Inside the consciousness space, all was pitch black.
There was no clamor of Stamford Bridge here, no sound of rain; only the heartbeat echoed against the eardrums like a war drum.
[notoriety points deduction complete: -12,000.]
[Special Training Dungeon loaded: The Wild Elephant of Ivory Coast.]
[Template synchronization rate increasing... 10%... 40%... 100%.]
In an instant, a wild and primal aura flooded into Lin Yuan's limbs and bones.
The feeling was strange. Previously, Lin Yuan's style of play was like a hammer—simple, direct, and highly destructive—but it was a static, passive force. Now, he felt as if he had become a roaring heavy armored vehicle, with kinetic energy suppressed under the hood that could explode at any moment.
He seemed to see that tall figure wearing the Manchester City number 42 jersey—Yaya Touré.
Touré in his prime didn't rely on flashy step-overs or agile changes of direction. He had only one way of getting past people: pushing the ball out and then using his terrifying stride and wall-like body to overtake them by force.
This was the dance of a giant, the charge of an elephant.
"Run..."
"Don't stop, even if there's a cliff ahead, don't stop!"
... "Huff— Huff—"
In the real world, Cobham Training Centre.
The rain was still falling, and the turf had been trampled into a muddy mess. The first team's regular training had long since ended, and most players had already gone to the locker room to enjoy the comfort of hot water, but one pitch was still lit up.
"Lin, are you sure you want to do this?"
Broja clutched two thick nylon ropes in his hands, looking at Lin Yuan with a face full of terror.
Lin Yuan was currently bare-chested, with a professional weight belt tied around his waist. Connected to the back of the belt weren't resistance parachutes or iron plates, but two genuine old tires.
And Lin Yuan still felt it wasn't enough.
"Sit on them." Lin Yuan pointed at the two tires covered in muddy water, his voice somewhat hoarse from the intense exercise. "Broja, and Mudryk, both of you, one person per tire."
"What?!" Mudryk's eyes widened. "This is wet grass, there's a lot of friction! And with the tires plus the weight of the two of us, that's at least a hundred and eighty kilograms!"
"Stop talking and sit down." Lin Yuan wiped the rain from his face, his eyes showing an unquestionable obsession. "Do you want to beat Manchester City? If you do, then do as I say."
The two young players looked at each other and finally sat down tremblingly in the mud-covered tires.
In the distance, Mourinho stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his second-floor office. The espresso in his hand had already gone cold, but he hadn't taken a single sip. He was watching, watching how much energy this beast he had pushed to the brink could unleash.
"Start!"
With a low roar from Lin Yuan, his thigh muscles instantly bulged, veins popping out like winding earthworms. His studs dug deep into the soft, wet soil, tearing up large chunks of turf.
The taut nylon rope made a tooth-aching "creak" sound.
One step, two steps.
It was very difficult at first; Lin Yuan's body was almost at a 45-degree angle to the ground as he struggled against the immense friction. Every step was like a tug-of-war in a quagmire.
But immediately following that, inertia began to take effect.
This "human tank" began to accelerate.
Sitting in the tire, Mudryk discovered with horror that the surrounding scenery began to recede. Lin Yuan's speed got faster and faster, and those originally heavy burdens now seemed to become mere accessories hanging on him.
"Dribble!" Lin Yuan roared.
The assistant coach responsible for feeding the ball quickly kicked the ball ahead of Lin Yuan.
Under such high-load dragging, ordinary people would find it difficult just to maintain balance, let alone touch the ball. But at this moment, countless images of Yaya Touré driving forward with the ball flashed through Lin Yuan's mind.
It didn't need to be delicate.
What was needed was rhythm.
Taking huge strides, man and ball as one.
Lin Yuan gave the ball a fierce shove, and it rolled five or six meters away. From a technical perspective, this was an extremely crude touch, one that could be easily intercepted if one wasn't careful.
But the moment the ball rolled out, Lin Yuan exerted force again. The nylon rope at his waist was pulled straight, even causing Broja, who was sitting in the tire, to bounce off the ground for a split second!
That terrifying explosive power allowed Lin Yuan to catch up to the ball within two seconds, and then he gave it another fierce shove!
"Is this... the aesthetics of violence?" Gallagher watched from the sidelines, dumbstruck.
He had never seen anyone practice dribbling this way. This wasn't practicing ball control; this was practicing "how to crush defensive lines while carrying a two-hundred-kilogram load."
This wasn't a football player's training method at all; this was a Siberian sled dog, or an Ancient Roman gladiator's training!
[System Notification: Detected that the host is undergoing extreme load training.]
[Attribute points converting... Dribbling attribute being corrected...]
[Congratulations to the host for comprehending the prototype of a passive skill—[Tank-style Advance (Level 1)].]
[Skill Description: When the host's starting speed with the ball reaches 80% of top speed, body balance increases by 30%, and confrontation judgment priority is raised to the highest level. In this state, any attempt to collide from the side has a 50% probability of causing the defender to lose their own balance.]
Three hours later.
Lin Yuan untied the belt, looking like he had just been fished out of the mud. Two deep purple bruises had been chafed onto his back by the nylon rope, but the light in his eyes was sharper than ever.
He could feel that there was something more in his body. It was a brand new understanding of center of gravity control, a confidence in being able to stabilize his lower body even during high-speed confrontations... The next day, during the intra-squad scrimmage.
Mourinho specifically arranged for the team's strongest center-backs—Disasi and Badiashile—to defend Lin Yuan.
"Don't let him turn! Stick to him!" Mourinho shouted from the sidelines.
Lin Yuan received the ball at the center circle.
In the past, at this time, he would have chosen to safely pass back to the defenders. But today, he didn't look back.
Facing the 1.92-meter tall, 90-kilogram Disasi, Lin Yuan not only didn't slow down but instead kicked the ball hard toward the front right.
"You're asking for it!" Disasi sneered inwardly. This touch was too big; he had plenty of time to block the path.
Disasi leaned in for a shoulder barge, attempting to shove Lin Yuan off the touchline. This was the most common defensive method for Premier League defenders, and also the one that most tested physical toughness.
"Bang!"
A dull sound of flesh colliding echoed across the training ground.
Everyone thought Lin Yuan would stop, or that the two would become entangled.
But the next scene made everyone gasp.
Disasi—that French defender who was like an iron tower—at the moment of impact, actually seemed to have hit a high-speed truck. He was sent flying back, stumbling three steps before landing ignominiously on his backside on the grass!
While Lin Yuan's upper body only swayed slightly, his speed not decreasing in the slightest!
He was like an icebreaker, arrogantly smashing through the ice and continuing to sail forward.
Next was Caicedo, who was covering. Caicedo tried to put in a tackle, but Lin Yuan didn't even do a feint; he simply used his powerful upper body strength to hold Caicedo off by the neck with one hand and "pushed" the hundred-million-pound midfielder behind him like opening a door.
Past two players in a row!
No flashy moves, just pure physical suppression!
Finally, facing the rushing goalkeeper Sánchez, Lin Yuan didn't shoot but calmly squared the ball, allowing the following Sterling to easily tap it into the empty net.
Silence.
The training ground was deathly quiet.
Sitting on the ground, Disasi rubbed his numb shoulder, looking at Lin Yuan with an expression like he'd seen a ghost: "Fxxk... Lin, are your bones made of iron?"
Lin Yuan stood before the penalty area and took a deep breath. That feeling of controlling the whole pitch and treating the defense as if it were nothing made him feel somewhat intoxicated.
Is this the joy of Yaya Touré?
No wonder that guy could walk all over the Premier League back then. This feeling of knocking opponents flying and then scoring was indeed a hundred times better than a simple tackle!
Mourinho stood by the pitch, finally revealing a hint of a satisfied smile, though there was a touch of cunning in that smile.
"Did you see that?" Mourinho turned to the coaching staff behind him and said, "Who says we can't advance without Enzo?"
"We don't need to pass the ball over there."
"We're going to 'transport' him over there."
The assistant coach looked at the back of number 44 on the pitch, who was exuding a violent aura, and swallowed hard: "But isn't this a bit too... villainous?"
"Villainous?" Mourinho shrugged, his eyes looking north toward Manchester. "In the Premier League, there are only villains who survive, no heroes who die."
"Edit this footage and show it to all the players," Mourinho finally ordered. "Tell them, this is our tactic for playing Manchester City—give the ball to Lin, and then everyone sprint for me to pick up the corpses he leaves behind."
The rain stopped.
Lin Yuan looked up at the sky. Although the dark clouds were still dense, he seemed to have already seen the blood-red setting sun about to rise behind the clouds.
Next stop, the Etihad Stadium? No, it's the Red and Blue battle at Stamford Bridge.
Guardiola, Haaland, and that De Bruyne who always watches the game with a God's Perspective.
Are you ready to welcome this out-of-control tank?