Chapter 70: The Complete Form Arrives
London, Cobham Training Centre.
Morning mist still clung to the air as several hundred Chelsea fans massed outside the gates. When the black land rover defender—Lin Yuan's trademark ride—crept in, the crowd erupted with a roar even louder than the one that had greeted manager Mourinho.
"Lin! Lin! Lin!"
"King of Europe!"
"Captain!"
The window slid down a finger's width and a hand emerged in a casual wave, sending the supporters into fresh screams.
For Chelsea fans it had been a dream summer. England had lost the final, but the man who hoisted the trophy was their No. 44. Lin Yuan's performances at the European Cup—especially that final where he took a red to secure victory and barked orders from the touchline like a mafia boss—had conquered all of London.
Lin Yuan parked, slung his training bag over his shoulder and walked into the changing room.
Only three weeks had passed since that wild Berlin night, yet his aura had shifted. If last season he'd been a freshly-drawn killing blade, dazzling and lethal, now the steel had been tempered—heavier, darker, carrying the poise and authority of someone who had seen the biggest stage and owned it.
He pushed open the door; the noisy room fell silent for a heartbeat.
Enzo, Caicedo, Palmer… every pair of eyes locked on him. Enzo in particular, an Argentina international, gazed at the teammate who had already conquered Europe on the international stage, respect shading into awe.
"Morning." Lin Yuan tossed his bag into the locker, tone flat, as if he'd just come back from an ordinary weekend break.
"Hey, champ!" Reece James strode over, laughing, and thumped Lin Yuan's chest. He was a captain too, but beside Lin Yuan his presence shrank a size. "I want one of those T-shirts with the photo of you bleeding—heard they're already going for five hundred quid online."
Before Lin Yuan could answer, the door swung open again.
A tall, powerfully built Black player stepped in, trademark black mask in place. Even under the loose training top the cut of his cheetah-like muscles showed.
Victor Osimhen.
Chelsea's blockbuster summer signing: €120 million from Napoli, the "siege-hammer" hand-picked by Mourinho.
Osimhen swept his gaze across the room and locked on Lin Yuan. He walked straight over. Same height, the two auras collided, freezing the air for a second.
The youngsters held their breath—Europe's newly crowned midfield tyrant versus a nine-figure Serie A Golden Boot. Would they clash, or…? Osimhen grinned, white teeth flashing, and thrust out a huge hand. "Saw that judo throw in the semi. Hope you save that stuff for opponents, not for me."
Lin Yuan smiled—his first in front of the squad since Berlin. He gripped the outstretched hand; two slabs of iron clamped together.
"As long as you keep scoring up front, I'll make life easy for you," Lin Yuan rumbled. "But if you go soft, I'll kick your arse in training."
"Deal."
They exchanged a grin. The rest of the room shivered—violence and beauty welded into one partnership.
10 a.m., tactical room.
José Mourinho, in a fresh Adidas tracksuit, stood before the tactics board. His hair looked whiter, his eyes sharper than ever.
"Gentlemen, welcome back to hell."
Typical Mourinho opener. "Last season we crawled ashore like drowned rats and snatched a Champions League berth. Outsiders call it a miracle."
He snorted and slammed the table. "I call it disgrace! Chelsea don't do lucky miracles—Chelsea dominate."
The projector flickered on, showing the new season's lineup.
On the spine of the team, Lin Yuan and Osimhen's names glowed red and enlarged—the twin pillars of Mourinho's blueprint.
"This year—the press calls it 'Mourinho Year Two'. You know what that usually means: titles." He braced both hands on the table, hawk-eyes sweeping the room. "Not one—every one."
Silence.
Mourinho paused, gaze settling between Reece James and Lin Yuan.
"Reece, your fitness worries me. Under fifty per cent appearances last season. We'll manage your minutes this year."
Reece James dropped his head; he knew his injury record was a ticking bomb.
"So I'm announcing a decision."
Mourinho's voice rose, finger stabbing toward the black-haired youth in the front row.
"From today, Lin Yuan is Chelsea's club captain."
Gasps rippled across the room.
Second season, twenty years old, leap-frogging Reece James and Chilwell in a league obsessed with hierarchy—unheard of.
Yet no one objected.
Enzo nodded, Caicedo nodded, even new boy Osimhen looked as if it were obvious.
Because for six months, on Stamford Bridge's knife-edge nights and in Berlin's final cauldron, that figure had shown the charisma of absolute power.
Lin Yuan didn't stand for speeches; his expression barely shifted. He simply met Mourinho's stare and nodded.
He rose, accepted the yellow armband from Mourinho.
"An armband's just cloth."
His quiet words carried through the room. "But on the pitch, anyone who slacks will learn what real hell feels like."
He turned, sweeping his gaze across them all:
"This season we take the treble. Anyone who thinks we can't—get out now."
That was the new captain's inaugural address: short, brutal, arrogant to the core.
Mourinho smiled—exactly the skipper he wanted. A tyrant, a thug who could keep the dressing-room headcases in line and make opponents tremble before kick-off.
"Enough talk." Mourinho waved. "To the pitch! Osimhen, show Lin Yuan your strength. If you can't budge him, you won't survive the Premier League!"
"Yes, boss!"
Sunlight bathed Cobham's grass.
With Lin Yuan wearing the armband and Osimhen's brute power added, this Chelsea—top shield, top spear—bared its fangs at last.
The Premier League's nightmare had begun.
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