In London in mid-December, the sky was like a gray rag that could never be wrung dry.
In the stands of Stamford Bridge, the cold wind, laden with moisture, seeped into everyone's bones. Lin Yuan sat in the player's stand behind the substitutes' bench, wearing an expensive Armani black cashmere coat and a blue Chelsea scarf around his neck.
This outfit made him look like a City of London elite who had just finished work, or some mafia enforcer coming to watch the game; he looked like anything but a player.
"This outfit is really tight."
Lin Yuan tugged at his collar, which was meant to hide a tie that wasn't fully fastened. Compared to that sweat-and-mud-stained No. 44 jersey, this bespoke suit worth thousands of pounds made him feel like he was in prison.
"You'll get used to it." Sitting next to him, Reece James leaned on his crutches and shrunk his neck with a bitter smile. "Watching the game from here is more torturous than playing on the pitch. Especially... when you can only watch."
Lin Yuan didn't speak; his gaze was fixed firmly on the turf below.
Due to the red card at Anfield in the last match, he was suspended for one game.
Today's opponent was Sheffield United.
Last in the League, universally recognized as the Premier League's "soft persimmon," a bottom-feeder team with the fewest goals scored and the most conceded.
By all rights, this should have been a confidence-building match for Chelsea against a weak opponent. The media predicted a 3-0 start, and fans expected a big win to wash away the shame of Anfield.
However, seventy minutes had already passed in the match.
The glaring 0-1 on the scoreboard plunged Stamford Bridge into an awkward silence.
The one trailing was Chelsea.
On the field, Chelsea's possession was as high as 78%. Blue figures bombarded Sheffield United's penalty area, looking very busy. Enzo orchestrated tirelessly in midfield, Caicedo ran back and forth like a workhorse, and Sterling (if he wasn't slacking off today) and Mudryk attempted breakthroughs on the wings time and again.
But they just couldn't score.
Instead, in the 53rd minute, Sheffield United's 1.9-meter tall center-forward, McBurnie, used a simple corner kick opportunity to overpower Ugochukwu, who was starting in place of Lin Yuan, and hammered the ball into the net.
Simple, crude, and effective.
"How is it possible to lose this?" a young substitute in the back row couldn't help but mutter. "The other team's technique is so rough..."
Lin Yuan narrowed his eyes.
His perspective had never been clearer.
When standing on the pitch, he was a beast fighting in the jungle, with only the prey in front of him and the mud beneath his feet in his field of vision. But now, sitting high in the stands, he had a Gods Perspective.
He saw something different.
"It's not bad luck," Lin Yuan suddenly spoke, his voice as cold as the iron railing in front of him. "We've trapped ourselves."
On the pitch, Enzo had the ball.
The Argentine genius looked around. Sheffield United had parked a 9-0-1 bus, making the area in front of the penalty box airtight.
Enzo wanted to play a through ball, but the lane was blocked. He wanted to pass to the wing, but the opposing full-back was already tight on his man.
Out of options, Enzo could only choose to pass back to Ugochukwu behind him.
Ugochukwu received the ball, looked up, stared blankly ahead, found no safe passing options, and so passed horizontally to the center-back on the other side.
"The U-shaped rotation," Reece James sighed. "We're just rubbing around the perimeter; we can't get in at all."
Lin Yuan watched this scene, his fingers unconsciously tapping his knee.
He was thinking: what if he were on the pitch?
If he were on the pitch, that goal definitely wouldn't have happened. A clunky center-forward like McBurnie—he could have shoved him right off the end line.
But what about the attack?
If he were on the pitch and Enzo passed back to him, what would he do?
A scene instantly simulated in Lin Yuan's mind: he receives the ball, uses his body to hold off the press, and then... and then he'd likely just pass to the wing or hoof it long for the striker.
His passing vision was Grade D. His long pass accuracy was Grade C.
At Anfield, the reason Klopp dared to leave him open was betting that he couldn't play a threatening pass. And today, facing a weak team parking the bus, his "workhorse" style of play, while ensuring no goals were conceded, was of no help in tearing open the defense.
"I am a wall."
Lin Yuan muttered to himself, "But I'm also a wall that blocks my own teammates' vision."
80th minute.
Mourinho was no longer roaring on the touchline. The Special One stood with his hands in his pockets, his back to the pitch, looking at the fans in the stands. His silhouette seemed a bit lonely and aged.
Boos began to ring out from the stands. Not at the referee, nor at the opponents, but at this Chelsea team worth a billion pounds that couldn't even beat the bottom-dwellers.
"Pass the ball forward! You bunch of cowards!"
A middle-aged man in the front row angrily threw his scarf to the ground. "What else can you do besides sideways and backward passes? Where's Lin? We need that madman!"
Lin Yuan heard this.
In the past, he would have taken it as a compliment.
But today, hearing these words felt like an irony.
People missed him because he brought violence and blood. But if they only relied on violence to win, Chelsea would always be a second-rate powerhouse. Against top-tier systems like Manchester City and Liverpool, or a "turtle" like Sheffield United that defended to the end, violence couldn't solve everything.
88th minute.
Chelsea's last chance for a counter-attack.
Gallagher had the ball in the final third; he tried desperately to play a through ball to the surging Jackson.
But that pass's intent was too obvious, and the power was too great. The ball rolled directly out of play.
"FUCK!"
Gallagher knelt on the ground, pounding the turf hard.
"If it were De Bruyne, that pass would have gone through," Lin Yuan suddenly said.
Reece James beside him was stunned for a moment. "Who? Kevin? He's the world's best midfielder; there's no comparison."
"If it were Bruno Fernandes, no matter how soft he is, he would have seen that gap just now," Lin Yuan continued, his tone terrifyingly calm.
"Even if it were Van Dijk, he could have sent a precise long-range pass from the back."
Lin Yuan stood up.
The match wasn't over yet, but he didn't want to watch anymore.
The outcome was decided. Chelsea would suffer a humiliating home defeat to the bottom team. This loss would completely puncture the false prosperity of their previous victories over strong teams.
"Where are you going? There's still stoppage time," James asked.
"To the locker room." Lin Yuan buttoned up his coat, hiding the tie that was suffocating him. "It's too cold here. Watching these weaklings play, my blood is turning cold."
...When Lin Yuan walked into the empty home locker room, the only sound was the hum of the air conditioning vents.
He sat down in front of his locker, not changing, still wearing the sharp suit.
He closed his eyes and summoned the system panel.
The pale blue interface floated in the darkness.
[Host: Lin Yuan]
[Overall Rating: A- (Premier League First-Class Destroyer)]
[notoriety points: 48,000 (Though no rewards for the previous accumulation and the Anfield red card, the controversy triggered has brought continuous traffic)]
[Free Attribute Points: 2]
His gaze swept over the rows of magnificent stats:
[Physical Confrontation: 98 (S+)]
[Stamina: 93 (S)]
[Defensive Awareness: 88 (A)]
[Aggressiveness: 99 (MAX)]
These red data bars were like an indestructible fortress.
Then, his gaze stopped on the dismal green stats below:
[Short Pass Accuracy: 65 (D+)]
[Long Pass Accuracy: 60 (D)]
[Vision: 55 (E)]
[Dribbling: 72 (B-, though there are progression skills, footwork remains rough)]
This was him now.
An extremely lopsided monster.
Before, he took pride in this, feeling that as long as he knocked people over, it was enough. Passing was Enzo's job; scoring was the strikers' job.
But the crushing defeat at Anfield and today's cold observation from the stands were like two slaps in the face, waking him up.
In this systematized modern football, the short board effect is fatal. As long as he has one obvious weakness, opponents will treat it as a fatal flaw and strike it relentlessly. Klopp did it, and in the future, Guardiola and Arteta would do it too.
"I want to win."
Lin Yuan looked at his hands. These hands could push away Haaland and pick up Bruno Fernandes, but they couldn't deliver a decent surgical through ball.
"I don't want to sit in the stands anymore, watching the team lose to trash like this like a useless person."
Noisy footsteps and suppressed sobbing came from outside the locker room. The teammates were back after the loss.
Lin Yuan ignored the impending storm.
Deep in his consciousness, he made a decision.
"System."
[Please speak, Host.]
"Open the Attribute Mall."
Lin Yuan's voice echoed in his mind, carrying a determination to burn his bridges.
"I want to use up all my notoriety points."
"I want to buy that thing."
His gaze locked onto a gray branch of the Skill Tree. That branch didn't belong to the "Defensive" or "Beast" systems, but to the elegant masters—Pirlo, Xavi, Alonso.
It was the "soft technique" he once despised most.
But now, he was going to forcefully wedge this puzzle piece into his steel frame.
The door was pushed open.
Mourinho walked in with a gloomy face, followed by the dejected players.
When they saw Lin Yuan sitting in the corner, dressed in a suit but radiating an unapproachable aura, everyone involuntarily stopped.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes; there was no fire in them, only a heart-palpitating calmness.
"What are you all doing with those long faces?"
Lin Yuan stood up and adjusted his cuffs. "It's just one loss; the sky hasn't fallen."
He walked to the tactical board, picked up a marker, drew a circle on the position representing the defensive midfielder, and then drew a heavy cross over it.
"Next match, I'm back."
"A match like this, that feels like constipation, won't happen again."
Mourinho looked at him, his eyes flickering slightly. As a world-class manager, he keenly felt the change in Lin Yuan. That pure violence seemed to have receded a bit, replaced by a deeper, more dangerous ambition.
If the previous Lin Yuan was a rusty but heavy iron hammer...
...then now, this hammer seemed to want to polish itself into a sharp battle-ax.
"Then prove it to me," Mourinho whispered.
Lin Yuan didn't answer; he just turned and walked into the treatment room.
Tonight, he was going to work overtime. Working overtime in the system.
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