Chapter 87: Semi-Final: Fated Rivals
On Champions League nights at Stamford Bridge, the air always carries a special, pulse-spiking scent.
It's the mingled breath of money, glory, and destiny.
An hour before kick-off, when the starting line-ups flashed on the giant screen, the whole stadium—and European football with it—gasped in disbelief.
There, on Chelsea's sheet, glared a familiar name:
No. 44 – Lin Yuan
'What on earth is Mourinho doing?' In the commentary box Henry gaped. 'Three days ago the kid collapsed at Wembley with a torn groin, and today he starts? Is this a bluff or a medical miracle?'
Inside Real Madrid's dressing room, Ancelotti arched his trademark brow.
'Whether he's hurt or faking,' the Italian maestro said, chewing gum, calm as ever, 'we'll know as soon as the whistle blows. Vinicius, Rodrygo—go at him. If it's an act, expose it. If it's real… make him regret stepping out.'
…Player tunnel.
Madrid's pristine white and Chelsea's deep blue stood in sharp contrast.
Jude Bellingham, England's crown jewel in the No. 5 shirt and Zidane's heir apparent, led the line, eyes blazing with confidence.
He turned to Lin Yuan beside him.
Lin Yuan stood expressionless, spine straight as rebar, face betraying no pain, no fatigue.
Only Lin Yuan knew what was happening inside him.
[Forbidden protocol activated.]
[Pain receptors blocked: 100%.]
[Bio-electric override engaged…]
It felt bizarre—he sensed no legs, as if his lower half had been swapped for cold steel limbs. Every step came from electric commands fired straight to the muscles, nerves bypassed.
No pain, only a disquieting numbness and the faint tingle of current.
'Heard you're badly hurt?' Bellingham asked, probing.
Lin Yuan tilted his head; his gaze was vacant, glacial, like a machine running a kill program.
'That was to make you drop your guard.'
'Don't be naïve, Jude. Tonight this place is a no-fly zone.'
Bellingham frowned; something felt off, though he couldn't pin it.
Peep—!
Referee Marciniak whistled. Champions League semi-final, first leg—underway.
From the first second Madrid probed.
Vinicius took the ball on the left, saw Lin Yuan in the central lane, cut inside, trying to force him into a challenge.
The old Lin Yuan would have charged in with a tackle.
This time he stayed put.
He simply adjusted his stance, sealed the passing lane, and waved Chalobah forward.
Vinicius shifted, burst past Chalobah—yet Lin Yuan still ghosted the lane.
No option; Vinicius played it back.
'He can't run.'
Kroos spotted it first and signed to Ancelotti.
For the next ten minutes Madrid switched the ball frantically, stretching play to make Lin Yuan move.
He refused.
He confined himself to a ten-metre radius atop the centre circle, swivelling like a gun turret, never leaving his post.
In the 18th minute, punishment arrived.
With both flanks unguarded, Madrid combined down the right; Valverde surged, cut it back.
Bellingham steamed in, side-footed home beyond Lin Yuan's reach.
0-1!
Real Madrid lead away!
Bellingham sprinted to the corner flag, arms wide.
Stamford Bridge fell hushed; fans saw their captain was lame, unable to run.
'This is impossible,' the commentator sighed. 'Lin Yuan's a traffic cone; Chelsea are a man down.'
But just as everyone feared collapse…
25th minute.
Chelsea won the ball; it rolled to Lin Yuan at the centre circle.
Bellingham and Camavinga pounced, ready to swarm the 'traffic cone'.
'Since I can't run…'
Lin Yuan watched the two closing in, a trace of frantic data flickering in his eyes.
[Gods Perspective (S-Class)] activated.
He didn't need to run to create space.
Before the pincer could form, Lin Yuan planted his foot.
Without a run-up, relying solely on the thigh muscle driven by bio-electric current, he unleashed terrifying power.
Bang!
A thunderous crack.
The ball soared, tracing a fifty-meter rainbow across the sky.
The long pass sailed over half the pitch, cleared Rüdiger's head, and landed perfectly at the feet of the sprinting Mudryk on the left.
Even the timing of the lead pass was millimetre-perfect.
Mudryk took the ball with open space ahead, burst into the box, and squared it across the face of goal.
Osimhen arrived on cue and slid it home!
1-1!
Chelsea were level!
Stamford Bridge erupted; Mourinho punched the air on the touchline.
Lin Yuan still stood at the centre circle, never having moved. He stared coldly at Bellingham, who had tried to trap him.
"I don't need to run."
He tapped his temple, then pointed at the ball.
"The ball is faster than any man."
That pass changed Real Madrid's tactics—they dared not press so recklessly. The man standing motionless in the centre was a fixed missile silo: given a second to swing his boot, he could deliver the ball to any lethal zone.
Half-time: 1-1.
The second half took on an even stranger rhythm.
Chelsea dropped deep, and at the front of their block stood an unmoving lighthouse—Lin Yuan.
He no longer hunted for tackles; he was the team's transition hub.
Whenever a defender won the ball, first option: find Lin Yuan.
Receive, hold off a press with brute strength, launch a long pass.
60th minute.
Vinicius tore the defence open again, danced past Gusto, and blasted in from a tight angle.
1-2—Real Madrid back in front.
Despair began to spread.
80th minute.
Lin Yuan felt his legs burn—overheating muscles under high-load current. System warnings flashed wildly.
[Warning: muscle-fibre rupture increasing. Recommend immediate cessation.]
"Shut up."
He muted the alert.
Chelsea corner.
Every aerial threat surged forward; Lin Yuan shuffled stiffly to the edge of the box.
Real Madrid's focus was locked inside the area.
The corner came in, headed out by Nacho.
The ball looped up toward the arc.
Lin Yuan waited.
He watched it drop. Bellingham charged to close him down.
No touch.
He knew his legs couldn't survive another sprint—this was his last shot.
He braced sideways, left leg planted like concrete, right leg high.
An outrageously open, violent volley shape.
"Go… and die in the net!!!"
BOOM—!!
His right instep smashed the ball dead centre.
All his pain, fury and madness fused into one strike.
The ball turned to white laser, ripping through the crowded box—no one saw it, not even Courtois.
By the time the roar hit ears, the ball was nestled in the top corner.
2-2!
A screamer of a worldie!
Stamford Bridge exploded.
The recoil flung Lin Yuan to the turf.
This time he didn't bounce up.
The pain he'd blocked seeped past the system's firewall in a tremor of dread.
Teammates rushed to lift him.
"Don't move!" he snarled.
Lying on the grass, he waited ten seconds for the electric spasms to pass.
He gripped Enzo's outstretched hand—Enzo leaning on crutches at the touchline—and rose.
He glanced at the 2-2 scoreboard, then at the stunned Real Madrid stars.
Full-time whistle.
Honours even.
Shrugging off every helping hand, he clenched his teeth and limped to the dressing-up room like a broken robot.
Every step mortgaged his future.
At the tunnel mouth he turned back once.
The Bernabéu return leg—that would be the real judgment day.
And he still had to survive another ninety minutes of this hell.