The rain at Stamford Bridge was like a curtain of pearls falling from the sky, cutting the pitch into countless fragmented shadows.
Only five minutes into the match, Guardiola on the sidelines already had his brows locked in a deep frown. His proud possession-based system was running into major trouble on the waterlogged turf. The ball's trajectory on the grass became unpredictable, and those precise short ground passes would often suddenly decelerate in puddles, turning into accidental assists for the opposition.
"Damn weather," Guardiola muttered, pulling up the zipper of his windbreaker.
In contrast, Mourinho stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets, letting the water soak his expensive cashmere coat. His team didn't need precision; they only needed toughness.
Every physical contact was accompanied by the dull thud of clashing muscles and splashing muddy water.
In the 9th minute, Manchester City tried to control the rhythm by passing the ball in the backfield. Rodri paused slightly upon receiving the ball, and Lin Yuan, like a shark surfacing from the deep sea, instantly closed in on him.
That suffocating sense of pressure forced Rodri to make a hurried backpass to Ederson.
"Chelsea's tactics today are very clear—strangulation," Sky Sports commentator Gary Neville shouted. "Lin Yuan's coverage in midfield is simply staggering. It's like he doesn't even need to breathe!"
However, the true storm arrived in the 10th minute.
Chelsea's attack failed, and the ball was cleared to midfield with a big kick by Rúben Dias.
That always sleepy-eyed Belgian—Kevin De Bruyne—showed god-like vision amidst the chaos. He didn't stop the ball, but instead met the falling sphere and flicked it with the outside of his right foot on the volley.
It was an extremely subtle swerving pass.
The ball was like a cruise missile, precisely bypassing Chelsea's high-pressure defensive line and falling toward that vast, empty expanse—the space behind Chelsea's defense.
There, a bolt of blue lightning had already been unleashed.
Erling Haaland!
"Manchester City's counterattack! Haaland has started his run!" The commentator's voice instantly rose an octave. "Thiago Silva can't keep up at all! Too fast! He's eating him alive!"
Haaland's long legs strode out, each step like a giant crossing mountains and rivers. He sprinted across the waterlogged turf, the muddy water kicking up high behind him. In front of him was only a vast open space and the panicked, rushing goalkeeper, Sánchez.
One-on-one!
The away stands at Stamford Bridge had already begun to celebrate in advance. No one could catch a full-sprinting Haaland in such an open area; this was the consensus among all Premier League defenders.
Except for one person.
On the right side of the screen, a deep blue figure was cutting in diagonally in a manner that defied the laws of physics.
It was Lin Yuan.
He had already turned the moment De Bruyne passed the ball. The [Savage Physique] granted by the system exploded at this moment, combined with the core stability brought by the recently completed special training [Yaya Touré Drive], allowing him to run on the slippery grass with the roar of a tank.
Two figures, one from the left and one from the right, converged at full speed toward where the ball was going to land.
At this moment, fans all over the world held their breath.
Normally, defensive players facing such a charge from Haaland would choose to slow down, block the path, or try to pull his jersey. Because a head-on collision meant suicide.
Haaland thought so too. He caught a glimpse of the charging Lin Yuan from the corner of his eye, and a cold smile even played at the corners of his mouth.
"Want to test your strength against me? Then get out of the way!"
Haaland didn't slow down; instead, he exerted more force at this instant, lowering his shoulder and preparing to send his opponent flying. He was like a heavy truck traveling at full speed, with no brake pads in front.
But in the next second, Haaland's pupils constricted sharply.
Because he discovered that the number 44 charging toward him hadn't slowed down either!
Not even a single bit!
There was no evasion in Lin Yuan's black eyes, only a near-insane, all-destroying determination.
Two muscular behemoths, both nearly 1.9 meters tall and weighing around 90 kilograms, collided without reservation near the center circle of Stamford Bridge amidst the interwoven curtain of rain while at a full sprint.
BOOM—!!!
In that instant, the pitchside microphones even captured a bone-jarring thud of bone and muscle colliding, as if two high-speed cars had crashed head-on.
The massive release of kinetic energy caused the turf beneath their feet to instantly shatter, with mud and grass flying everywhere as if hit by a grenade.
Haaland felt as if he had slammed into a granite statue. The air in his chest was squeezed out in an instant, and the massive reaction force sent him flying sideways.
And Lin Yuan wasn't doing any better. Haaland's Viking-like impact was certainly no joke. He lost his balance in the air and slammed heavily onto the grass like a heavy bag of cement.
The two of them slid for a good five or six meters on the slippery grass, leaving two deep mud tracks in their wake.
The ball rolled out of bounds, all alone.
The entire Stamford Bridge fell into a deathly silence, followed immediately by an earth-shattering roar of surprise.
"My God..." Carragher clutched his head. "This is practically a murder scene! This is too brutal! Neither of them held back!"
Referee Oliver came running over, his hand on his pocket, but he hesitated.
This was an extremely fair shoulder-to-shoulder challenge. No studs up, no hands involved—it was purely two men communicating with their bodies. It's just that the volume of this conversation was a bit loud.
On the grass.
Haaland curled up in pain for a moment, then propped himself up with his hands and suddenly straightened his upper body. He was gasping for air, his chest heaving violently, and his pale face was covered in mud. He instinctively rubbed his left chest; it was burning with pain now, as if he had broken two ribs.
But he didn't call for the physio; instead, he immediately turned to look at the other side.
Five meters away, Lin Yuan also crawled up.
He looked even more battered. He had hit his chin when he landed, and his lip was split.
Lin Yuan knelt on one knee, lowered his head, and with a "spit," spat out a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva. The red blood mixed with the black mud, looking particularly jarring.
Then, he looked up.
Rainwater slid down his sharp-angled cheeks, washing away the blood from his wound.
Their gazes collided once more in the rain.
Everyone had expected this to be the start of a conflict, thinking the two sides would push, shove, and curse at each other.
But they didn't.
Haaland looked at the blood on the corner of Lin Yuan's mouth and suddenly grinned, showing an extremely excited smile. His eyes looked as if he had found a long-lost kindred spirit.
"Tough enough," Haaland roared in Norwegian-accented English.
Lin Yuan wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. The coldness in his eyes faded, replaced by a fanatical fighting spirit that made those around him feel terrified. He stood up and moved his shoulder, which felt like it was about to fall apart, making a series of loud cracks.
"Next time, I'll knock the lungs out of you," Lin Yuan responded coldly.
Haaland laughed out loud and stood up, propping himself up by his knees: "You can try!"
The two looked at each other, then turned at the same time and ran back to their respective positions.
No handshakes, no hugs, only the primal desire to swallow the other alive.
But this brief interaction of just a few seconds made the surrounding players' scalps tingle.
De Bruyne watched this scene with a complex expression. He knew the nature of this match had changed. This was no longer an ordinary Premier League match; this was a gladiatorial duel.
And on the sidelines, Mourinho clenched his fists, trembling with excitement.
This was the Chelsea he wanted!
This was the Iron-Blooded Blues he wanted!
"Did you see that!" Mourinho turned and roared at the bench. "This is what you call f*cking physical play! If anyone dares to be as soft as a sissy on the pitch again, get the hell out and go to the reserves!"
In the stands, the Chelsea fans' adrenaline was completely ignited.
"Lin! Lin! Lin!"
The massive cheers drowned out the sound of thunder.
Lin Yuan stood in the center circle, feeling the sharp pain coming from his chest. Maybe a cracked rib? Or soft tissue bruising?
It didn't matter.
On the system panel, that line of red text was flashing frantically:
[Detected host completing an "Epic Confrontation."]
[Opponent: Erling Haaland (S+ Grade Physicality).]
[Confrontation Result: Draw.]
[Reward: notoriety points +5000, Intimidation increased to Lv.5.]
Lin Yuan cracked his neck and looked at the Manchester City players preparing to take the throw-in.
The warm-up is over.
Next comes the real hunt.
"Hey, Kevin," Lin Yuan suddenly turned and looked at De Bruyne nearby.
De Bruyne was taken aback.
A grim smile appeared on Lin Yuan's face, like a tyrant surveying his domain:
"That pass just now was beautiful. But that's the last time."
"From now on, you won't even have the right to breathe."
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