The instant Lin Yuan pressed send while icing his swollen knee in the Besa Stadium locker room, a nuclear bomb detonated across the Chinese internet on the other side of the ocean.
The 3-minute-42-second recording, completely unedited, laid bare every last shred of arrogance from the man called Team Leader Wang.
'Two hundred thousand... handling fee...'
'Political mission...'
'Refuse the call-up...'
Every word landed like a slap across the faces of the trolls who'd blindly cursed Lin Yuan, and it shredded the Football Association's final fig leaf.
Public opinion flipped in the blink of an eye, so fast it left people dizzy.
The People's Daily sports section rushed out an overnight editorial: 'Who Is Blocking Chinese Football's Future?'
CCTV's sports channel ran a morning segment that not only spared Lin Yuan criticism but also aired, for the first time ever, highlights of him blocking a shot with his face in the Portuguese Cup final, captioned: 'Grit is football's backbone—and some people are trying to rip that backbone out.'
Team Leader Wang was suspended pending investigation that same night.
Netizens who'd screamed for Lin Yuan to 'get out of China' now queued under his socials to apologize.
'Sorry, we were blind.'
'Bro Lin, don't come back—don't ever come back! Play well out there; don't let these people ruin you!'
But Lin Yuan replied to none of them.
He logged out and uninstalled every Chinese social app.
Cheap late affection is worse than weeds. He didn't want apologies; he wanted to grind underfoot everyone who'd tried to control him. Now he'd done it—so there was nothing left here to miss...
Three days later, Boavista's president's office.
The ancient fax machine hadn't stopped since yesterday.
'Atlético Madrid bid €15 million! Simeone says he loves the kid!'
'Juventus are asking!'
'Borussia Dortmund want him to fill the hole Bellingham will leave!'
The president's hands trembled as he stared at the snowdrift of offers on his desk.
A year ago, Lin Yuan had been an unwanted B-team reject.
A year later, he was Europe's most wanted 'beast' defensive mid.
'Lin,' the president said, voice thick with mixed feelings as he looked at Lin Yuan lounging on the sofa with gauze taped to his head, 'I'd love to keep you, but I know Boavista's temple is too small for this big Buddha. Where do you want to go?'
Lin Yuan didn't glance at the offers.
He pulled an envelope from his pocket—an hour earlier a mysterious man in a black coat had pressed it into his hand.
Inside was no bid, only a first-class ticket to London and a handwritten note.
The scribbled English read:
'Do you want to be a good player, or do you want to be a King? Come to London.'
It was signed with a single word: Jose.
Lin Yuan slapped the ticket onto the desk.
'Here.'
The president took one look at the destination and gasped: 'The Premier League... the roughest, most merciless media in the world. And that team's manager is a... madman.'
Lin Yuan's lips curved.
'Perfect—so am I.'
Departures always arrive quietly.
There was no grand farewell; Lin Yuan had asked for none.
He packed his bags and walked out of the flat.
Anna waited downstairs, eyes red.
In her hands was a carefully stitched shin-pad embroidered—ugly but heartfelt—with 'Boavista's Hound.'
'Will you come back to see us?' Anna asked.
'Maybe.' Lin Yuan took the pad and, uncharacteristically, ruffled the girl's curls. 'If I get injured in the Premier League, I won't trust any other doctor—I'll buy you a ticket.'
Anna burst into laughter through her tears.
It was the closest thing to sweet talk the cold man could manage...
London, Heathrow.
The sky hung low, drizzling that uniquely British, maddening fine rain.
Lin Yuan pushed his suitcase out of the VIP channel.
A black luxury sedan waited.
The window slid down.
A face known to every football fan appeared—steel-grey hair, deep-set eyes, an air of defiance against the whole world.
José Mourinho.
Manager of Chelsea—the'Special One.'
Mourinho sized Lin Yuan up, gaze lingering on the still-healing scar over his brow, and nodded in satisfaction.
'Get in.'
His voice was gravel and smoke.
Lin Yuan climbed in, shutting the door on the wind and rain.
'The media say you're a butcher who only knows how to hurt people, a cancer on the pitch,' Mourinho said, handing him a glass of water without looking, eyes on the rain ahead.
'I know,' Lin Yuan answered calmly.
'Good.'
Mourinho turned; ambition blazed in his eyes—two madmen recognizing each other.
'I want that cancer. The Premier League's hypocrites play too "nice"; Guardiola's tiki-taka turned football into a sissy game.'
'I want you as my blade. I want you to turn Stamford Bridge into an execution ground for visitors. I want Haaland to tremble when he sees you, De Bruyne afraid to release a pass.'
Mourinho thrust out his hand, staring into Lin Yuan's eyes:
'Tell me—can you do it? Or do you just want a fat paycheck to waste in London nightclubs?'
Lin Yuan looked at the hand and, without hesitation, gripped it hard.
His answer was simple, and it made Mourinho laugh:
'Pay me enough and I'll slide-tackle God into hospital.'
The car pulled away, vanishing into London's drizzling haze.
That day, The Times sports section carried only a single line:
'The storm has landed in Britain.'