Chapter 86: The Price of a Bitter Victory
St Mary's Hospital, London, private intensive-care ward.
The silence was unnerving. Only the heart-monitor's flat beep—beep—echoed through the empty room.
Dawn had broken outside, but heavy curtains blocked every weak ray of London's early-morning sun.
Lin Yuan woke to pain.
Not the sharp edge dulled by adrenaline on the pitch, but a deep, grinding agony that bored into bone. His right groin and ribs felt clawed by invisible hands.
He tried to shift his leg and found it caged in a bulky brace, immobile.
"Awake?"
A hoarse, exhausted voice rose from the shadows beside the bed.
Mourinho sat in the narrow visitor's chair, still wearing yesterday's trench coat, now creased and flecked with Wembley mud. The old coach's eyes were sunken; he clearly hadn't slept.
Beside him stood the solemn chief medic Paco and Anna, eyes red as she adjusted Lin's IV drip.
"Boss…" Lin rasped, throat like sand. "The trophy?"
"At Cobham," Mourinho forced a smile, nodding to the bedside table. "I brought you a replica."
A gold League Cup winner's medal lay there.
Lin's gaze softened for a moment, then sharpened. He looked at Paco; the stare made the seasoned doctor glance away.
"Don't hedge," Lin said coldly. "Spit it out. How long am I out?"
Paco inhaled, lifting the MRI report.
"Lin, it's… more complicated than we thought."
He pointed to a shadow on the scan.
"First, the ribs. A crack in the seventh, no displacement, but every breath hurts. That's not the worst."
His finger slid to the pelvis.
"Your right groin—adductors—grade-three tear. Over thirty percent fibre rupture. That final sprint and shot last night did it."
Lin's face was stone. "Conclusion."
"Immediate immobilisation and hyperbaric oxygen. Conservative estimate: six to eight weeks out."
"Six to eight weeks?"
Lin repeated the number, then smiled—cold, humourless.
"Paco, you joking?"
He struggled upright. Anna pressed his shoulders; he pushed her off.
"Three days. Real Madrid at Stamford Bridge. Champions League semifinal. You want me watching on TV?"
"Lin, calm down!" Anna sobbed. "This is medicine. The muscle is shredded. Play and the tendon snaps. You'll limp for life. Career over."
"Career?"
Lin sank back, staring at the ceiling.
"If I'm out, who marks Bellingham? Who handles Vinicius?"
He turned to Mourinho.
"Enzo's leg's gone, Caicedo's still hurt. Now me—so Ugochukwu with his safe passes goes to die?"
Mourinho said nothing, head buried in his hands. He knew Lin spoke truth. Without him, Real would butcher a bloodless Chelsea.
"Let's quit Europe," he finally said, voice a decade older. "We have the League Cup, top four sealed. Enough. I won't let a hollow trophy ruin your life."
"Quit?"
Lin laughed as if at a cosmic joke.
"I crawled out of Portugal's slums to walk away two steps from the cup?"
He closed his eyes, ignoring them.
Deep in his mind, the cold blue interface awoke.
[Host status: Severely injured (90% combat power lost).]
[Current injuries: Rib crack, severe groin tear.]
[Next key match: 72 hours.]
"System," he asked silently, "any way?"
[Warning: Standard medicine cannot heal this in 72h.]
[Only option: Forbidden skill – Pain Block·Full (Lv Max) plus Bio-current Forced Drive.]
[Note: Not healing—deception. Pain nerves cut; damaged muscles forced to function.]
[Cost:
Post-match injury worsens 200%; lay-off 3 months.
Host risks temporary shock.
All remaining notoriety points consumed (25,000).]
Three months…
He weighed it.
Beat Real, reach final in a month—another jab, another boost. Off-season after: who cares if he lay half a year.
"Activate."
No hesitation.
[Ding! Notoriity points deducted.]
[Forbidden protocol loaded; triggers on pitch entry.]
Back in reality.
Lin opened his eyes, yanked the IV out, blood beading, ignored.
"Anna, discharge me."
"No!" she stepped back. "I'm a doctor; I won't watch you kill yourself."
"Then you're fired." He looked at Mourinho. "Boss, take me to Cobham. Wheelchair, whatever—tomorrow's tactical meeting, I'm there."
"Lin…" Mourinho rose, reaching.
Lin flung the blanket off and slammed his braced right leg onto the floor.
Agony blanched his face; sweat poured, yet he stayed silent, gripping the bed, standing on one leg.
A lone wolf, broken but refusing to fall, he stared at Mourinho.
"Boss."
Breath ragged, he bared a savage grin:
"Real have fourteen European Cups. They've got Bellingham, Vinicius, Rodrygo."
"They think Chelsea's carrion."
"But I'm not dead."
"While I stand, Stamford Bridge won't be their playground."
Tears slid down Mourinho's cheeks; he wiped them, turning steel once more.
"Fine."
He draped Lin's arm over his shoulder, taking his weight.
"We'll fight Real—to the death."
"If we die, we die on the pitch."
That afternoon Chelsea issued a bulletin: "muscle fatigue, doubtful for selection."
Smoke from Mourinho.
In Cobham's physio room a hidden patch-up began. Lin barred media, rehearsing before the mirror, schooling his face to betray nothing.
He would fool everyone—
opponents, referee, even his own body.
Three days later.
Champions League semifinal first leg.
Real Madrid, galactic and arrogant, sailed into London.