Chapter 85: The Penalty Tyrant
Wembley's night sky was shredded by the floodlights.
Penalty shoot-out.
It's the cruellest, most unreasonable way to settle a match in football. Tactics don't matter, possession doesn't matter, stamina doesn't matter. Only one thing counts: the size of your heart.
Chelsea's players stood in a huddle at the centre circle, leaning on each other like survivors who'd just crawled out of a pile of corpses, their shirts caked in mud and blood.
José Mourinho held the penalty list, his hand trembling slightly.
'Who goes first?' the old coach rasped.
Normally the first taker should be the one with the best technique and the coolest head—Palmer, or Enzo (but he was off the pitch).
'I'll do it.'
A weak yet metallic voice cut through.
Lin Yuan pushed Disasi aside and shuffled up to Mourinho. His face was paper-white; the block on De Bruyne's shot minutes earlier had probably cracked a rib. Every breath felt like a saw grinding inside his chest.
'You sure?' Mourinho looked at him. 'Your leg…'
'Still attached,' Lin Yuan curled his lips into a savage grin. 'As long as it isn't broken, I can kick.'
He took the ball.
It felt feather-light and lead-heavy at the same time.
He turned and walked toward the white penalty spot.
The walk was only a few dozen metres, yet to him it looked like the last mile to the gallows. Each step sent fresh waves of agony through him as the painkiller wore off.
Manchester City's keeper, Ederson, was already on the goal-line.
The Brazilian is famed for ice-cold nerves and a touch of madness. Watching Lin Yuan limp forward, he began the mind games.
Ederson bounced like a boxer, flailing his arms and pulling faces to rattle the Chelsea captain.
'Come on, cripple!' he shouted. 'Hit it here! I bet you miss!'
Lin Yuan ignored him.
He reached the spot and bent down.
The movement tugged at his ribs; darkness flooded his vision and he almost buckled, but he clenched his teeth and stayed upright.
He placed the ball carefully. That tiny white dot on the grass was the border between life and death.
He straightened, stepped back five paces.
He lifted his head; black eyes bored through the rain and locked on Ederson.
At that instant the keeper's waving arms froze.
He saw a look—not of a player facing a keeper, but of a butcher studying livestock. No nerves, no hesitation, only a chilling desire to destroy.
[System prompt: Stamina depleted. Burn life value (health) to activate Cannon Shot (S-rank)?]
[Yes.]
Peep—!
The referee's whistle.
Lin Yuan moved.
His run-up was slow because of the injured leg, but on the final planting step he poured every ounce of strength left—two hours of pain, rage and frustration—into his right instep.
No need for placement.
No need for feints.
Before absolute power, technique is just ornament.
'Get… in!!!'
BOOM!
A thunder-crack
even louder than his Villa Park winner.
The ball shot like a compressed shell, straight down the middle.
Ederson guessed right, but he hadn't time to move; instinct made him flinch—at that speed a facial block might be fatal.
Thud—clang!
The ball smashed into the net, rattled the back stanchion
so hard a metal hook snapped
and one corner of the net sagged, limp and broken.
Goal!
1-0!
Wembley erupted.
Lin Yuan staggered two steps forward after the strike, nearly fell,
but held his ground.
He stood over the spot, staring at the quivering frame, then at Ederson's horrified face.
No celebration. He merely pointed to his own eyes, then to the goal.
Silent, but Ederson read the lips:
'Next time I aim for your head.'
The keeper swallowed and looked away.
In momentum, City had already lost.
That thunderous penalty smashed their mental wall and injected Chelsea with pure bloodlust.
What followed was Petrović's show.
Bernardo Silva's shot was saved, Kovačić blasted over,
while Palmer, Disasi and Nkunku all scored.
When Nkunku buried the last, Wembley became a blue ocean.
Full-time.
Chelsea beat Manchester City to win the League Cup!
Team-mates charged onto the pitch; Mourinho knelt sobbing on the touchline. A pyrrhic victory carved in flesh and will.
On the rostrum
Lin Yuan was carried up between two men,
Reece James and Gallagher flanking him like crutches.
When Prince William handed over the trophy Lin Yuan's trembling arms took its weight.
Consciousness was slipping.
Vision blurred, the roar dimmed.
But he knew one thing remained.
He bit his tongue; pain bought a last moment of clarity.
He inhaled, summoned every last fibre, and hoisted the cup above his head.
'Raaah!'
A beast-roar
—defiance at fate, hunger for victory.
Click.
As the flashbulbs froze the scene, his arms gave way.
Before thousands and live cameras the newly crowned Chelsea captain toppled like a marionette with cut strings.
'Lin!!!'
'Captain!!!'
Screams rang round Wembley.
The cup slipped, clanged on the red carpet.
He lay in team-mates' arms, eyes shut, face white as chalk, a livid bruise blooming across his ribs.
Yet through blood-flecked lips curved a satisfied, arrogant smile.
Curtain call for the tyrant?
No.
Only the first chapter of a legend written with his life.
Sirens wailed outside Wembley, slicing through the London night.