Throughout the final week of February, the British media seemed to consist of only two colors: red and blue.
On the eve of the Wembley showdown, this opposition was pushed to a climax by a mixture of sentimentality and murderous intent.
This was Jürgen Klopp's final season managing Liverpool. The bearded German, who had attained god-like status at Anfield, had already announced his departure. "Win one last trophy for Klopp" had become the sole creed of the entire Liverpool squad.
Even the BBC, usually known for its objectivity, devoted a large portion of its special program "Return to Wembley" to portraying Liverpool's tragic yet warm narrative, as if Chelsea were merely a villainous supporting character in this grand farewell ceremony.
But villains are usually not ones for sentimentality.
Chelsea's Cobham Training Centre, Press Conference Hall.
"Jürgen is a great manager, but what does that have to do with me?"
Facing a reporter's question about whether he felt pressure because of Klopp's farewell, Lin Yuan adjusted the microphone, his voice cold enough to freeze the air. "This is competitive sports, not a farewell party. If he wants a gift, I can buy him a plane ticket back to Germany, but not the trophy."
The audience erupted in an uproar.
This was Lin Yuan. In this era of commercial football filled with hypocritical pleasantries, he was like a stubborn, unyielding rock, making no effort to hide his sharp edges... Liverpool Training Base, Video Analysis Room.
Klopp was not immersed in the emotions of departure as the media imagined. At this moment, his brow was furrowed as he stared intently at a clip on the screen.
It was a highlight reel from Chelsea's last match against Preston.
On the screen, Klopp repeatedly replayed the chipped pass Lin Yuan had delivered with the outside of his boot no less than ten times.
"This isn't scientific," assistant coach Lijnders muttered, biting his pen with a look of confusion. "Three weeks ago at Anfield, he only knew how to clear the ball like a brute. How could he have developed this kind of technique in such a short time?"
Klopp hit the pause button, the image freezing on the moment Lin Yuan observed his teammates before passing.
"There is a type of player born for war." Klopp took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his tired nose. "The previous clumsiness was just a disguise, or rather, a nature deliberately suppressed by that old fox Mourinho. Now, the chains are broken."
He turned around and looked at the red "No. 44" mark on the tactical board.
"Tell Wataru Endō and Mac Allister," Klopp's voice became exceptionally serious, "In the final, don't treat him as just a defensive workhorse anymore. Defend against him as if he were Bellingham. Once he gets the ball, someone must stick to him—even if it takes a foul to break his rhythm."
"But Jürgen, our defensive line would be in great danger..."
"Letting him pass comfortably is even more dangerous!" Klopp raised his voice. "This is an evolved beast. If we still look at him with old eyes, Wembley will become our burial ground."
...Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in China.
Although the kickoff time was in the early hours of the morning in Beijing, the number of reservations on major live-streaming platforms had already surpassed historical peaks.
Since the "Li Jianguo Case" was settled, Lin Yuan's public reputation in China had undergone a complete reversal. People who used to curse him as a "hooligan" were now sharing his highlights, praising him as the "man who brought blood and guts back to Chinese football."
Domestic media headlined this match as the "Battle for Revenge."
Because everyone remembered Lin Yuan's lonely figure as he was sent off with a red card at Anfield a month ago. That wasn't just a red card; it was a humiliation brought about by an imbalance of strength.
Now, he was back with newly sharpened fangs... Match day, Wembley Stadium.
The famous "Wembley Way" was already submerged in a sea of people. Red flares and blue flags intertwined in the sky, and the air was thick with the greasy smell of fish and chips and the scent of fermenting alcohol.
In the away locker room, the atmosphere at Chelsea was terrifyingly oppressive.
Mourinho didn't give a long tactical lecture. He simply tossed a tablet onto the table in the center of the locker room.
The screen played a leaked video snippet from the Liverpool locker room after their previous 3-1 victory, showing Liverpool players celebrating wildly and mocking Chelsea for being "weak."
"Listen to what they're laughing at," Mourinho pointed at the screen, his voice low. "They're laughing at you for being a pile of expensive scrap metal in the Premier League. They're laughing at our captain looking like a stray dog when he was sent off."
Lin Yuan sat in the corner with his head down, wrapping his shin guards.
He could feel the interface named the [Football Bully System] inside him heating up slightly.
Last night, he had spent all his accumulated notoriety points. He didn't buy any flashy skills; he only redeemed a passive attribute boost—[Iron Bones (Advanced)].
The system description was simple: Significantly increases the body's tolerance under high-intensity impact; bone density increased by 20%.
He knew what today's game would be like. Klopp would have Liverpool biting like mad dogs, and Van Dijk and Konaté would hit him like two walls.
To win, he first had to survive.
"Everyone knows what to do," Reece James said dutifully from the bench, having just returned from injury. "For Chelsea!"
"For Chelsea!" the crowd roared.
Only Lin Yuan didn't shout. He slowly stood up, the dark blue No. 44 jersey clinging tightly to his broad latissimus dorsi. He walked to the mirror and looked at the scar on his brow bone.
For Chelsea? No.
It was for my own damn pride... The players' tunnel.
Two lines of players stood side by side.
Liverpool captain Van Dijk stood at 1.93 meters, like an iron tower. He turned his head, his gaze passing over several Chelsea players to land directly on Lin Yuan.
Their eyes collided in the narrow tunnel.
There were no pleasantries, no hypocritical handshakes. Van Dijk's eyes held the arrogance and scrutiny of the world's best center-back, while Lin Yuan's eyes held only a spine-chilling dead silence.
"I heard you've learned how to pass?" Van Dijk spoke suddenly, his voice deep. "I hope your leg bones are as hard as your passing."
It was a blatant provocation.
The surrounding players all looked over, and the atmosphere instantly became tense.
Lin Yuan expressionlessly adjusted his cuffs without even looking up, simply replying calmly:
"Same to you. Don't go falling apart when I hit you, then blame the pitch for being too slippery."
The officiating crew walked over, interrupting the impending verbal spat.
A massive cheer came from the tunnel exit, like a tsunami crashing against the rocks.
Lin Yuan took a deep breath. That was the smell of Wembley, the smell of a final, and the prelude to the scent of blood.
He stepped forward, entering the colosseum that was about to be etched into the annals of history.
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