In April, the air in London finally lost some of that bone-chilling damp cold, replaced by a hint of the dry heat belonging to late spring and early summer.
Outside the wire fences of the Cobham Training Centre, long lenses and microphones crowded the area early in the morning. Reporters were like a flock of vultures smelling blood, blocking the gates so tightly that not even water could trickle through. This was because a rumor was spreading like wildfire through London's football circles—the "tyrant" who had been "missing" for a month was returning today.
The past four weeks had been a slow, agonizing execution for Chelsea.
A midfield without Lin Yuan was like a main battle tank stripped of its armor; although it could still fire, anyone could come up and give it a couple of kicks. With two draws and two losses, their position on the table had slipped from a solid top-three spot down to fifth. Aston Villa ahead of them had already pulled three points clear, while Manchester United and Tottenham behind them were chasing like hungry wolves.
"If they don't win this week, Mourinho's team will only be playing in the Europa League in Kazakhstan next season," the Daily Mail's column headline read with extreme sarcasm.
9:10 AM.
A black land rover defender let out a low engine roar, grinding over the gravel road at the entrance and parking domineeringly in front of the training center's main building.
The car door opened.
A foot wearing a black Nike sneaker stepped heavily onto the ground. Immediately after, that tall figure that made every Premier League defender's stomach cramp emerged.
Lin Yuan wore sunglasses and a deep blue Chelsea training kit, with the zipper pulled to the very top, covering half his neck.
The sound of shutters instantly merged into a sea of white flashes.
"Lin! How is your leg?"
"Mourinho said you would participate in full training today, is that true?"
"What is your response to Aston Villa's Emery saying 'Chelsea has already fallen behind'?"
Lin Yuan stopped in his tracks. He took off his sunglasses, his pitch-black eyes scanning the lenses around him. Even from several meters away, the reporters in the front row instinctively shrunk back.
That look had changed.
If he was a sharp, unsheathed longsword last season, then now he was more like a heavy hammer hidden in a scabbard, vibrating silently. It was a more dangerous sense of pressure, one that had settled and matured.
"Tell Emery."
Lin Yuan's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a nail driven into the microphones. "Wash your ass clean; that spot is mine."
After speaking, he walked into the base gates without looking back... In the locker room, the atmosphere was somewhat somber.
There were no smiles on the young players' faces. Mudryk was looking down at his phone, Madueke was tidying his laces, and Gallagher was staring at the tactical board with a worried expression—he had been blasted by the media after his mistake led to a goal in the last match.
Until that figure pushed the door open and entered.
"Clang."
The sound of the locker room door being pushed open and hitting the wall startled everyone.
When they saw who it was, everyone instinctively stood up straight. It felt like a group of noisy primary school students suddenly seeing their headteacher, or... seeing a beast tamer holding a whip.
"Morning." Lin Yuan threw his bag into his locker, his tone flat, as if he had just taken a single day off yesterday.
"Mor... Morning, Captain," Mudryk stammered a greeting.
Lin Yuan turned his head and stared at Mudryk for three seconds, making the Ukrainian "hundred-million-pound man" feel hair stand up on his neck.
"In the last match against Brentford, you lost possession four times on the wing," Lin Yuan said while changing his shoes, his voice betraying no emotion. "If you're as soft as a noodle in today's training match, I'll hang you from the goal crossbar."
Mudryk swallowed hard and nodded frantically: "I... I understand."
That familiar, suffocating sense of pressure was back.
In the corner, Mourinho, who was drinking coffee, watched this scene, and the first genuine smile in a month finally appeared on the corner of his mouth.
This was what he needed. Not tender encouragement, but a bloody whip... Three days later, Stamford Bridge.
Premier League Round 35, Chelsea vs Nottingham Forest at home.
This was a must-win game. If they lost, Champions League qualification would be truly in jeopardy.
But the progress of the match was despairing. Nottingham Forest set up a 'bus' defense, like a turtle retreating into its shell, refusing to come out no matter how Chelsea bombarded them.
By the 60th minute, the score was still 0-0.
Anxious sighs began to rise from the stands of Stamford Bridge. The Chelsea players on the pitch grew increasingly frantic, making frequent mistakes. One of Enzo's through balls went straight out of play, making him spin around in frustration.
"Substitution!"
Mourinho stood on the touchline, waving his hand.
The fourth official held up the substitution board.
Number 44 In, Number 25 (Caicedo) Out.
"BOOM—!!!"
When that familiar number 44 figure appeared on the touchline, Stamford Bridge erupted in a cheer comparable to a goal.
Lin Yuan stood on the sideline, doing his final stretches. There was still a layer of kinesiology tape wrapped around his right thigh, a protective measure after recovering from injury.
"Don't push too hard," Mourinho whispered in his ear. "Your body is only at eighty percent. Play with your head."
Lin Yuan nodded, took a deep breath, and ran onto the pitch.
[System Notification: Detected host returning to the field.]
[Current Physical Function: 85%.]
[Passive Skill 'Shadow of the Tyrant' activated: Team morale increased by 20%.]
Lin Yuan's first touch after coming on changed the tone of the match.
Nottingham Forest midfielder Yates, a hardman known for his rough style, saw Lin Yuan get the ball and immediately lunged at him like a mad dog. He knew Lin Yuan had just recovered and wanted to give this "cripple" a taste of his medicine.
Yates slammed into him hard from the side-rear.
The fans in the stands let out a gasp.
But Lin Yuan didn't dodge.
As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the moment before Yates collided with him, he suddenly stopped, dropped his shoulder, and his core muscles snapped tight as he performed a counter-impact move.
"Thump!"
A dull sound of clashing muscles.
Yates felt like he had hit a steel plate. The massive reactionary force sent him bouncing backward, staggering two steps before landing flat on his backside on the turf.
As for Lin Yuan, he merely shrugged his shoulders and didn't even lose the ball.
He turned around, looking down at the bewildered Yates with a cold sneer curling on his lips.
"Is that all the strength you have?"
Lin Yuan didn't linger, driving the ball forward.
This collision woke up Chelsea and stunned Nottingham Forest.
In the following twenty minutes, the toughness of Chelsea's midfield increased by more than a level. Although Lin Yuan didn't run as frequently as before, he was like a mobile black hole; as long as the ball entered his range of control, it would be ruthlessly sucked away.
82nd minute.
Nottingham Forest tried to hold onto the draw, retreating entirely into their penalty area.
Lin Yuan had the ball at the center circle.
Everyone thought he would pass to the wing or try a long shot. After all, those were his trademarks.
But Lin Yuan looked up at the box.
In his [Gods Perspective] (B+ Grade), a fleeting gap appeared amidst the dense crowd. It was a "death corridor" that only the most elite passers could see.
"Run!"
Lin Yuan suddenly let out a sharp shout.
Jackson, who had been drifting on the edge of the area, heard the familiar command. His body reacted faster than his brain, and he burst into the rib of the penalty area.
The moment Jackson started his run, Lin Yuan struck the ball.
It wasn't a thunderbolt, but an extremely deceptive, low-driven through ball with heavy outside spin.
The ball was like a sharp scalpel, hugging the grass and carving a bizarre arc, precisely bypassing the toes of two center-backs to appear right in Jackson's path.
One-on-one!
Jackson received the ball and, facing the rushing goalkeeper, calmly slotted it into the far corner.
"Swish!"
Goal!
1-0!
Stamford Bridge instantly boiled over, as blue flares erupted in the stands.
After scoring, Jackson didn't celebrate himself but turned and sprinted toward the midfield, grabbing Lin Yuan in a huge hug.
"I knew you'd pass it! I knew it!" Jackson was incoherent with excitement.
Lin Yuan was shaken a bit dizzy by him, and his right leg throbbed with a faint pain, but he still reached out and patted the big guy's head.
"Save your strength." Lin Yuan pushed him away and looked at the scoreboard. "The game isn't over yet."
In the remaining minutes, Nottingham Forest tried to fight back, but they despairingly found that the man wearing the number 44 jersey was standing in front of the box, staring at them with a "no thoroughfare" look in his eyes.
Every attack was neutralized by Lin Yuan's precise positioning and strong physical presence.
The final whistle blew.
Chelsea won 1-0, securing a life-saving three points.
Lin Yuan stood in the center of the pitch, his jersey soaked with sweat. He felt the muscles in his right leg twitching slightly—his body's way of protesting.
But he had won.
Mourinho walked onto the field and gave him a hug.
"How do you feel?" the veteran coach asked.
"Not bad." Lin Yuan wiped the sweat from his face and looked at the fans cheering wildly in the stands. "At least I shut up those who wanted to see me fail."
"The next one is the season finale," Mourinho looked at him. "Aston Villa. Win and it's the Champions League; lose and it's the Europa League."
Lin Yuan bent down and unfastened his tight shin guards.
"Then we win."
He straightened up and looked north, in the direction of Birmingham.
"I said it, that spot is mine. No one can take it away."
That night, the Tyrant declared his return.
Although his body had not fully recovered, his heart that wanted to win was hotter than ever.
And this was only the beginning of a crazy May.
-----
Yo Anyone reading ? Just wanna ask. I'm losing motivation to continue like this. Sigh