Chapter 78: Decibel War
Germany, North Rhine-Westphalia, Dortmund.
Signal Iduna Park, or for those old-school football purists, it will always be called Westfalen.
Tonight, this world-famous "Devil's Home Ground" in Europe has turned into an erupting volcano.
As the first leg of the Champions League Round of 16 knockout stage, the Dortmunders prepared a special welcoming gift for the "Chelsea Tyrant" from Britain. The South Stand—the "Yellow Wall" capable of holding 25,000 die-hard fans—was currently filled with countless waving giant flags, yellow smoke, and deafening roars.
That wave of sound wasn't just ordinary decibels; it was a physical shockwave. It hammered against the chest, making hearts race involuntarily and adrenaline surge out of control.
Pre-match warm-up.
The moment the Chelsea players ran out of the tunnel, a tsunami of boos crashed down from the sky. The young Palmer even instinctively shrunk his neck, and Enzo's face turned a bit pale—even though they had experienced Wembley and Anfield, the pressure of Westfalen was unique.
Only one person was an exception.
Lin Yuan, wearing a deep blue training kit, jogged at the back of the line. He didn't lower his head, nor did he wear headphones to block out the noise. Instead, he ran straight to the center circle, stopped, turned, and faced that terrifying "Yellow Wall."
Twenty-five thousand pairs of eyes stared fixedly at him. Countless middle fingers were raised, and insults converged into a torrent.
Lin Yuan took off his gloves and tucked them casually into his waistband.
Under the gaze of 80,000 people in the stadium, he slowly raised both arms in a hugging gesture. He looked like a conductor enjoying the silence before a storm, or a monarch surveying a mob attempting to revolt.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if the malice filling the air was the finest tonic.
"Booooo—!!!!"
The sound wave exploded instantly, the decibel level breaking the limits of human endurance.
"What is he doing? Provoking them?" Dortmund manager Terzić frowned from the sidelines.
Mourinho stood on the other side, chewing gum, a cold smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth: "No. He's charging up."
..."Beep—!"
With the referee's whistle, this decibel war officially began.
Dortmund didn't fear Chelsea's physical confrontation like many other teams did, because they possessed the toughest midfield Meat Grinder in the Bundesliga—Emre Can.
This German international was known for his fierce playing style when he previously played for Liverpool and Juventus. Today, his mission was singular: to shut down Lin Yuan's progression.
8th minute of the match.
Lin Yuan intercepted the ball in the backfield. Just as he turned, a yellow and black figure crashed into him with the sound of whistling wind.
Emre Can didn't go for the ball at all; he raised his elbow and, using the momentum of his sprint, slammed it hard into Lin Yuan's ribs.
"Bang!"
A dull thud.
Lin Yuan was knocked into a stumble, and the ball was stolen.
Westfalen erupted in a burst of cheers. Emre Can stood his ground, puffed out his chest, and roared at Lin Yuan, his eyes full of provocation: "Welcome to Germany, softie!"
Lin Yuan rubbed his ribs and looked expressionlessly at this stubbled German tough guy.
He didn't complain to the referee, nor did he talk trash back. He just looked down at Emre Can's knees and then licked his somewhat dry lips.
"Very good."
Lin Yuan muttered to himself, "It looks like I don't have to worry about being bored tonight."
19th minute.
Dortmund tried to make a move through the middle. Brandt had the ball and tried to pass it to Sabitzer.
Lin Yuan predicted the path and moved early to box him out.
Emre Can charged forward again. This time, he was trying to cover for his teammate, attempting to use his body to knock Lin Yuan away.
This was a head-on, no-frills physical brawl.
Emre Can gritted his teeth, his muscles tensed, charging at Lin Yuan like a bull. He was confident that no one in the Bundesliga could withstand his impact head-on.
But at the moment the two were about to collide, a flash of cruel red light flickered in Lin Yuan's eyes.
[Savage Physique (S-rank)] running at full power.
Lin Yuan didn't dodge, nor did he use any techniques to deflect the force. He just slightly turned his body, lowered his right shoulder, and like a suddenly collapsing steel tower, he met the impact head-on with destructive power!
"Boom—!!!"
This wasn't just a collision of muscles; it was like two high-speed motorcycles crashing into each other in the center of the pitch.
The massive impact made the surrounding air seem to vibrate.
The next second, the cheers at Westfalen Stadium were cut off as if by a knife, coming to a dead stop.
Emre Can, known for his strength, was sent flying three meters back, both feet off the ground! His face even contorted in pain while in the air, and finally, he slammed heavily onto the turf, sliding a distance on the wet ground and knocking over his teammate Sabitzer who was coming to support.
One hit, two down!
Meanwhile, the perpetrator—Lin Yuan—only took half a step back before planting himself firmly on the ground.
He brushed off non-existent dust from his shoulder and walked up to Emre Can, who was still groaning in pain on the ground.
The surrounding Dortmund players wanted to rush forward, but when Lin Yuan's bone-chillingly cold eyes swept over them, they instinctively stopped in their tracks.
"This is your 'toughness'?"
Lin Yuan looked down at Emre Can, his voice piercing through the momentary silence of the stadium:
"If you want to smash a rock, you'd better make sure you're not an egg first."
This collision completely shattered Dortmund's midfield backbone.
The "Yellow and Black Army," which had been full of momentum, became timid for the rest of the match. Whenever Lin Yuan had the ball, the Dortmund players no longer dared to challenge him as recklessly as they did at the start; instead, they instinctively kept their distance—the fear of being sent flying was already etched into their bones.
63rd minute.
Lin Yuan had the ball in midfield. Emre Can hesitated.
In that moment of hesitation, Lin Yuan sent out a highly penetrative [Scalpel Through Ball].
The ball hugged the turf, like a venomous snake slithering through the gap between Hummels and Süle.
Osimhen understood the intent, used his explosive power to overpower the opponent, and went through on goal!
Facing Kobel, Osimhen calmly slotted the ball into the bottom corner.
1-0!
Chelsea took the lead away from home!
After the goal, Osimhen rushed to the corner flag, while Lin Yuan stood in the center circle, his back to his wildly celebrating teammates, facing that South Stand which had gone completely silent.
He slowly raised both hands again, but this time it wasn't a hug; instead, he placed his index finger on his lips.
"Shhh."
That familiar, despair-inducing silencing gesture.
Twenty-five thousand die-hard fans, at this very moment, actually couldn't make a single sound. They looked at the man standing in the center of the pitch like a demon god, a deep sense of powerlessness rising in their hearts.
How was this a player? This was clearly a thug here for demolition.
The final whistle blew.
Chelsea took away a precious 1-0 victory at Westfalen.
Post-match mixed zone.
Emre Can, clutching his still-aching chest, refused all interviews and hurried away with a dark expression.
When Lin Yuan walked out, reporters saw him holding a black and yellow scarf that had flown down from the stands—it had been thrown by a Dortmund fan to hit him, but now it had become his trophy.
"Lin, what do you think of the atmosphere at Westfalen?" a reporter asked.
Lin Yuan toyed with the scarf, a playful arc curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Very noisy."
He said calmly, "But I still prefer how they look when they're quiet. It's more... well-behaved."
After speaking, he casually tossed the scarf into a nearby trash can and strode onto the bus.