The extra-time break lasts only sixty seconds.
The players look like zombies just dragged from a swamp, sprawled on the grass without a shred of dignity, gulping water.
Only Lin Yuan is still on his feet.
It isn't that he doesn't want to sit; he knows the tendon at the back of his thigh is like an old rubber band stretched to its limit. Bend his knee another degree, or relax for even a second, and that band will snap—or seize up forever.
Mourinho walks over, tactics board soaked by rain, the ink smeared beyond recognition.
The old coach eyes the trembling right leg showing through a hole in the sock, opens his mouth, then swallows every tactical instruction.
"Fifteen minutes left," Mourinho says simply. "Drag them to penalties and we win."
Drag?
A corner of Lin Yuan's bloodless mouth twitches. The pain-block system is running full-blast; he feels no hurt, only a leg heavy as lead.
"No." His voice is a wisp of air from his chest. "No penalties. We finish it here."
…The second half of extra time begins.
This is the ultimate test of human will.
Wembley's turf has turned to a quagmire; every start costs twice the usual strength.
Liverpool clearly want to avoid spot-kicks. Spotting that Lin Yuan is "crippled," they funnel every ball into his zone.
110th minute: Elliott tries to slip past him.
On a normal day Lin Yuan would spin and muscle him aside; now his turn is granny-slow.
Elliott's through!
Danger!
In that instant Lin Yuan hurls himself sideways like a log, shoulder crashing into Elliott's legs.
They tumble together.
Whistle. Foul.
Lin Yuan rises slowly, pushing off the turf with his arms. Looking at the furious Liverpool kid, he spits out mud without a word.
"You're not getting past."
115th minute.
Liverpool throw everyone forward—Van Dijk storms into the box as an extra striker. Chelsea's area is under siege.
Petrović has just clawed away Nunez's point-blank header; the defence is falling apart. Disasi and Colwill gasp, eyes glazed.
Everyone can see Chelsea are done. If the game drags on, the goal will come—for Liverpool.
118th minute.
The decisive moment arrives.
Corner to Liverpool; red shirts swamp the box.
"Pick up your men! Stick like glue!" Lin Yuan snarls at the edge of the area, voice like sandpaper.
Robertson delivers.
Van Dijk soars, heads it on.
The ball drops to the arc—the zone Lin Yuan should patrol—but his leg slows him a beat.
Liverpool's Mac Allister meets the second ball, chests it down, shapes to volley.
If he hits it, they're dead.
[System warning: muscle tolerance at critical limit.]
Lin Yuan ignores the shrill alarm. Eyes on the falling ball, pupils shrink.
He doesn't charge to block; he gambles.
He bets Mac Allister will take a touch.
Sure enough, Mac Allister shifts the ball one stride left for the angle.
That single stride.
Lin Yuan's "dead" leg explodes off the turf—anatomical suicide.
Crack.
Only he hears the snap of muscle fibres severing.
Using that last surge, he springs like a dying tiger.
A boot caked in mud stabs the ball a heartbeat before Mac Allister swings!
Tackle!
The ball skitters toward the centre circle.
Mac Allister's follow-through smashes into Lin Yuan's shin; he doesn't flinch, an iron post.
Counter!
A surreal scene unfolds.
Up front Chelsea have only Palmer, just subbed on; Liverpool's defence is reduced to a lone Gomez.
The ball rolls to Lin Yuan.
He can't run.
That one take-off has drained every function from his right leg; lifting it is impossible now.
Liverpool players sprint back in a pack—three seconds and they'll swarm him.
Lin Yuan stands in the mud, swaying.
But he lifts his head.
Through his eyes, the young Cole Palmer—the kid he had drilled passing patterns with all season—was tearing forward.
But between him and Palmer stretched forty metres of mud-soaked turf.
How could he even deliver it?
Without a run-up the ball would lack power; with one, his leg would be finished.
[Burn notoriety points to restore explosive strength for an instant?]
[No.]
A savage glint flashed across Lin Yuan's eyes.
No need for a fix—just once, once was enough.
He ground his molars to dust, channeling every ounce of weight, every shred of will, even staking his future career on the support of his left leg.
Then he swung the right—the leg already broken.
Ankle locked.
Skill: Scalpel Through Ball (B+ → in-match breakthrough to S-class).
This wasn't an ordinary through-ball; it was a pass wagered against death itself.
Bang!
The ball gave a dull, explosive thud.
It didn't rise. Like a viper skimming the earth, heavy outside spin slicing through puddled grass and Wembley's frozen air.
It curled past the back-tracking Wataru Endō, slipped beyond Gómez's outstretched toe.
A perfect, straight corridor to glory—lined with death.
The ball beckoned Palmer onward.
The instant Palmer met it he didn't even need to slow—he was clean through.
Racing Kelleher, the young England prodigy showed composure beyond his years: a gentle nudge.
The ball rolled into the net.
1-0!!!
119th minute—winner!
GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!
The Wembley roof nearly lifted from The Blues' roar.
Palmer tore off his shirt, sprinted to the corner flag and slid on his knees; every Chelsea player screamed and wept as they piled on him.
Mourinho sprinted fifty metres down the touchline and dropped to his knees like a child, howling at the sky.
Only one man didn't move.
Lin Yuan stood at the spot of the pass, still frozen in the follow-through.
His right foot hung in mid-air, as if time had stopped.
The world slowed; cheers sounded muffled, heard through water.
[Pain-block duration ended.]
[Recoil commencing.]
Boom!
Agony tenfold crashed over him like an avalanche, smashing his nerves.
Darkness flickered across his vision.
He tried to retract the leg—it wouldn't obey.
And so, amid the stadium's delirium, Chelsea's hero—the Tyrant—toppled like a tower, crashing backward without a shred of brace.
Slap.
He slammed into the mud, spraying filthy water.
First to notice was Enzo (on the bench). He'd started to celebrate until he saw the rigid way Lin Yuan fell.
'Lin!!' Enzo's shriek cut through the cheers.
Palmer turned; the grin froze on his face.
Every teammate froze.
There lay the iron man, curled in the muck, hands clawing his thigh, throat rasping a beast's death-rattle.
Pain so absolute he couldn't even scream.
The physio scrambled on all fours into the pitch.
The referee blew for full-time.
Chelsea were champions.
But no one celebrated; every camera fixed on the figure encircled at halfway.
The stretcher came out.
Mourinho shoved through the crowd. Lin Yuan's face was paper-white, lips shredded from biting.
'Did… did we win?' Lin Yuan cracked his eyes at Mourinho.
Mourinho clutched the mud-caked hand, tears falling onto it.
'We won. You're a champion, Lin. A champion.'
Lin Yuan twitched a corner of his mouth—more grimace than smile.
'Good…'
With that, his head lolled and he passed out.
Rain kept falling, washing Wembley's turf and the trophy newly engraved with Chelsea's name.
Before thousands of The Blues, their hero was borne away on a stretcher; the stadium rose in silent applause.
The ovation rolled on until the stretcher vanished down the tunnel.
That night Wembley saw a champion crowned—and watched a tyrant offer himself to the football gods for victory.
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