De Bruyne had always believed that playing football was like solving a complex geometry problem.
In his eyes, the figures running across the pitch weren't people but moving coordinate points. His brain worked like a super-computer, instantly calculating every teammate's run, the ball's spin, the grass's friction coefficient, and the wind speed.
Give him half a second and he could draw an arc that shredded any defence. That was why people called him "Tin-Tin" or "The Pastry Chef."
Yet tonight, on this godforsaken rainy evening, De Bruyne discovered his computer had crashed.
The cause was the madman wearing Chelsea's No. 44 shirt.
25 minutes into the match.
City attacked down the right. Walker slipped the ball to Bernardo Silva, and B Silva dribbled like a nimble rabbit, trying to stretch the Chelsea back line.
As always, De Bruyne drifted unseen into the pocket of space at the top-left arc of the box—his "killing zone." From there he could shoot or slip a through-ball.
'Here!' De Bruyne raised his hand.
B Silva read his mind and cut the ball back.
The ball rolled across the soaked grass toward De Bruyne.
But just before it reached him—before his instep could even touch it—a wave of body heat slammed into his back.
No foot-steps.
The rain masked everything, and the man moved like a ghost.
Thud!
Not the sound of a kick, but of bodies colliding.
The instant De Bruyne shaped to receive, Lin Yuan rammed a covert hip-check into his kidney.
It was a borderline foul. Any more force or a shove and Michael Oliver would have whistled.
But Lin Yuan's control was perfect.
[Passive skill triggered: Mourinho's Shadow (Lv.3)]
[Effect: In the ref's blind spot or at the moment of contact, use the fair-charge rule to wreck an opponent's balance; foul call chance –40%.]
Agony flared through De Bruyne's waist; his shooting leg buckled and he lurched away. The ball clipped his heel and bobbled loose, hoofed clear by Chelsea defender Colwill.
'Hey! That's a foul!' De Bruyne flung his arms at the referee, face purple. 'He never played the ball—it's a charge!'
Michael Oliver, five metres away, shook his head and signalled play on.
'This is the Premier League, Kevin,' Oliver said coldly. 'And it's raining.'
Gritting his teeth, De Bruyne turned to Lin Yuan behind him.
Lin Yuan was casually smoothing his rain-soaked cuff, not even glancing at De Bruyne, as if he'd merely bumped a trash bin.
'I told you,' Lin Yuan murmured as he passed, voice like a funeral litany, 'you don't even get the right to breathe.'
The next twenty minutes became the darkest nightmare of the Belgian maestro's career.
Lin Yuan abandoned all contest for the ball.
When Rodri had it, Lin Yuan didn't press.
When B Silva drove forward, Lin Yuan didn't chase.
Even when Haaland sprinted, Lin Yuan only flicked a sideways glance.
His eyes held only one man.
32 minutes: City throw-in. De Bruyne tried to drop to the centre circle for space.
He had barely turned when the dark-blue shadow draped over him.
Lin Yuan clung to his back like a wet plaster that couldn't be shaken off. Chest pressed to De Bruyne's spine, every breath radiated furnace heat.
The closeness repulsed De Bruyne—more than physical pressure, it felt like mental rape.
'Get off!' De Bruyne swung an elbow while jogging.
'Too slow.'
Lin Yuan anticipated, blocked the lane, thigh muscles braced like an iron post.
De Bruyne checked and spun, but Lin Yuan adjusted faster. Boosted by [Adaptive Footwork] and [Yaya Touré Drive], his agility was on another level now.
The pass arrived, yet De Bruyne couldn't take it cleanly. Under duress he one-touched it first-time—
Over-hit.
Ball flew beyond the line.
'Fxxk!!!'
The normally ice-cool De Bruyne snapped, tearing a chunk of turf in rage.
Stamford Bridge erupted in gleeful laughter.
'Look! City's brain has short-circuited!'
'Kill him, Lin! Show him who owns Stamford Bridge!'
On the touchline, Guardiola couldn't sit still any longer. He rushed to the fourth official, stabbing a finger toward the pitch: "What is that? Man-marking? It's stalking! It isn't even football, it's plain harassment! He's ruining the game!"
Mourinho was only a few metres away and caught Guardiola's roar.
The Special One's lips curled into a smug smirk. Hands in his coat pockets, he rocked back on his heels and gave Guardiola a shrug.
"Don't cry, Pep," Mourinho muttered. "Welcome to hell."
In Mourinho's football philosophy, destroying the opponent's brain is the highest form of tactics. If you can't solve the problem, solve the man who makes it.
In the 41st minute, Manchester City showed the first signs of civil war.
With De Bruyne completely neutralised by Lin Yuan, City's midfield was seized up. Haaland had peeled into space three times, but the ball never came.
"Kevin! The ball! Get the bloody ball out!" Haaland threw his arms wide.
Sweat and rain streaked De Bruyne's face, hair plastered to his forehead. At Haaland's complaint he spun round and yelled, "Then come and get it! Can't you see this mad dog's been glued to me all day?"
Mad dog.
An ugly word.
Yet when Lin Yuan heard it he only smiled.
A tyrant's pleasure at hearing his prey whimper in the trap.
Play was dead. Lin Yuan walked up to De Bruyne until their noses almost touched. His eyes were emotionless, black vortexes without a bottom.
"If I'm a mad dog," Lin Yuan licked the split on his lip, the taste of blood stoking his nerves, "then you're the bone in my mouth."
"And I'm not letting go."
Looking into those eyes, De Bruyne's heart missed a beat.
He had faced plenty of hard men—Keane, Vieira, even Casemiro now—they were brutal, ferocious.
But Lin Yuan was different.
This Chelsea No. 44 carried an inhuman chill. While dismantling his man he was terrifyingly calm, a robot executing code: precise, merciless, tireless.
From kick-off he had collided with De Bruyne at least twenty times—each one just on the right side of a foul, each one leaving the Belgian's muscles a little sorer.
It wasn't just a drain on stamina; it was a grind on the mind.
Even the greatest midfield artist, after forty minutes tangled with a creature that felt no pain and knew no limits, was near breaking point.
A City corner.
Everyone packed the box.
In the scramble Lin Yuan found De Bruyne again.
"You again?" De Bruyne felt despair wash over him.
"Not done yet," Lin Yuan whispered in his ear. "Haaland said he'd burst my lungs—looks like you'll suffocate first."
The corner came in.
Just as De Bruyne prepared to leap, Lin Yuan didn't jump; instead he drove his strong back into him.
The subtle "seat" killed De Bruyne's lift.
The ball sailed over, cleared by Thiago Silva.
On landing, Lin Yuan "accidentally" trod on De Bruyne's toe.
"Agh!"
De Bruyne hopped back on one foot.
"Stop milking it—I barely touched you," Lin Yuan said coldly. "Had I meant it, your toe would be powder."
Referee Oliver hurried over, lectured Lin Yuan, but kept his cards in his pocket.
In the melee no one had seen clearly.
The half-time whistle blew.
To City it sounded like heaven.
Head down, De Bruyne trudged toward the tunnel, wordless, his silhouette haggard and spent; the maestro who pulled strings was gone.
Lin Yuan stood in the rain, in no hurry to leave.
He wiped the water from his face and glanced up at the scoreboard.
0-0.
No goals, but Chelsea had won the battle. The mighty Sky-Blue armada was stranded in the Stamford Bridge mud.
The system prompt arrived on cue:
[Mission update: Strangle the Brain – 80% complete.]
[De Bruyne current psyche: on the brink of collapse (red alert).]
[Host earns temporary title: Silencer.]
Lin Yuan walked to the dressing-room. Passing City's bench he felt every substitute's eyes on him.
Some were angry, some bewildered.
Most were afraid.
Exactly what he wanted.
A tyrant's reign is built not on flowers and applause, but on the fear and ruins of his enemies.
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