Chapter 83: The Wave of Injuries
The London sky was like a sponge soaked in sewage—cold, damp, and suffocating.
The joy of returning triumphant from Madrid lasted less than 48 hours before being crushed to pieces by this damn Premier League schedule.
Saturday afternoon, Stamford Bridge. Premier League Round 30: Chelsea hosts Newcastle United.
This was a clash described as "bone against bone." Eddie Howe's team was known for their high running mileage and tough physical play, while Chelsea, fresh off a slugfest at the Wanda Metropolitano Stadium, were like weary soldiers who had just finished a marathon only to be told they had to compete in a triathlon.
In the dressing room, the air was thick with the scent of wintergreen oil.
Club doctor Paco was wrapping Enzo Fernández's knee in thick kinesiology tape. The Argentine midfield maestro looked pale; the swelling on his foot from being stepped on in Madrid hadn't fully subsided yet.
"If you feel any discomfort, signal me immediately," Paco said worriedly. "Your muscle fatigue index has hit the red alert line."
Enzo gritted his teeth and glanced at Lin Yuan, who was silently tying his laces. "I'm fine. The captain hasn't complained about being tired, so I can't stay down."
Lin Yuan didn't speak. His bare torso was covered in bruises of all sizes—"souvenirs" left by De Paul from the last match. He could feel his body like a machine that had been overloaded for too long, every part creaking in protest. But he had to play.
Because behind them on the table, Tottenham and Aston Villa were eyeing the top four like hungry wolves... *Tweet!*
The match began.
Newcastle clearly recognized Chelsea's physical exhaustion. From the first minute, the Brazilian midfield duo of Guimarães and Joelinton began to ramp up the pace frantically, trying to wear down Chelsea's defense with high-intensity box-to-box runs.
Chelsea struggled. Lin Yuan had to sprint between the two boxes frequently to fill the gaps left by his teammates' lack of mobility.
In the 35th minute, disaster struck without warning.
Enzo received the ball near the center circle and tried a sudden stop and turn to shake off the defender behind him.
It was a routine move he had performed countless times.
But at the very moment his right foot planted and his body twisted—
*Snap.*
It wasn't loud, but to Enzo, it sounded like a thunderclap in his mind.
There was no violent physical contact. Enzo collapsed onto the turf like a puppet with its strings cut.
He didn't scream; he just clutched his right knee. In that moment, his eyes were filled with a hollow despair.
Lin Yuan was the first to rush over.
When he saw Enzo's contorted expression and his trembling hands that didn't even dare touch his knee, Lin Yuan's heart sank.
"Don't move." Lin Yuan knelt down, stopping Enzo from trying to stand up. "Don't move your leg."
The stretcher crew entered the field. Stamford Bridge fell into a deathly silence.
Mourinho stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, his face grim. He was all too familiar with this kind of injury. Non-contact injuries often meant the worst possible outcome.
As Enzo was carried off, he covered his face with his hands, tears streaming through his fingers.
Gallagher came on as a substitute.
But the misfortune didn't stop there. It seemed God felt the trial for The Blues wasn't cruel enough.
65th minute.
Newcastle launched a quick counterattack. Isak used his pace to burn past his man on the flank.
Caicedo, the Ecuadorian "Iron Lung" known for never stopping, gritted his teeth and chased back at full speed. He tried to stretch out a leg to block a cross while running at top speed.
The moment his thigh muscle fully extended, his movement suddenly froze.
Caicedo clutched his groin in agony and stumbled past the goal line, unable to get back up.
Another one.
Within just thirty minutes, Chelsea had lost two key midfielders.
Mourinho kicked a water bottle in frustration on the touchline, splashing the fourth official, but he didn't even stop to apologize.
The match eventually ended in a 1-1 draw.
But no one cared about the score.
When the final whistle blew, Lin Yuan stood in the center circle, looking at his teammates gasping for air on the ground and watching Caicedo being helped off by the medical staff. He felt an unprecedented chill rising from the soles of his feet.
The midfield was empty... Two hours after the match, at the Cobham Training Ground medical center.
The lights in the MRI room were a harsh, blinding white.
Mourinho, Lin Yuan, and the club's top brass all stood in the corridor with solemn expressions.
Paco walked out holding two reports. His expression looked as if he had just read out a death notice.
"Bad news."
Paco took a deep breath and handed the first report to Mourinho.
"Enzo... torn anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in his right knee. Out for the season. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow; he's expected to be out for 8 to 9 months."
Mourinho's hand trembled, and the report almost slipped from his grasp.
"What about Caicedo?" Lin Yuan's voice was cold as ice, but a slight tremor could be heard if one listened closely.
"Grade two groin strain," Paco sighed. "It's not as severe as Enzo's, but he'll be out for at least 3 to 4 weeks. Which means..."
Paco paused before delivering the cruel verdict:
"Neither of them will be available for the League Cup final against Manchester City in three days, nor for the second leg of the Champions League against Atlético Madrid."
A deathly silence fell over the corridor.
Lavia was still recovering, Ugochukwu was not up to the task, and while Gallagher was hardworking, he was technically unrefined and prone to picking up cards.
The current Chelsea midfield was like a ruin after a bombardment.
Only a single pillar remained standing.
And that was Lin Yuan.
Mourinho leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. The legendary manager, who had weathered countless storms, looked incredibly old at this moment.
Against a Manchester City side boasting a luxurious midfield featuring Rodri, De Bruyne, and Bernardo Silva, what did Chelsea have to fight with in the final?
"Boss."
A low voice broke the silence.
Lin Yuan walked up to Mourinho. He had just played the full 90 minutes, and the scent of the battle still clung to him. There was no despair in his dark eyes, only the madness of someone pushed to the brink.
"As long as I'm alive, the midfield still exists."
Lin Yuan looked at Mourinho and said, emphasizing every word:
"Three days from now at Wembley, how do we want to play?"
Mourinho opened his eyes and looked at his disciple, who was covered in bruises yet still stood as straight as a pine tree.
He suddenly chuckled—a laugh filled with tragic resolve.
"How do we play?"
Mourinho stood up straight, the despondency in his eyes vanishing, replaced by that familiar, arrogant light of a man ready to take on the world.
"Since we have no midfield, we won't use a midfield."
The veteran manager walked to a tactical board (though it was just a hospital corridor, he seemed to see the Wembley turf) and traced an extremely radical formation in the air.
"6-3-1."
Mourinho looked at Lin Yuan, his voice like a devil's whisper:
"We'll park two buses in front of the box. And you..."
He pointed at Lin Yuan's chest.
"You will be the only iron gate between those two buses."
"You alone will face Manchester City's entire midfield. Rodri, De Bruyne, Foden... everyone."
"Can you do it?"
Lin Yuan clenched his fists, his knuckles popping.
The system's notification echoed in his mind:
[Hell-level difficulty task prerequisite detected: Lone Wolf.]
[Current surviving midfield partners: 0.]
[Host will face the world's best midfield group alone.]
Lin Yuan grinned, revealing a grim smile.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."