Germany, Red Bull Arena, Leipzig.
The modern stadium, rebuilt from the largest ground in the former East Germany, was shrouded in drifting rain. June in Germany is not always sunny, and tonight's low pressure made the air feel especially heavy.
It was the opening match of Group F in the 2024 European Cup. Portugal vs Czechia.
In the stands, tens of thousands of Portuguese fans wore deep-crimson shirts, turning one side of the ground into a red sea. Opposite them, the Czech white block looked just as imposing. War-drum chants and roars blended with the staccato patter of rain on the roof, a blood-stirring overture to battle.
In the dressing room.
Lin Yuan was tying his laces. Unlike most of his teammates, he wasn't praying or listening to music. He sat quietly, fingers tightening the laces until he felt a slight pressure across the instep.
'The Czechs are tall,'
Pepe walked over bare-chested; the 41-year-old veteran still sported a physique that made younger men envious. He jabbed a finger at the Czech starting lineup on the tactics board. 'Šoucek, Schick, Krejčí… their average height's over 1.85 m. These guys aren't here to play football with us—they're here to play volleyball. Or wrestle.'
'That's their only shot,' Lin Yuan said, standing and smoothing the No. 16 shirt that felt a touch tight on him. 'They know going toe-to-toe with B Fee and B Silva on the deck is suicide, so they want a slug-fest.'
'Then let's humour them.' Pepe grinned, flashing white teeth. 'Haven't met such "honest" opponents in ages.'
Cristiano Ronaldo stood by the door, clapping his hands.
'Let's go!'
For the first fifteen minutes, exactly as Pepe had predicted, the Czechs had the word 'hard' stamped on their foreheads.
Coach Hasek's 3-5-2 crowded the centre with slabs of muscle. West Ham United's iron anchor Tomáš Šoucek swept the area round the circle like a roaming lighthouse.
8th minute.
Bernardo Silva received the ball on the right. The Manchester City magician tried a neat turn to glide past, but Czech wing-back Jurásek wasn't buying it—he simply used his body as a battering ram.
Bang!
The slightly built B Silva was sent flying into touch like a leaf.
No whistle. This was European Cup officiating—contact encouraged.
Czech fans roared as though a goal had been scored.
'Too soft!' striker Schick yelled at Bernardo. 'This isn't a Premier League VIP box!'
Portugal's technical midfield began to flinch. Vitinha lost the ball twice under pressure; B Fee's passing lanes were blocked by Šoucek's telescopic legs. The Czechs, using brute size, simply severed Portugal's ground build-up.
On the touchline, Martínez frowned.
'We need an answer,' the assistant murmured. 'If we don't check their momentum, this gets ugly.'
On the pitch.
Lin Yuan stood at the top of the centre circle, rain dripping from his hair. Watching Šoucek strut, a playful glint flashed in his eyes.
'West Ham's hammer?' he muttered. 'Back in London I don't remember hammering enough.'
19th minute.
Czechia broke forward. Coufal launched a long diagonal that sailed toward the centre spot.
It was Šoucek's airspace. The 1.92 m midfield colossus rose, ready to nod down for the on-rushing Schick. In his mind, every Portuguese midfielder bar that Lin Yuan was a 'midget.'
He never expected that this time the 'Lin Yuan' would arrive.
Without a run-up, Lin Yuan took off from a standstill.
Skill: Violent Header – Aerial Supremacy.
Two giants met in the sky.
Šoucek thought his body position gave him the edge, but the instant they collided he felt he'd slammed into flying granite.
Lin Yuan's core exploded: he rose half a head higher and rammed a shoulder into Šoucek.
Thud!
The Czech captain, airborne a moment earlier, lost all balance and crashed to the turf like a downed bomber, spraying mud.
Lin Yuan landed cleanly, chested the ball down and pinned it beneath his studs.
He glanced at Šoucek rubbing his back, offering no hand.
'Premier League contact, that it?' he asked coldly in English. 'Thought the Irons would be harder.'
Šoucek's face flushed; he clambered up, eyes now holding a trace of fear.
That collision sounded the counter-attack horn.
Portugal realised: once Lin Yuan held midfield, the Czech size advantage was a joke.
28th minute.
Lin Yuan stole the ball again. This time, with Provod closing, he didn't pass—he drove forward.
Yaya Touré surge, activate.
He was like a deep-red armored car, rumbling straight through midfield. Provod reached out to grab him and was flung aside; Hranáč tried to close the door, only to be left in the dust by a sharp cut.
The Czech back line was in chaos. All their attention had been sucked in by this unreasonable, rampaging No. 16.
'Stop him! Don't let him shoot!' Czech keeper Staněk screamed in panic.
Lin Yuan charged to the edge of the box, thirty metres out.
This was his cannon range.
Every Czech defender surged toward the centre like madmen, trying to throw their bodies in front of the shot.
But in that instant, Lin Yuan's ankle changed.
The right leg that had been tensed like a battle-axe turned feather-soft the moment it met the ball.
[Gods Perspective (S-grade)]
In his vision a red laser pierced the crowded mass of players and found the pocket of space on the right half-space.
Outside of the foot, a gentle flick.
The ball spun fiercely around the desperate Krejčí and rolled into the right side of the area.
There, Bruno Fernandes was completely unmarked.
'Great ball!'
B Fee even had time to take a touch; faced with the onrushing keeper, he calmly slotted into the far corner.
Swish!
The ball rippled the net.
1-0!
Portugal had the lead!
After the goal B Fee sprinted toward the centre circle and leapt straight onto Lin Yuan.
'That pass was filthy!' he laughed. 'Did you peek at my skill tree?'
Lin Yuan set him down and slapped his backside: 'Your run was perfect. Next time shoot quicker—some defender nearly blocked it.'
...Conceding left the Czech side rattled. Their proud physical game had simply bounced off Lin Yuan.
In the second half they tried to push forward, only to gift Portugal more room on the break.
68th minute.
Cristiano Ronaldo received the ball up front. At 41 the veteran lacked the old burst but still oozed savvy. Shielding with his back to goal, he drew two defenders and laid it off to the onrushing Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan took the pass; in front of him now was open prairie.
'SHOOT!!!' roared the Portuguese fans in the stands.
Lin Yuan cocked his right leg.
The Czech centre-backs jumped like startled birds to block.
Dummy.
He dragged the ball back, left the lunging defender on the turf, and clipped a lofted pass over the top.
The ball sailed over everyone's heads and dropped at Leão's feet on the left.
The AC Milan winger burned past his man and crossed.
In the middle Cristiano Ronaldo arrived; his first effort was saved, but Francisco Conceição, the teenager off the bench, slammed in the rebound.
2-0!
Game over.
In the 85th minute Martinez replaced Lin Yuan with Neves.
As Lin Yuan walked off, Leipzig's Red Bull Arena rose in thunderous applause.
Not just Portuguese fans—sections of Czech support clapped as well. Respect for quality.
Lin Yuan reached the touchline, slapped palms with the incoming Neves, and took a jacket from the kit man.
Up in the stands Mourinho nodded in satisfaction.
'He's learned when to use the hammer and when to use the scalpel,' Mourinho told Mendes beside him.
Full-time. 3-0. (Cristiano Ronaldo added a late penalty.)
Mixed zone.
This time Lin Yuan didn't run into that annoying reporter from home—word was the man had been recalled for 're-education.'
Facing European cameras, Lin Yuan looked far more at ease.
'Lin, congratulations on the opening win. Souček said after the match that you're tougher than in the Premier League—you still bulldoze people, but now you can pass as well,' asked a Kicker journalist.
Lin Yuan stopped, wiping sweat from his forehead.
'Thomas is a good player,' he offered, a rare compliment for an opponent. 'But football evolves. If I were still just a battering ram, I'd have been culled long ago.'
'Some say Portugal are tournament favourites, especially after seeing the link-up with Cristiano Ronaldo. Your thoughts?'
Lin Yuan glanced at Cristiano Ronaldo signing autographs nearby.
The captain's face was lit with the joy of a goal and the comfort of a team in harmony.
'Favourites is your word, not ours,'
Lin Yuan said, turning back to the camera.
'We just keep winning. One game after another.'
'And...'
He pointed to his boots, caked with Leipzig soil.
'Tell the next opponents, Turkey, especially that kid Güler.'
A 'friendly' smile curled across Lin Yuan's lips.
'I hear he's learned some fancy dribbles at Real Madrid—let him bring them all.'
'I'll show him what the grown-up world is really like.'
With that, Lin Yuan walked away.
His shadow stretched long under the tunnel lights, a heavy sword about to fall on the next foe.
The Leipzig rain had stopped.
For the rest of Group F, the storm had only just begun.