In December in Beijing, the smog hung over the grand office building on the East Eighth Ring Road like a layer of filthy cotton batting.
This was the temporary office of the Chinese Football Association. Although the heating was turned up high, Li Jianguo felt a chill seeping from the marrow of his bones as he sat behind his wide mahogany desk.
The ashtray was piled high with Nanjing brand cigarette butts, looking like a charred little grave mound.
The room was filled with the nauseating smell of tar and the sour stench of a hangover. Li Jianguo clutched his phone, the screen's light reflecting off his bloodshot eyes and greasy forehead.
On the screen was a photo sent back from the UK.
In the heavy rain at Old Trafford, a figure wearing Chelsea's number 44 jersey was making an arrogant'shut up' gesture toward the stands. In the comments section below the photo, the tide of public opinion—which should have been a one-sided barrage of 'unpatriotic' and 'too arrogant'—was now showing cracks that made him uneasy.
'He might be arrogant, but he can really play...'
'Even Manchester United was beaten into submission by him. What right do we have to scold him?'
'Am I the only one who thinks the Football Association's previous reasons for banning him were complete nonsense?'
Bang!
Li Jianguo slammed his phone onto the desk so hard his palm went numb.
"A bunch of fence-sitters! Did they forget how he humiliated the national team just because he won two games?" Li Jianguo gritted his teeth, picked up the internal phone on his desk, and roared hoarsely, "Xiao Zhang! Is that copy written yet? Buy me a trending search! Say his private life in England is a mess, say he... say he looks down on domestic fans! I don't care how much it costs, suppress this trend for me!"
Xiao Zhang's voice on the other end was trembling and hesitant: "Di... Director, I'm afraid we can't buy trending searches right now."
"Why? Not enough funding?"
"No... no." Xiao Zhang's voice carried a hint of a sob. "Just now... just now the inspection team from the Commission for Discipline Inspection entered the building. They've sealed the finance office and are... are coming toward your office."
Li Jianguo's hand jerked violently, and the receiver dropped onto the desk with a 'clatter'.
That sense of dread was no longer a chill; it turned into an electric current that instantly pierced through the top of his head.
Impossible.
He had sat in that position for so many years, managing everything so tightly that not a drop of water could leak through. How could they have found him without any warning?
Unless... unless there was ironclad evidence.
Just then, a news pop-up suddenly appeared in the bottom right corner of his computer screen. It was an exclusive report from an authoritative domestic media outlet known for its courage to speak the truth:
"The Cancer of Corruption: An Audio Recording Reveals the Truth Behind the Banning of a Talented Overseas Player"
Li Jianguo's pupils suddenly constricted. With trembling hands, he clicked on the link.
The news page loaded. There wasn't much text, only an audio file that had undergone noise reduction but was still clearly audible.
He was all too familiar with that voice. It was his once most capable subordinate—former National Youth Team leader Wang (who had long been suspended)—and... himself.
It was a recording of a phone call from two years ago.
In the audio, Li Jianguo's voice, tinged with a bit of drunkenness and arrogance, rang out piercingly:
"Xiao Wang, that kid Lin Yuan is being difficult over there, right? Don't worry about how he's playing in Portugal. Wanting to join the national team? That's an opportunity to win glory for the country! Without a 200,000 'processing fee,' he won't even touch the edge of the training camp roster!... What? He says he relies on strength? Hmph, in this country, I am strength. If he doesn't pay, let him rot abroad. He can forget about ever wearing that red jersey!"
Boom—
Li Jianguo felt as if something had exploded in his head.
This recording... how could this recording have leaked?!
Hadn't Wang been under control for a long time? And this call was made in an extremely private setting... Suddenly, he remembered something.
Two years ago, when Wang got into trouble, he had begged in tears for Li to save him. At the time, fearing he would get burned, Li had directly made Wang the scapegoat. Could it be that at that time, to protect himself, Wang had kept a recording?
No, that's not right.
The last line of the news read: "This evidence was provided via encrypted email by an anonymous overseas enthusiast."
Overseas.
Lin Yuan.
That young man who made the'shut up' gesture to tens of thousands of people in the heavy rain.
Li Jianguo suddenly understood everything. That brute who seemed to only know how to use his body to crash into people, that football hooligan he saw as 'all brawn and no brains,' had actually been waiting patiently like a venomous snake for this fatal moment.
He was waiting for the time when Li climbed the highest and was at his most arrogant to pull out this foundation stone and let him fall to pieces.
Thump, thump, thump.
There was a knock on the office door. The sound wasn't loud and was very rhythmic, but in the deathly silent room, it sounded like a death knell.
Without waiting for him to shout "Come in," the door was pushed open.
Several middle-aged men in dark jackets and with stern faces walked in. The leader flashed his ID, the national emblem on it gleaming with majestic light under the fluorescent lamps.
"Comrade Li Jianguo."
The leader's voice was calm and devoid of emotion. "Regarding issues of serious violations of discipline and law, the organization has decided to file a case for investigation against you. Please come with us."
Li Jianguo slumped in his chair. He wanted to stand up, but his legs were as soft as noodles. He wanted to argue, but looking at the printed transcript of the recording in the other man's hand, his throat felt as if it were stuffed with a ball of cotton.
A few minutes later.
At the entrance of the Football Association building.
Countless media reporters who had already caught wind of the news were waiting in the cold wind with their cameras ready. When Li Jianguo was led out, flanked by two staff members, flashes strobed frantically and the sound of shutters merged into one.
This 'Director Li,' who once called the shots and was insufferably arrogant in the Chinese football world, now looked ashen-faced with disheveled hair, his expensive cashmere coat hanging crookedly on his body.
He lowered his head, trying to avoid the cameras, but he knew it was over.
It was completely over... Meanwhile, on the domestic internet.
That recording was like a nuclear bomb, completely detonating the long-suppressed public opinion.
Of the top ten trending searches on Weibo, eight were related to this.
#Li Jianguo Taken Away#
#200,000 Processing Fee#
#Truth of Lin Yuan Recording#
#We Owe Lin Yuan an Apology#
On the Hupu football forum, the servers crashed at one point.
In the pinned thread that used to be full of insults calling Lin Yuan 'unpatriotic,' the direction of the comments had now done a 180-degree turn.
"I felt like vomiting after listening to the recording. So this is what they meant by 'not knowing the rules'? Someone establishes themselves in Europe based on strength, and they get banned because they didn't pay 200,000?"
"I really want to slap myself twice. I actually believed the nonsense from these officials and scolded Lin Yuan for so long."
"No wonder Lin Yuan said in the interview that he 'couldn't hear the dogs barking.' It turns out he saw through the true faces of these people long ago."
"That shut up gesture he made at Old Trafford now seems to be not just for the Manchester United fans, but even more so for these vermin at home!"
"Brother Lin! I'm sorry! You're a real tough guy! Such a filthy place really doesn't deserve your return!"
The reversal of public opinion was insane.
People are accustomed to creating gods and also to destroying them. But when they find they have been fooled, that anger transforms into redoubled admiration for the victim.
Overnight, Lin Yuan went from a 'rebellious villain' to a 'Lone Hero fighting the dark system alone.'
The photo of him in the rain, covered in mud with a cold gaze, was made into wallpaper by countless fans. It was no longer a symbol of violence, but a totem of resistance... London, Cobham.
The rain outside finally stopped, and a rare bit of sunlight peeked out.
Lin Yuan sat on the sofa in his living room, holding a cup of freshly mixed protein powder. On the tablet in front of him, a domestic news live stream was playing.
The screen happened to cut to the moment Li Jianguo was taken into the police car.
Anna sat to the side, carefully helping Lin Yuan treat the scrapes on his knees. She couldn't really understand the Chinese news, but she could feel the solemn atmosphere.
"Is that a bad person?" Anna looked up and asked, blinking her large brown eyes.
Lin Yuan took a sip of protein powder and looked calmly at the pathetic figure on the screen. He didn't laugh, nor did he show too much excitement.
This feeling was like cleaning off a piece of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. It was a bit disgusting, but after cleaning it off, one had to keep walking the path.
"Not exactly a bad person," Lin Yuan said faintly, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Just a fly in the way. Now, the fly has been swatted to death."
[Ding!]
[Detected that the host has completed the hidden plot: Overture of Revenge.]
[Core antagonist Li Jianguo is offline. The host's notoriety points in China have been converted into 'Awe Points'.]
[Due to the reversal of public opinion, the host has received a special reputation reward: Lone Hero.]
[Reward: notoriety points +20,000.]
[System Prompt: The true challenge is always on the pitch. Host, please be prepared. Next stop, Anfield.]
Lin Yuan turned off the tablet.
The last frame frozen on it was Li Jianguo's desperate look as he turned his head.
"Two hundred thousand..."
Lin Yuan let out a contemptuous sneer.
His weekly salary now was 150,000 pounds. That so-called 'toll' was simply a joke compared to his current value. But that joke had almost ruined his professional career.
"Does it hurt?" Anna saw Lin Yuan's expression was a bit cold and thought she had hurt him.
"It doesn't hurt."
Lin Yuan reached out and ruffled Anna's hair, his gaze softening a bit. "I'm just thinking about the next match."
He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked north.
That was the direction of Liverpool.
If Li Jianguo was just a clown in the field of power, then Jürgen Klopp and his Reds, Liverpool, were the true, respectable opponents.
That place called Anfield had a roar even more terrifying than Old Trafford's, and it had that famous 'This is Anfield' sign.
"The fly is swatted."
Lin Yuan looked at the sunset outside the window and muttered to himself.
"Next, it's time to slay the dragon."
...Three days later.
The entire Chelsea team boarded the bus to Merseyside.
Compared to the dullness when they went to Manchester before, the atmosphere in the cabin was much more relaxed this time. The domestic news had also reached the ears of his teammates. Although they didn't understand the complex football politics in China, Enzo and Caicedo both knew their captain had solved a big problem.
"Hey, Lin." Enzo leaned over and handed his phone to Lin Yuan. "Look at this. Your social media followers in China increased by five million yesterday. This is crazy."
Lin Yuan didn't even give it a look.
"Just empty fame."
He closed his eyes and began to simulate the match scenarios at Anfield in his mind.
The warning given by the system was red.
[Warning: Next match opponent overall strength rating: S+.]
[Warning: Jürgen Klopp's 'Heavy Metal Football' tactics counter the host's single defensive midfielder system.]
[Suggestion: Prepare for a hard battle.]
Lin Yuan's fingers lightly tapped his knee.
Having just won a full house of applause domestically, he was about to face the most painful lesson of his career so far in a foreign land.
Because in the world of football, there are no permanent winners. And at Anfield, miracles and tragedies are often only a thin line apart.
The bus drove onto the highway, leaving the prosperity of London behind and heading toward that red ocean. Beneath the tyrant's throne, there are not always bones; sometimes, there is also one's own blood.
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