Chapter 84: The Bus at Wembley
Inside the Wembley Stadium dressing room, the air was as cold as an ice cellar.
There were 20 minutes left until kick-off in the League Cup final.
Paco, the team doctor, held a freshly drawn local anesthetic injection, the tip of the needle glinting with a chilling light under the lamps. He looked at Lin Yuan sitting on the treatment table, his hand trembling slightly.
"Lin, you need to think this through," Paco said in a low voice. "This is your second injection this month. Your muscles are becoming fibrotic. If you continue to operate under such high loads, I might really have to book a wheelchair for you."
Lin Yuan was shirtless; his muscles, once as perfect as a Greek sculpture, were now covered in purple bruises, looking as if he had just undergone a session of torture.
He didn't look at Paco, but instead turned his gaze toward the corner of the dressing room.
Enzo Fernández sat there. The Argentine genius was currently on crutches, his right leg in a thick plaster cast. Although the latest specialist consultation showed that his ligament tear might not be as complete as initially judged, he still needed at least three months of recovery.
At this moment, Enzo's eyes were red as he stared fixedly at Lin Yuan.
"Don't look," Lin Yuan withdrew his gaze and extended his arm, signaling Paco to inject. "As long as I can run for 120 minutes, it's worth it even if I end up crippled."
Paco sighed, and the needle pierced the skin.
Lin Yuan's brow furrowed for a moment before relaxing. As the liquid was pushed in, that damned aching sensation was quickly replaced by a cold numbness.
"Alright," Lin Yuan jumped off the bed and cracked his neck.
Mourinho pushed the door open and entered.
The veteran manager held the world-renowned starting lineup in his hand—or rather, was it a letter of surrender? No, it was a declaration of war.
"6-3-1."
Mourinho's voice echoed in the dressing room, carrying a sense of desperate determination.
"The media says we're crazy, that parking the bus at Wembley is a disgrace. Manchester City's Guardiola said in the pre-match press conference that he would drown us with possession."
Mourinho sneered, his eyes burning like torches:
"Then let them drown us. We are a submarine, not the Titanic."
He walked to the tactical board and circled the solitary name in the middle with his pen—LIN.
Behind Lin Yuan was a line of steel composed of six defenders. In front of him were three hard-working midfielders who would drop very deep.
And Lin Yuan was the only '1' connecting these two layers of defense.
"Lin," Mourinho looked at him, "tonight, on this pitch 105 meters long and 68 meters wide, you are the only midfielder."
"Opposite you are Rodri, De Bruyne, Bernardo Silva, Foden..."
"You will be very lonely. You will be in a lot of pain. You will be run around like a monkey."
Mourinho paused, his voice turning husky:
"But as long as you are still breathing, the doors of this bus must be welded shut for me."
Lin Yuan put on the captain's armband, which Enzo had handed to him personally.
"Let's go."
Lin Yuan pushed open the door, and the roar of the final's atmosphere instantly flooded in.
"Go tell the Manchester people: there is no way through."
... "Beep—!"
With the referee's whistle, this 'attack vs. defense drill' that would go down in history began.
From the first second, Manchester City, as expected, took complete control of the ball. The Cityzens' passing and movement were like flowing mercury, moving from the left to the right, and then from the right back to the center.
Chelsea retreated completely. Except for the lone striker Osimhen standing in the center circle, the other nine players were all compressed within their own 30-meter zone.
And Lin Yuan, like a trapped beast in a cage, moved frantically across that narrow area in front of the penalty box.
15th minute.
De Bruyne received the ball on the right flank and tried to send a through ball.
Lin Yuan anticipated the line, shifted two steps at the moment of the pass, and blocked the ball with his shin.
28th minute.
Foden cut inside from the left, and after a series of feints, he took a long-range shot.
Lin Yuan didn't dodge; he met it directly with his chest.
"Bang!"
The ball slammed heavily against his chest, making a dull thud. Lin Yuan only staggered for a moment before immediately returning to his defensive duties.
Manchester City's possession once reached a staggering 82%.
Chelsea was like a small boat in a stormy sea, liable to capsize at any moment.
"This is too tragic..." In the commentary box, Lineker looked at the statistics and couldn't help but shake his head. "Chelsea has completely given up on attacking. In the past 30 minutes, Lin Yuan has only touched the ball 8 times, but his running distance has already exceeded 4 kilometers! He's like a firefighter, putting out fires wherever they start!"
60th minute.
Manchester City's patience was being worn down bit by bit. Guardiola shouted anxiously from the sidelines, gesturing for them to speed up the tempo.
Haaland began to drop back frequently to receive the ball, trying to use his physique to break through the gaps.
An aerial duel occurred.
Haaland took a running jump, his massive frame coming down like a mountain.
Lin Yuan gritted his teeth, enduring the stinging pain as the effects of the injection gradually faded, and leaped just as high.
The two collided heavily in the air.
This time, no one was sent flying. Both lost their balance and fell heavily to the ground.
Haaland climbed up, rubbed his shoulder, and looked at Lin Yuan, who was also getting up, with a hint of disbelief in his eyes.
"How much longer are you going to defend?" Haaland asked.
"Until you're in despair," Lin Yuan spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva.
85th minute.
The physical limit had been reached.
Chelsea's defenders began to cramp. Colwill lay on the ground stretching, and Disasi's movements had become distorted.
Manchester City's onslaught, however, became even more ferocious.
Rodri's long-range shot hit the post, and the rebounding ball was cleared by a big kick from Lin Yuan.
For that clearance, Lin Yuan used almost every ounce of his strength. After kicking it, he stumbled and knelt on the ground, gasping for air.
His lungs felt like they were on fire; the injection's effect was disappearing, and every muscle was screaming.
[System Warning: Stamina zero. Willpower forcibly taking over.]
90 minutes ended. 0-0.
Extra time.
This was true hell.
Chelsea had used all their substitutions (except for the goalkeeper). Every Chelsea player on the pitch was moving purely on instinct.
Mourinho didn't arrange any tactics. He just handed a bottle of water to each player and then patted Lin Yuan on the shoulder.
The veteran manager's hand was shaking.
He knew he was overdrawing this young man's career.
118th minute.
The most dangerous moment of the entire match.
Manchester City pushed everyone forward. Bernardo Silva sent a cut-back pass from near the right byline into the box.
Near the penalty spot, De Bruyne was unmarked!
This was an absolute goal-scoring opportunity. Chelsea's goalkeeper Petrović had already been pulled out of position by Haaland's run to the near post.
De Bruyne met the ball with a powerful shot!
The ball rocketed toward the bottom left corner of the goal like a cannonball.
It was headed for the corner.
Just when everyone thought the game was over.
At the edge of the penalty arc, the number 44, who had run himself nearly to paralysis, made one last desperate effort.
Lin Yuan was still three meters away from the ball.
He couldn't catch up.
But he didn't give up.
At the moment De Bruyne shot, Lin Yuan acted like a madman, flinging his entire body sideways through the air.
He stretched his body as much as possible in the air, turning himself into a human wall.
"I must block it..."
This was the only thought in his mind.
"Bang!!!"
The ball did not fly into the net.
It slammed hard into Lin Yuan's extended ribs.
The massive impact sent Lin Yuan tumbling in the air before he crashed heavily into the six-yard box, motionless.
The ball was blocked out for a corner!
"Oh my god!!!" Wembley Stadium erupted in shocked screams. "He blocked it! He blocked De Bruyne's blast with his ribs!"
The referee blew the whistle to stop play.
The team doctors rushed onto the field.
Lin Yuan lay on the ground, curled into a ball. He felt like his ribs might be broken; every breath was accompanied by a piercing pain.
"Lin! Lin!" His teammates gathered around.
Lin Yuan struggled to open his eyes, his vision somewhat blurred.
"How many minutes left?" he asked.
"One minute left... it's going to penalties soon," Enzo shouted (even though he was off the pitch, he had rushed to the touchline on his crutches).
"Help me up."
Lin Yuan gritted his teeth and reached out his hand.
"You can't play anymore!" the doctor shouted. "It might be a fracture!"
"Help me up!" Lin Yuan roared. His voice was weak, but it carried an unquestionable authority. "As long as I'm still breathing, I'm going to finish this game standing up."
Supported by his teammates, Lin Yuan stood up shakily.
Clutching his ribs, he leaned against the goalpost, watching as Manchester City took the corner, which was then caught by Petrović.
"Beep—Beep—Beep!!!"
The final whistle blew.
120 minutes, 0-0.
Chelsea, in a near-suicidal fashion, had dragged the invincible Manchester City into a penalty shootout.
Lin Yuan slid down to sit by the goalpost, looking at his exhausted teammates, a tragic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He had done it.
One man, against the world's best midfield group for a full 120 minutes.
Now, the rest was in God's hands...