Chapter 72: North London's Mute Button
Emirates Stadium.
This is the football shrine of North London, and another sworn enemy of Chelsea—Arsenal's home ground.
Ever since Lin Yuan single-handedly dismantled them in last season's Champions League final, this youthful Guard of Honour has been stewing in resentment. Arteta splashed the cash over the summer, bringing in several defensive hard-men, vowing revenge in the new campaign. And Declan Rice, the hundred-million-pound English midfield enforcer, publicly declared he would 'settle the score' with Lin Yuan.
Inside the pre-match tunnel.
Rice stood at the head of the line, eyes fixed on the back of the Chelsea queue.
'Lin!' Rice shouted, gunpowder in his voice. 'You won't have it so easy today.'
Lin Yuan was adjusting his captain's armband. He lifted his head slowly, his gaze unshaken by Rice's provocation, tinged instead with a faint weariness.
'Easy?'
Lin Yuan stepped up to Rice, the extra half-head of height casting a shadow.
'If your so-called revenge is crying in another final like last time, then yes—it'll be very easy.'
Rice's face flushed crimson. He was about to retort when the referee's whistle sounded for the teams to enter… kick-off.
Urged on by the home crowd, Arsenal surged at Chelsea like a red tide. Saka and Martinelli flew down the flanks, Ødegaard threading passes through the middle.
One had to admit: this Arsenal had improved. Their passing was slicker, their physicality tougher.
15th minute: Rice flattened Enzo as he carried the ball. A foul was called, but the message was clear—Arsenal would fight fire with fire today.
Lin Yuan did not rush to impose himself.
Like a patient wolf-king he patrolled his defensive zone, watching Arsenal's onslaught with cold eyes.
32nd minute.
Arsenal won a corner. Saliba and Gabriel stormed into the box.
The cross came in; Lin Yuan rose high above Gabriel to head it clear.
'That your altitude?' he mocked, glancing at Gabriel as he landed.
Yet Arsenal kept coming. 40th minute: Saka cut inside and shot, Sánchez parried.
Half-time: 0-0.
Second half: Arsenal upped the pressure.
55th minute: Rice drove forward. Clearly prepared, he used his body to shield the ball, trying to bulldoze past Lin Yuan.
The two clashed fiercely near the centre circle.
Thud!
The sound of muscle on muscle was dull and heavy.
Rice gritted his teeth, trying to shove Lin Yuan aside—only to feel he was pushing a mountain.
Lin Yuan made no extra move; he simply set his core, then slammed a shoulder into Rice.
Rice lost balance instantly, stumbling.
In that split second Lin Yuan's long leg stabbed out, cleanly poking the ball away.
Counter-attack!
Lin Yuan surged forward.
A torrent of boos rained down from Emirates Stadium.
'Stop him!!' Arteta roared from the touchline.
Ben White charged in to block.
Without slowing, Lin Yuan feinted right, shifting Ben White's weight, then flicked the ball left with his outside foot and glided past on the inside!
Beaten!
Only keeper Raya stood ahead.
Lin Yuan raced into the box, glanced up at goal.
Everyone expected a shot—or a square pass to the arriving Osimhen.
Instead he made an outrageously arrogant choice.
Facing Raya, he shaped to shoot, sent the keeper sprawling, then… instead of shooting, delicately lifted the ball over the fallen keeper with his toe.
He hurdled Raya and gently headed into the empty net.
1-0!
A goal dripping with humiliation!
Lin Yuan did not sprint off in celebration. He strolled to the corner flag, back to the thousands of furious Arsenal fans.
Slowly he raised his right hand, index finger to his lips.
'Shhh…'
The 'shut-up' gesture that had driven crowds wild at Old Trafford and Villa Park was now reprised in North London.
The stadium exploded.
Abuse, coins, bottles rained down like hail.
Yet Lin Yuan stood there, a cold statue revelling in the hostility.
'Quiet.'
No one heard the words, but everyone read his lips.
'This is my house.'
Full-time.
Chelsea 1-0 away win over Arsenal.
After the whistle Rice refused the handshake and stalked straight to the tunnel.
In the mixed zone, asked by reporters, Lin Yuan said simply:
'Too noisy. So I pressed mute for them.'
Those words, and that swaggering back, dominated every sports front page the next day.
North London's mute button—living up to its name.
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