Chapter 71: A Community Shield Warning Shot
August at Wembley Stadium: the air feels thick as un-dissolved glue.
Though it's called the Community Shield and billed as nothing more than a pre-season charity kick-about, the scent of gunpowder on this turf is no lighter than a Champions League final.
On one side stands Chelsea, led by Lin Yuan, freshly crowned king of Europe; on the other, the 'Blue Moon' of Manchester City, still lords of possession across the British Isles.
At the pre-match press conference Guardiola wore that unsettling smile of his. Asked about Lin Yuan's evolution into an 'all-round midfielder', the Catalan adjusted his glasses and said airily:
'Lin is strong, yes. His defending is world-class. But he isn't the sort of attacking player who decides matches. If you study the numbers, his long-shot conversion from outside thirty metres is poor. If he picks up the ball there, we'll be delighted.'
The press took it as a dismissal of Lin Yuan's attacking ability.
In the players' tunnel the light was dim.
Lin Yuan stood at the head of the line, the bright yellow captain's armband on his left sleeve blazing against Chelsea's dark-blue shirt. It was his first time entering Wembley as Chelsea's first-team captain.
Beside him stood City skipper Kyle Walker. The England full-back, famed for his pace, flexed an ankle with evident unease, his eyes flicking toward Lin Yuan and betraying a hint of dread.
'Listen, I don't care that this is supposed to be a friendly.'
Lin Yuan didn't turn; his voice was low and hard, like a block of ice hurled at the floor. Behind him, every Chelsea player—including new signings Osimhen, Enzo, Palmer—snapped to attention.
'That bald guy (Guardiola) looks down on our style; the press calls us nothing but destructive savages. Today I want the City end to shut up. Understood?'
'Yes, Captain!'
The roar echoed down the narrow tunnel, drawing glances from the City contingent… For the first twenty minutes the match unfolded exactly as the media had predicted—a suffocating, one-way siege.
Guardiola's side resembled a precision Swiss clock, every cog spinning furiously. Rodri dictated from the centre circle, while Foden and Bernardo threaded needles down the half-spaces, trying to pry cracks in Chelsea's back line.
Chelsea, meanwhile, were a rock steeped in seawater—let the waves crash; they would not budge.
But this time the keen-eyed pundits spotted a strange wrinkle in City's plan.
'We're seeing something interesting today,' Gary Neville frowned at the tactics board. 'Whenever Chelsea regain possession deep and Lin Yuan carries the ball to the top of the centre-circle, City's holding midfielder Rodri doesn't snap into a challenge as usual.'
'Exactly,' Carragher chimed in. 'They've shut the passing lane to Enzo, cut his link with Palmer, even stuck a body on Osimhen—but they've left the space directly in front of Lin Yuan wide open.'
On the pitch.
Twenty-six minutes in, Lin Yuan intercepted Grealish's back-pass again.
He rolled forward two touches and looked up.
It felt odd. Normally, within a five-metre radius, at least two sets of studs would fly in or a defender would cling to him like sticky toffee.
Today—nothing.
Rodri stood five metres away, crouched low, eyes fixed on Lin Yuan's feet, but he didn't lunge. Instead he gestured for Rúben Dias and Akanji behind him to squeeze the line and block the passing lanes.
It was Guardiola's carefully laid 'trap'.
Rodri's stare carried a taunt, as if to say: go on, shoot—gift it to the fans in the stands.
Lin Yuan stopped.
He rested a boot on the ball, feeling the Wembley afternoon sun burn against his skin.
He read the meaning in Rodri's eyes and saw straight through Guardiola's ploy.
Think I'm still the brainless grunt who just barges people?'
A cruel smile tugged at Lin Yuan's lips.
Inside the system space, the icon once labelled [Heavy Artillery (Basic)], forged through a summer of devilish training, had long since evolved.
It was the fruit of countless extra nights at the Cobham Training Centre—every contact point, every twitch of thigh muscle, every angle of locked ankle revised thousands of times.
No longer blind force, but the compression of every ounce of strength into a single point—and then detonation.
Since you've cleared the path, don't blame me for driving straight into your living room.
Lin Yuan moved.
No run-up—or rather, the whole dribble had been the run-up.
From thirty-five metres out he suddenly drew back his thigh.
At that instant, not only the nearby Rodri but even fans in the front rows seemed to hear a whip-crack split the air.
BOOM!
The sound was dull yet heart-stopping.
The instant the ball left Lin Yuan's instep it visibly deformed, then tore through Wembley's stifling air like a rail-gun round, no spin, dead straight.
Rodri instinctively stuck out a leg, but the ball was so fast his brain couldn't wire the command to his nerves.
He only felt a gust of wind scrape his cheek, sharp enough to burn.
Manchester City keeper Ederson had been a step off his line, expecting either a pass or a harmless long shot.
But when the black-and-white pellet screamed in, the Brazilian's pupils snapped tight.
Too fast!
And a non-spinning ball is the deadliest kind.
The ball traced a weird, wavering arc: at first it looked bound for the stands, then dipped viciously just past the edge of the box, as if yanked down by an invisible hand.
Ederson launched himself, fingers stretching for the save.
On another day he might have reached it.
But the shot carried every ounce of power from Lin Yuan's S-rank Savage Physique, every muscle detonating at once.
Swish!
No glove, no post.
The ball skimmed the underside of the bar and slammed into the roof of the net like a cruise missile.
The white mesh shuddered under the impact, even letting out a protesting rip.
For one second Wembley fell into a vacuum of silence.
Then came a roar like a volcano blowing.
1-0!
"My God—what did I just see?!"
The commentator rocketed from his seat, the mic shrieking with feedback. "Lin Yuan! Not a header, not a tackle—a thunderbolt from thirty-five metres!"
"That's not just the goal of the season—it's a contender for goal of the year! City paid for their arrogance; Rodri left him free and released a starving tiger!"
Lin Yuan didn't sprint or rip off his shirt.
He simply lowered his right foot, straightened his captain's armband, face blank.
Then he turned slowly, those chilling eyes crossing the pitch to fix on the City bench, on Guardiola—hands on head, disbelieving.
Though metres apart, everyone could hear the silent question:
"Can anyone stop me now?"
"Captain! Holy hell, that was insane!"
New signing Osimhen leapt onto his back first, then Enzo, Palmer—blue shirts swallowed him whole.
Yet at the centre Lin Yuan stayed icily calm.
He patted Osimhen's backside and waved them off.
"Only one goal—what are we celebrating?"
He shoved through the pack, gaze sweeping the shattered Rodri climbing to his feet. "The match just started. Today I'm grinding their confidence into dust."
Up in the stands, José Mourinho stood hands-in-pockets at the edge of the technical area.
Watching the back of that No. 44 who made the whole stadium shudder, he smiled—smug, almost sinister.
"Fools."
He chewed his gum with a vicious twist. "You haven't woken a player—you've unleashed a monster. Welcome… to the reign of the Tyrant."
City threw everything forward in the second half, but under Lin Yuan Chelsea choked them with iron discipline. Osimhen added a second on 78 minutes: 2-0.
Final whistle.
Chelsea, Community Shield champions.
As Lin Yuan lifted the trophy from Prince William and thrust it skyward before the fans, City's players exchanged blank looks.
In that instant they realised: this Premier League season, the sky had shifted.
The once-impenetrable Shield had sprouted the sharpest spear of all.
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