Chapter 82: Madrid Decisive Strike
The 85th minute.
On the Wanda Metropolitano scoreboard, the suffocating 0-0 remained.
Yet this was no dull draw. Step close to the pitch and you'd smell not fresh grass, but a thick, nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and muck.
Both sides had hit their physical limits.
Chelsea's Enzo Fernández was even limping after Savic had stamped on his foot ten minutes earlier; for Atlético, Koke and Llorenté looked freshly dragged from a pool, gasping for air.
Only two men were exceptions.
De Paul still tore about like a tireless rabid dog, glued to Lin Yuan.
And Lin Yuan, shirt caked in grass and dirt, had eyes that blazed under the lights—the stare of a predator about to deliver the final kill.
'Damn it, is he a robot?'
Simeone paced the touchline, the black tie he'd loosened flapping. His plan had been to exhaust Chelsea, yet the Oriental No. 44 seemed to have an endless stamina bar.
88th minute.
Atlético launched their last positional attack. Griezmann tried a chip at the edge of the box; Lin Yuan read it perfectly.
A cushioned chest control brought the ball to his feet.
Only one minute remained before stoppage-time.
Convention said 0-0 away to Atlético was a fine result—knock it back to the defenders, kill the clock, fly home.
Lin Yuan refused.
He glanced at the red-and-white stand and the never-ending jeers.
'Noisy bastards.'
A cold snort in his mind.
In that instant, he exploded.
Without warning, the heavy tank that had idled in midfield all night slammed into top gear!
'Stop him!!' Simeone screamed in horror.
De Paul was right beside him. At the first burst the Argentine pit-bull lunged, not even aiming for the ball—both hands clamped on Lin Yuan's hem and flank.
A textbook tactical foul; yellow, even red, it didn't matter—keep the man.
Saúl charged from the side to complete the sandwich.
Two markers, one still tugging for dear life!
Ordinary players would have hit the deck and claimed the free-kick.
Lin Yuan stayed up.
[System Passive: Savage Physique – Burst Active]
His monstrous core power detonated. Like a raging bull, he thundered on with two riders clinging to his back!
Riiip—!!
The unmistakable rip of fabric reached hundreds of millions via the broadcast.
The Nike shirt tore from waist to collar under De Paul's frantic tug, hanging in shreds round his neck and baring a torso cast in steel, sweat glistening.
'My God!!' the commentator roared. 'He won't stop! De Paul's stripping him bare and still can't halt the beast!'
Break free!
Lin Yuan dragged De Paul three full metres until the shirt gave way; the Argentine collapsed clutching a scrap of blue.
Ahead, open prairie.
Eyes blazing, shirt flapping like a ruined cloak, the bare-chested warrior bore down on Atlético's heartland.
The defence panicked. Giménez abandoned Osimhen, sprinting to close.
The instant Giménez shifted his weight.
Lin Yuan cocked his right leg.
A thunder-shot?
Giménez turned to block the barrel.
But the foot twisted outward in a grotesque flick.
[Scalpel Through Ball (A-rank)] + [Outside-of-the-foot Trivela].
The ball curved impossibly, as if guided, looping behind the entire back line.
A black lightning bolt arrived.
Osimhen!
The hundred-million striker showed killer instinct—no touch, no pause, just a first-time rocket!
Boom!
The cannon-shot ripped into the near corner; Oblak hadn't lifted a hand.
Net bulging.
0-1!
89th minute—winner!
The Metropolitano fell tomb-silent; only the Chelsea away end erupted.
Osimhen didn't celebrate alone. He spun and sprinted to the man halted near the centre circle.
Lin Yuan stood there, chest heaving.
His shirt was scrap, a tattered cape on his shoulders, sweat coursing over carved muscle.
Teammates mobbed him.
'You're a monster, skipper!' Enzo babbled.
Lin Yuan shoved through the scrum.
No wild grin—just calm. He peeled the shredded shirt from his neck.
Then, holding the rag, he walked to the dazed De Paul rising from the turf.
De Paul took half a step back, still clutching the blue shred.
Lin Yuan stared, dropped the ruined shirt at his feet.
'This is Atlético's defence?'
His voice rang in the hush. He pointed at the rag, a sneer curling his lip:
'Besides shirt-pulling, what else have you got?'
He paused, swept his gaze over De Paul's purple face and delivered the line that would dominate every European front page:
'Next time you want to stop me, bring a gun. With tricks this cheap…'
He shook his head and finished:
'Sub-standard.'
Ignoring the yellow for removing/damaging his shirt, he turned to the touchline signalling for a fresh one.
Back straight, bare back glistening like a living war-banner.
Sixty thousand Atlético fans watched, too stunned to boo.
They had been conquered—not by club loyalty, but by primal awe of the apex predator.
Full-time whistle.
Chelsea left the cauldron with a bloody 1-0 win.
Within five minutes the photo of Lin Yuan—bare-chested, boot on the torn shirt, eyes cold on De Paul—topped every global platform.
One-word headline: CONQUEROR.