
"Eating hotpot with Mourinho? Look at that status! What's Zhang Zifeng doing? Buying coffee for his coach?"
"'Can't hear the dogs barking,' Hahahaha, a certain association's face must be swollen from the slapping!"
"This is the mindset of a true powerhouse! You guys bark all you want, I'm living the good life in the Premier League!"
Back in the office in Beijing.
Director Li looked at the photo on the screen, shaking with rage. He violently slammed the purple clay teapot in his hand onto the floor.
*Smash!*
The expensive teapot shattered into pieces.
"Rebellion! Absolute rebellion! This bastard!" Director Li roared. "Blacklist him! Blacklist him completely! From now on, domestic media is forbidden from mentioning his name!"
However, what he didn't know was that his impotent rage, in Lin Yuan's eyes, was merely contributing another wave of notoriety points.
In the London hotpot restaurant.
Lin Yuan put down his phone and looked at Mourinho, who was sweating as he ate.
[System Notification: Detected that the host has completed a perfect public opinion counterattack.]
[Achievement Unlocked: Silent Mocker.]
[notoriety points +800 (from the resentment of a specific domestic group).]
"Boss," Lin Yuan raised his glass.
"What?" Mourinho was busy battling a piece of omasum tripe.
"Thanks for the meal." Lin Yuan clinked his glass against Mourinho's. "Who do we play next?"
Mourinho put down his chopsticks, let out a burp, and a cunning glint flashed in his eyes.
"Next? Burnley. That's Kompany's team. But I'm already thinking about the week after next."
"Arsenal?"
"No." Mourinho stood up unsteadily and patted Lin Yuan's shoulder. "It's Manchester City. Guardiola has been praising you in the media for three days straight; he's trying to butter you up."
"Are you full? If you're full, we start extra training tomorrow."
"Because next, we're going to drag those Sky Blues down."
--------
Guys if you want to support me and read some chapters in advance please do check out Pitreon.com/AnonymousWriter6