In London during January, the sky presented an oppressive leaden gray. The icy rain, like countless fine needles, densely pierced the turf of Stamford Bridge, kicking up a faint, ethereal white mist.
This was the third round of the FA Cup, with Chelsea hosting the Championship side Preston.
For most fans, this was an ordinary game of 'bullying the minnows.' But for Lin Yuan, who had just finished a three-match suspension, this was his release day.
In the player tunnel, the air was filled with the smell of damp earth and the pungent menthol scent of liniment.
Preston's midfield hardman Alan Browne stole a glance at the number 44 beside him. Even after years of struggling in the Championship, known for its physical confrontations, Browne had to admit that standing close to Lin Yuan induced an instinctive shiver, as if facing a wild predator.
The Easterner just stared quietly at the light from the exit. The scar on his neck, dampened by the rain, shimmered with a pale blue light, looking like a dormant centipede.
"Listen, lads," the Preston captain whispered behind them to boost morale, "don't be afraid of him. As soon as he gets the ball, press him! All of England knows he only knows how to ramp and crash. He's a technically crude workhorse—force him into a mistake!"
Lin Yuan's ears twitched. He heard it.
A cruel arc curled at the corner of his mouth. Without looking back, he simply reached down to adjust his slightly tight shin guards... In the first ten minutes after the match began, the script seemed to be developing exactly as the Preston players had expected.
Lin Yuan was like a rusty tank, tirelessly strangling the midfield. In the 8th minute, he used his shoulder to knock the opposing forward straight out of bounds near the center circle; the dull thud was clearly audible even to the fans in the stands.
Familiar cheers rang out at Stamford Bridge. This was the Lin Yuan they wanted—that unreasonable tyrant.
"Defend! Force him to release the ball!"
In the 12th minute, the opportunity came. Enzo's backpass was slightly too heavy, and Lin Yuan had to take the ball with his back turned. At this moment, two Preston midfielders pounced like mad dogs, attempting to snatch the ball before he could turn.
According to his past habits, or the Lin Yuan from 'before the red card suspension,' the only choice here would be to shield the ball or clear it with a long boot.
Even Mourinho on the sidelines subconsciously leaned out from the coach's bench.
But Lin Yuan did not clear it.
In that instant, the neural network reshaped by the system constructed a clear 3D map in his brain. The interference of the rain, the sound of his opponents' breathing, the friction of the turf behind him... all the information converged into a golden line.
It was a line he previously couldn't see at all, or wouldn't have dared to pass even if he had seen it.
Facing the double-team, Lin Yuan did not use brute force to resist. His left foot supported his body, and his right ankle suddenly gave a strange flick.
There was no powerful collision, no splashing mud.
The ball, like an obedient elf with heavy backspin, drilled through the gap between the two Preston players, staying extremely close to the ground.
At that moment, the Preston midfielders, who had been ready to watch a joke, only felt a chill between their legs.
The ball bypassed the midfield strangulation zone and rolled precisely to the feet of the surging Sterling. If the power were a fraction more, it would have gone out of bounds; a fraction less, and it would have been intercepted. It was a true—surgical through ball!
The entire Stamford Bridge stadium fell into a second of dead silence.
Sterling even froze for a moment before realizing he was through on goal. He didn't need to make any adjustments; it was so comfortable it felt like someone had placed the ball at his feet on the training ground.
If he didn't score this, he really should go work in an electronics factory.
Sterling easily slotted it into the far corner.
1-0!
After scoring, Sterling didn't celebrate immediately. Instead, he looked at Lin Yuan in the center circle with his mouth wide open, as if he had seen a ghost.
"You just got lucky, right?" Sterling shouted in disbelief as he ran over and jumped onto Lin Yuan's back.
Lin Yuan expressionlessly shook him off and said coldly, "You ran too slow. Start your run earlier next time."
The Preston manager threw his hands up frantically on the sidelines, shouting at the pitch, "An accident! That was definitely an accident! Keep pressing him!"
However, the nightmare had only just begun.
In the 28th minute, it was Lin Yuan again.
After winning the ball in midfield, he didn't hand it over to Enzo to organize as usual. He looked up, his gaze bypassing the dense crowd in front of him.
This time, it wasn't a ground ball.
[B+ Grade Long Pass] activated.
Although not as elegant as Pirlo playing a violin, Lin Yuan's long pass was more like a precision-guided cruise missile. The ball whistled through the air, tracing a trajectory that wasn't high but was extremely fast, directly piercing through Preston's entire defensive line.
It was a kind of violent aesthetics. The ball speed was incredibly fast, yet it came to a steady stop at the edge of the penalty area upon landing due to heavy backspin.
Jackson, who had long been lying in wait, lashed out a shot.
2-0!
This time, even Carragher in the commentary box couldn't help but take off his headset: "My God, tell me this isn't real. Is that butcher who only knows how to kill possessed by De Bruyne today?"
Neville watched the replay and swallowed: "It's not just the passing. Look at his receiving. He used to stop the ball two meters away, but now... the ball is like it's glued to his foot. What on earth did he go through these three weeks? Or did Chelsea swap his chip?"
Mourinho stood by the pitch with his hands in his pockets, letting the rain fall. The water flowed down his nasolabial folds, but it couldn't hide his smug smile.
He knew this wasn't a chip; this was ambition.
A soldier who doesn't want to be a general is not a good soldier, and a defensive midfielder who doesn't want to be an attacking midfielder will never become the world's best.
In the 60th minute of the second half, the massacre reached its climax.
Chelsea was already leading 4-0. The Preston players' mentality had completely collapsed. Not only were they being crushed physically by Lin Yuan—the pain of every collision feeling like hitting granite left them aching all over—but now, they were also being humiliated intellectually.
Lin Yuan received the ball in the center circle.
This time, the Preston players actually subconsciously took a step back, trying to block his passing lanes.
"Who is he looking at? Who is he looking for?" The Preston defenders looked around in panic.
Lin Yuan looked at the retreating defensive line, and the corners of his mouth curled up again.
Since you guys are backing off, I'm coming in.
[Yaya Touré Drive] activated.
Lin Yuan suddenly accelerated with the ball. His massive frame was like a heavy truck at full throttle, rumbling through the midfield. Because the opponent's defensive line had retreated, he was given massive space to sprint.
One person came up to block him and was sent off balance by a simple shoulder drop; a second person tried to pull his jersey but was shrugged off like a bothersome fly.
He drove all the way from the center circle to the edge of the penalty area.
There was open ground in front of him.
"Shoot!" forty thousand Blues fans roared in unison.
Lin Yuan wound up his right leg, making that signature heavy cannonball shooting posture. The Preston center-back desperately threw himself out to block the line of fire.
But at the moment of contact, Lin Yuan's ankle became incongruously gentle.
It wasn't a shot, but a feather-light chip pass.
The ball, like a leaf blown by the wind, lightly cleared the head of the sliding defender and the desperately charging goalkeeper.
At the far post, an unmarked Palmer even had time to stop and adjust before easily heading the ball into the empty net.
5-0!
After the goal, Palmer didn't run to the corner flag to celebrate. Instead, he immediately rushed to Lin Yuan and performed a 'boot shine' gesture—he knelt on one knee, cradled Lin Yuan's right foot on his lap, and pretended to wipe the boot that had just delivered a god-tier assist.
Stamford Bridge completely boiled over.
If the previous long pass and through ball could be explained as good luck, then this sequence of dribbling drive plus the chip pass was a blatant display of talent.
That was the composure only top attacking midfielders possess.
And in the replay on the big screen, people saw an even more terrifying scene: at the moment Lin Yuan feigned the shot, his eyes had actually already flicked toward the far post. That Preston defender who had flung himself into mid-air was like a puppet controlled by his strings.
"Zhang Fei embroidering flowers... no, this is Zidane driving a tank!" In the domestic broadcast room, the commentator was already incoherent. "Who still dares to say Lin Yuan is just a crude guy who only knows how to foul? This is a dimensionality reduction strike! He's completely treating a Championship team like training cones!"
In the 82nd minute, as the match neared its end, Lin Yuan completed his 'hat-trick' for the game—an assist hat-trick.
He took the ball with his back to the goal at the edge of the box, holding off the pulling and dragging of two opposing defenders like a wall, then extremely covertly flicked it with his heel to Enzo, who was making a run into the channel.
Enzo slotted the ball home.
6-0.
The moment the final whistle blew, the Preston players practically fled the pitch. The psychological shadow this match left on them would likely take a long time to digest. The man wearing the number 44 jersey hadn't broken their legs or made them bleed today, but he had used a more cruel method—stripping away their understanding of football and completely destroying their dignity.
Mixed Zone.
Reporters surrounded Lin Yuan like sharks sensing blood.
"Lin! Today's three assists were simply incredible! What caused this transformation in you? Was it special training during your suspension?" The Daily Mail reporter practically shoved the recording pen into Lin Yuan's chin.
Lin Yuan had just finished showering, and the tips of his hair were still dripping. Draped in his deep blue training jacket, he exuded a cold aura.
He looked down at the reporter, his tone as flat as if he were discussing today's weather.
"There was no transformation."
Lin Yuan's voice was exceptionally clear in the noisy tunnel.
"I didn't pass before because it wasn't necessary. I could solve the problem by just crashing through."
He paused, his intimidating eyes scanning the cameras, and finally, his mouth twitched into a not-so-friendly smile.
"But recently, someone said I don't understand the art of football. So, I had to show off a little. I hope Liverpool's scouts also see the footage of this match."
After speaking, he ignored the reporters' follow-up questions and walked straight toward the bus... That night, public opinion in the English football world exploded.
On Twitter, a video titled 'Lin Yuan Highlights' was being frantically forwarded. There was no background music in the video, only the original sound. It was the dull thud of Lin Yuan's every touch and the whistle of the ball as it tore through the defense.
Famous football pundit Lineker posted a tweet:
"The most terrifying thing has happened. That beast from the East not only has a body that can smash through city walls, but now he has learned how to find the cracks in those walls. If I were any other defender in the Premier League, I would probably start losing sleep now."
And under Chelsea's official Instagram, the most liked comment came from a die-hard fan:
"I used to watch Lin Yuan play and worry he'd kick the opposition to death; today I watched him play and worried the opposition would be played to death by him. Either way, I love him to death!"
Even Guardiola, far away in Manchester, when asked about Chelsea's big win during an interview, rarely put away his usual sarcasm and said with a serious expression: "Lin's distribution has become very threatening. This changes many things. Chelsea's midfield toughness was already world-class; if you add creativity... well, we need to re-evaluate this opponent."
On the domestic internet, those haters who had temporarily shut up this month due to the Li Jianguo incident tried to find something to criticize tonight, but they combed through the entire match data—
89% pass completion rate, 3 assists, 5 key passes, 7 out of 7 duels won, 0 fouls.
The data was so perfect it looked like a fake person's.
In the end, only a few scattered haters posted sourly in the bullet chats: "It's just against a weak Championship team, what's there to brag about? If you're so good, try it against Liverpool next week!"
Lin Yuan, of course, couldn't see these bullet chats.
But he knew very well that the red figure, the opponent who had caused him to get a red card at Anfield, was waiting for him at the end of Wembley.
Bullying the minnows was just a warm-up.
The real war has only just begun.
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