In a private apartment in the Fulham district of Chelsea, heavy blackout curtains blocked out the midday sun completely. The room was quiet, save for the faint sound of a humidifier puffing out mist and a lingering, pungent scent—a mixture of safflower oil and anti-swelling spray.
Lin Yuan was woken up by the pain.
It wasn't the sharp, adrenaline-fueled pain of the pitch, but a dull, aching throb, like a blunt knife carving through flesh. His right groin felt as if a red-hot iron had been shoved into it; every breath that engaged his abdominal muscles triggered a twitch there.
He instinctively tried to roll over, but as soon as he moved, he sucked in a sharp breath of cold air, a raspy, rattling sound escaping his throat.
"If you don't want that leg anymore, keep moving."
A cool, detached voice came from the armchair by the bed.
Lin Yuan struggled to turn his head.
Anna Carvalho was sitting there, holding a thick medical journal with a blanket draped over her knees. There were dark circles under her eyes, a clear sign she hadn't slept well, but the look she directed at Lin Yuan was far more fueled by anger than exhaustion.
"What time is it?" Lin Yuan's voice was as raspy as if he'd swallowed a handful of sand.
"Two in the afternoon." Anna closed her book, stood up, and walked to the bedside, looking down at him. "Congratulations, you've slept for a full fourteen hours. Your body's defense mechanism forced a shutdown; otherwise, your nervous system probably would have collapsed first."
She reached out to lift a corner of the quilt, checking the brace and bandages wrapped around the root of Lin Yuan's thigh. Her movements were light and professionally impeccable, but her tongue remained sharp:
"A grade-two tear accompanied by extensive subcutaneous bleeding. When I was applying cold compresses to your injury and saw that bruise, it looked like a piece of raw steak that had gone bad."
Lin Yuan twitched the corner of his mouth, trying to smile, but his facial muscles were stiff.
"Where's the trophy?" he asked.
Anna rolled her eyes and pointed toward the floor cabinet in the corner of the room.
The three-handled League Cup trophy stood there quietly. Though it had been wiped clean, several dents and scratches were still visible on the base—'battle damage' from the wild celebrations on the bus yesterday.
Seeing that the trophy was still there, the weight on Lin Yuan's heart finally lifted. He lay back on the pillow, staring blankly at the chandelier on the ceiling.
"Was it worth it?" Anna suddenly asked. She had asked this yesterday, and she was asking it again today.
"Anna, I'm a professional footballer." Lin Yuan closed his eyes, feeling the rhythmic pulses of pain from his injury. "That was a final. As long as I didn't die on the pitch, it's not a loss."
"Right, a professional footballer." Anna gave a cold snort and turned to the nearby cart to get his medicine. "Dr. Paco said that according to the normal recovery process, you'll be down for at least six weeks. And that's an optimistic estimate. If there's an infection or if it doesn't heal well, it could be three months."
Six weeks.
Lin Yuan's eyes snapped open.
What did six weeks mean? It meant missing both legs of the Champions League quarter-finals and the crucial final sprint for the Premier League title. For a Chelsea side currently on the rise, this was no different from a death sentence.
"No way." Lin Yuan instinctively tried to prop himself up. "I'm staying down for two weeks, max."
"You can try." Anna didn't stop him; she just stood by the bed with her arms crossed, watching him coldly. "If you can get out of bed and walk to that door right now, I'll stop nagging you. But if you fall, I'll tie you to the bed and call Mourinho to tell him to give up on you."
Lin Yuan gritted his teeth, trying to force his right leg to exert power.
But he discovered to his despair that the leg once capable of firing a 150 km/h thunderbolt was now as limp as a noodle, refusing to obey. Even the slightest movement triggered a piercing spasm.
"Fuck."
He cursed under his breath, falling back onto the pillow powerlessly.
Seeing his defeated look, the anger in Anna's eyes finally softened. She sighed, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up the ointment.
"Don't push yourself. You're human, not a machine." Her fingers gently massaged the tight muscle groups around Lin Yuan's thigh. "Just recover properly. I'll be watching you."
Lin Yuan didn't say a word.
In his mind, he silently awakened the system.
The pale blue interface unfolded across his retina, visible only to him.
[Host Status: Severely Injured (Recovering).]
[Current Recovery Speed: +10% (Base Constitution Bonus).]
[Available Item: Deep Tissue Repair Fluid (Biological) x 1.]
[Description: A biological technology extract from a high dimension. Accelerates muscle fiber reorganization and cell regeneration, shortening the recovery cycle by 70%. Side effect: Accompanied by extreme itching and burning sensations during use.]
This was the life-saving trump card he had exchanged last night using the notoriety points rewarded for winning the championship.
"Use it," Lin Yuan commanded in his mind.
A strange surge of heat instantly pumped from his heart, rushing through his blood vessels straight to the injury in his right leg. The sensation was bizarre, as if countless tiny ants were gnawing and stitching inside the wound.
Lin Yuan's brow furrowed instantly, and a fine layer of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Anna felt the muscles trembling under her hands. Thinking she had hurt him, she quickly stopped. "What's wrong? Does it hurt a lot?"
"It's nothing..." Lin Yuan gritted his teeth, his voice trembling slightly. "Keep massaging. Don't stop."
The itch. A piercing itch. It was a hundred times harder to bear than the pain.
But this meant he was recovering... Days spent nursing an injury were tedious, but that didn't mean the world would fall quiet because of it.
During the few days Lin Yuan spent in bed, the public discourse outside had already exploded.
It was a debate about "heroes" and "belonging."
Since the "Li Jianguo Case" was exposed, although the domestic Football Association had undergone a massive purge, the newly appointed leadership clearly didn't want to let go of a massive traffic goldmine like Lin Yuan.
The television was playing a domestic sports talk show. Although Anna couldn't understand Chinese, she could see Lin Yuan's photo placed front and center on the screen as several guests discussed something animatedly.
Lin Yuan leaned against the headboard, holding a tablet and looking at the trending topics on domestic social media.
#FA Plans to Invite Lin Yuan Back to Watch Match#
#New FA Chairman: Lin Yuan Will Always Be a Child of China#
#Expert Suggestion: Lin Yuan Should Be Granted Special Dual Citizenship#
Looking at these headlines, a sarcastic curve formed on Lin Yuan's lips.
Just yesterday, Mendes had called him, saying a well-known domestic sports brand wanted to sign him for a hundred million RMB a year. The condition was that he had to speak more Chinese in public and frequently mention being "nurtured by the motherland."
"Nurtured by the motherland?"
Lin Yuan looked at the grey London sky outside the window, remembering that rainy night when he was kicked out of the training base, and the faces of those officials who pointed at his nose and called him a "black sheep."
Back then, no one mentioned "blood is thicker than water." Back then, he was trash, a toxin that had to be purged.
Now that he was a newly crowned League champion and a "phenomenal midfielder" being discussed by the entire Premier League, these people were flocking back, shamelessly claiming that "we're all one family."
"Turn off the TV," Lin Yuan said to Anna, who was tidying up the room. "It's too noisy."
"Are they praising you?" Anna asked curiously.
"No." Lin Yuan casually swiped away the news page. "They're trying to drain my blood to paint their own faces and look respectable."
His phone vibrated at that moment.
It wasn't Mendes, nor was it Mourinho.
The screen displayed a number from Saudi Arabia.
Lin Yuan raised an eyebrow and answered the video call.
That familiar face appeared on the screen—slightly weathered but still full of spirit. Cristiano Ronaldo had just finished training, a towel draped around his neck, with the opulent locker room of Al-Nassr in the background.
"Hey, cripple."
Cristiano Ronaldo opened with his signature banter. "I heard you were carried off at Wembley? What, not dead yet?"
"Thanks to your blessings, I still have a breath left." Lin Yuan adjusted his sitting position, trying his best not to look too weak. "How do you have time to call me? Don't you have oil to dig for in the desert?"
Cristiano Ronaldo burst into a hearty laugh.
"I saw the news. That shot was beautiful." Cristiano Ronaldo stopped laughing and gestured seriously. "Though it's a little bit short of my peak, for the youngsters nowadays, it's not bad."
"Stop flattering yourself," Lin Yuan scoffed.
"On a serious note." Cristiano Ronaldo leaned closer to the camera, his gaze turning solemn. "How is your injury? The European Cup is in three months. Martinez called me yesterday, as anxious as an ant on a hot pan, asking if you can make it."
"I won't die." Lin Yuan glanced at his bandaged leg. "The doctor said six weeks, but I plan to return in two."
"Two weeks?" Cristiano Ronaldo frowned. "Don't be reckless, Lin. That's the groin; it's the engine of a midfielder. If you play before it's healed, you'll become a glass man."
"Chelsea can't wait six weeks," Lin Yuan said calmly. "And... neither can I."
Cristiano Ronaldo was silent for a few seconds, seemingly reading a certain determination in Lin Yuan's eyes.
"You really are like me."
Cristiano Ronaldo suddenly sighed, his tone carrying a hint of nostalgia. "Back then, I got injured before the World Cup, and the doctors told me to rest too. But I didn't listen. Because I knew that some opportunities only come once in a lifetime."
"Lin, this year's European Cup..."
Cristiano Ronaldo's voice lowered; it was the helplessness of a hero in his twilight years, yet also a desperate, all-or-nothing desire.
"It's my last chance."
"I know." Lin Yuan interrupted him. "That's why I have to get well as soon as possible. Without me, Pepe's old bones will be torn apart by Mbappé."
Cristiano Ronaldo smiled, this time with a sense of relief.
"That's good. Recover well. I'll wait for you in Germany. When the time comes, don't hold me back."
"Don't worry." Lin Yuan looked at the legend on the screen. "When the time comes, you just focus on scoring; leave the rest to me."
The video call ended.
Silence returned to the room.
Lin Yuan tossed his phone aside, feeling the repair fluid taking effect as that piercing itch returned.
Gritting his teeth, he looked out the window.
Whether it was the clamor back home, Chelsea's predicament, or even Cristiano Ronaldo's entrustment—
Everything was pushing him forward.
He couldn't stop.
A tyrant's throne is forged with iron and blood; once it stops, it rusts.
"Anna."
Lin Yuan suddenly called out.
Anna, who was preparing a nutritional meal in the kitchen, poked her head out. "What's wrong? Is it hurting again?"
"No."
Lin Yuan looked at his right leg, a flash of ruthlessness in his eyes.
"Help me move that rehabilitation equipment into the bedroom."
"Are you crazy?!" Anna rushed out holding a soup spoon. "The doctor told you to rest!"
"Resting won't save Chelsea." Lin Yuan propped himself up against the edge of the bed, trying to sit straight. "And I don't have time to lie in bed being a useless person."
"I'm going to do extra training."
Looking at the stubborn man, who was clearly sweating from the pain yet refused to give in, Anna slammed the soup spoon onto the table in anger.
But a few seconds later, with reddened eyes, she still turned around to move the equipment.
Because she knew that this was Lin Yuan.
A madman who would even give up his life just to win.
And it was this very madman who, on a night one month later, would drag an injured leg and trample the whole of Europe under his feet.
----------
Check Out P atreon For More Chapters:
P atreon.com/AnonymousWriter6