Chapter 77: Undercurrents of the Winter Window
London's cold wind was like a rusty saw, rasping against the massive Chelsea crest outside Stamford Bridge.
But compared to the freezing weather, the atmosphere on the top floor of the Cobham Training Ground's office building was even more suffocating.
Chelsea owner Todd Boehly sat behind a massive mahogany desk, clutching a document that had just spat out of the fax machine. That thin slip of paper felt like it weighed a thousand tons, making the fingers of this American billionaire—who had seen countless grand spectacles—tremble slightly.
It was a formal offer letter from Paris Saint-Germain (PSG).
The numbers on it were concise and brutal: 350 million Euros (€350,000,000).
No installments, no performance-related add-ons; it was a one-time payment of the release clause.
"This is insane..." Boehly muttered to himself. He took off his glasses and rubbed his aching temples. "Did those Qataris just move an entire oil field over here?"
Sitting opposite him, Sporting Director Winstanley swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with a mixture of greed and fear. "Boss, this money... it could completely solve our FFP (Financial Fair Play) issues. Not only that, we could even buy two more Enzos, another Caicedo, and have enough left over to renovate the stadium."
"Sell him?" Boehly looked up, his gaze somewhat distant.
As a businessman, the math was too easy. Bought for 18 million Euros, sold for 350 million a year and a half later. This was absolutely the greatest return on investment in football history, bar none.
"But Mourinho..." Winstanley hesitated.
BANG!!!
The heavy oak door of the office was kicked open, the lock letting out a pained crack as it broke.
José Mourinho, the'Special One' who had just led the team to the top of the table at the halfway point, stormed in with a flushed face like an old lion whose territory had been violated. He completely ignored Boehly's expression and rushed to the desk, slamming his hands down hard on the offer sheet.
"Don't even think about it!"
Mourinho's voice was hoarse with rage. "Todd, if you dare sign this, if you even have the thought, I'm resigning right now! I swear, I'll take my coaching staff and go fishing in Portugal tomorrow!"
"José, calm down," Boehly tried to soothe him. "This is 350 million... that's twice the world record..."
"To hell with 350 million!" Mourinho pointed out the window toward the training ground, his spittle flying into Boehly's face. "What do you think Lin is? Is he a stock? Is he a commodity? No! He is the backbone of this Chelsea! If you pull out the backbone, this isn't a football team; it's just a pile of wriggling mollusks!"
"Why are the Parisians buying him? Because Mbappé is afraid of him! Because all of Europe is afraid of him! If you sell a nuclear weapon like this to a rival, Chelsea will forever be a second-rate nouveau riche club!"
A deathly silence fell over the office... and in the dressing room downstairs, the atmosphere was equally bizarre.
Although the club hadn't made an official announcement yet, in this age of information explosion, there were no secrets. The front-page headline of L'Équipe had already spread to everyone's phone—'Paris's Ultimate Ambition: Will the Tyrant Arrive at the Parc des Princes?'
Enzo sat in front of his locker, wrapping his bandages with a sense of unease. He occasionally glanced at the empty number 44 locker in the corner.
"Will he leave?" young Palmer couldn't help but ask in a low voice. "That's 350 million Euros, and I heard Paris is offering him a weekly wage of 1 million after tax..."
"Shut up, Cole," Reece James barked with a frown, but his own eyes were filled with uncertainty.
For professional players, loyalty often has a price tag. When that price is high enough to buy half of London, no one can guarantee they won't be tempted.
Just then, the door was pushed open.
Lin Yuan walked in.
He was wearing a black training top with the collar pulled up high, covering half his face. Those black eyes remained as cold as ice, showing no emotional fluctuation whatsoever.
In his hand, he held a copy of the newly released The Sun, which featured a composite image of him wearing a Paris jersey.
Everyone's eyes were focused on him.
Lin Yuan walked to the center of the dressing room and casually tossed the newspaper into the trash can.
"What are you looking at?" Lin Yuan scanned the room coldly. "Is today's training canceled? Or do you guys want to do extra shuttle runs in the snow?"
No one dared to speak.
Lin Yuan walked to his locker and began changing his shoes. His movements were steady and unhurried, as if the monstrous waves regarding his future outside hadn't even dampened his pant legs... 3:00 PM, Cobham Press Room.
What was supposed to be a routine pre-match press conference had attracted media from all over Europe due to the explosive transfer rumor. Hundreds of journalists crammed the small room to bursting, their cameras and microphones set up like an execution ground.
When Mourinho walked in with Lin Yuan, the flashes strobed frantically, illuminating their faces in a pale light.
Mourinho sat down, his expression as gloomy as the London sky. Lin Yuan, meanwhile, maintained his usual half-asleep, indifferent expression, leaning back in his chair as if he were an outsider.
"Mr. Lin!"
A French journalist from L'Équipe stood up impatiently, not even waiting for the press officer to call on him. "Paris Saint-Germain has submitted a 350 million Euro bid to Chelsea and prepared the highest salary in football history for you. May I ask if you are ready to head to Ligue 1 and form a dream lineup with Mbappé?"
The moment the question was asked, the room went silent. Every recording pen was thrust toward Lin Yuan's mouth.
The management was wavering, the fans were panicking, and the whole world was waiting for the answer from this 20-year-old youth.
Lin Yuan adjusted the microphone.
"Zzz—" The feedback was a bit piercing.
He lifted his eyelids, looking at the expectant French journalist, and his lips suddenly curled into an extremely sardonic arc.
"Ligue 1?"
Lin Yuan asked back, his tone as contemptuous as if he were discussing a local amateur League. "What would I go there for? To go on vacation? Or to help Mbappé pad his stats?"
The journalist was stunned. "But... that's Paris, the wealthiest club in the world..."
"Wealthy?"
Lin Yuan interrupted him. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—it was a photocopy of the draft contract from Paris that someone had slipped to him.
Under everyone's gaze, Lin Yuan didn't even look at the numbers on it.
Rip—!
The crisp sound of tearing paper was clearly transmitted throughout the hall via the microphone.
Lin Yuan expressionlessly tore the priceless contract in half, then stacked the pieces and tore them again, until they became a pile of scrap paper.
He opened his hand, and the paper scraps drifted down onto the press conference table like snowflakes.
"Listen."
Lin Yuan leaned forward, his oppressive eyes staring straight into the camera, his voice low and filled with ambition:
"I came to the Premier League because this is where the toughest bones are, the hardest matches are, and the most arrogant opponents are."
"I haven't conquered this place yet. Manchester City isn't dead yet, Liverpool is still breathing, and the Premier League trophy doesn't have my name engraved on it yet."
He pointed to the Chelsea crest on his chest, then pointed to the ground beneath his feet.
"Until this island surrenders to me, even if you moved the Eiffel Tower here and gave it to me, I'm not going anywhere."
"Tell Nasser (the Paris President) to keep his money and buy a yacht. A tyrant does not accept bribes; he only accepts challenges."
After saying that, Lin Yuan stood up, pushed back his chair, and turned to leave under the dumbfounded gaze of the gathered journalists.
Mourinho sat there, looking at the scraps of paper all over the table, and finally revealed a triumphant smile. He spoke only one sentence into the microphone:
"You heard him? That's my captain. Next question."
...That evening, this video became a viral nuclear bomb in the global sports world.
Chelsea fans went wild; they turned the image of Lin Yuan tearing up the contract into a massive TIFO and hung it on the exterior wall of Stamford Bridge overnight.
In the Chelsea executive offices, Boehly watched the replay of the broadcast. He remained silent for a long time before finally sighing helplessly, picking up the 350 million Euro offer, and throwing it into the shredder.
He knew this deal was dead.
But he also realized that he possessed more than just a player; he had a rising, priceless icon.
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