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Chapter 90: Battle of the Peaks
The sky over Stamford Bridge looked as if it were being pressed down by a massive lead plate, so low and heavy it made breathing difficult. London in May should have had some warmth, but today's cold rain seemed intent on dousing everyone's hope.
There were forty-five minutes left until kick-off for the Battle of the Peaks in the 37th round of the Premier League.
In the away locker room, Guardiola was pacing back and forth anxiously. The neckline of his expensive cashmere sweater had been pulled loose, and he was clutching a freshly printed starting lineup in his hand.
That thin piece of paper felt as heavy as a thousand pounds in his hand at this moment.
"This is impossible..." Guardiola muttered to himself, his brow furrowed into a tight knot. "Three days ago he was still being resuscitated in the ICU. Orthopedic experts from all over the world said his muscle fibers were like rotten cotton. How could he possibly start?"
On the list, in Chelsea's midfield position, that name was prominently displayed: Lin Yuan.
Rodri was adjusting his shin guards. Hearing the head coach's whisper, he looked up, a hint of disdain flashing in his eyes. "Pep, don't be fooled by that old Portuguese fox. This is definitely a smokescreen. Even if he does play, he'll be a cripple. I'll pass him like I'm crossing an empty street on a Sunday morning."
Guardiola stopped in his tracks and stared intently at Rodri. "What if he isn't faking it?"
Rodri froze for a second, then shrugged. "Then I'll just send him back to the hospital."
...When the stirring music of 'The Liquidator' blasted over Stamford Bridge, the cheers of forty-one thousand Blues fans nearly shattered the glass of the roof.
Because they saw that figure.
Lin Yuan stood at the very front of the player tunnel, without crutches or support. He stood as straight as a javelin, the yellow captain's armband on his left arm shining brilliantly under the lights.
His face was still somewhat pale, a sickly hue from just having recovered from a serious injury, but in those black eyes of his, an almost eerie flame was burning.
The effects of the [body reset agent] were surging through his veins. It was a strange feeling, like forcibly injecting high-octane fuel into a sports car that was about to be scrapped. No pain, no fatigue—only an endless, even restless power.
"Hey, Tyrant."
Manchester City's captain, Kyle Walker, walked over, sizing up Lin Yuan with a complex gaze. "Are you a Terminator? I mean, like a T-800?"
Lin Yuan didn't look at him, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the misty, rain-slicked pitch.
"Save the chatter, Kyle." Lin Yuan's voice was as cold as ice shards. "If you don't want to lose too badly, tell your men not to think about using fouls to test me. I'm not in a very good mood today."
"Beep—!"
With a whistle from referee Anthony Taylor, this life-and-death battle to determine the Premier League champion officially began.
Just as Guardiola feared, Lin Yuan wasn't here just for a 'moral victory.'
The 5th minute.
Manchester City tried to control the ball in midfield. Rodri received a pass from Stones and habitually tried to shield the ball and turn. In his view, Lin Yuan, having just recovered from a major injury, certainly wouldn't dare to engage in intense physical contact.
But he was wrong.
The moment Rodri touched the ball, he felt as if a high-speed train had slammed into him from behind.
"Thump!"
A cringe-inducing sound of muscle colliding echoed through the center circle.
Lin Yuan activated his [Savage Physique], holding nothing back. Utilizing his powerful upper-body strength, he directly shoved Rodri—known as the 'World's Best Defensive Midfielder'—two body lengths away from behind!
Rodri stumbled and lost his balance, falling pathetically onto the turf and even sliding for a meter.
A steal!
The cheers at Stamford Bridge exploded instantly.
Lin Yuan stepped on the ball, not in a hurry to launch a counterattack. He looked down at the shocked Rodri, his lips curling into a cruel arc.
"This is your intensity?" Lin Yuan asked coldly. "If that's the case, you won't be able to carry that championship trophy."
This collision shattered Manchester City's wishful thinking and jolted the morale of the entire Chelsea team.
The next forty-five minutes became a one-man show by Lin Yuan.
He was like a tireless beast, covering every inch of grass in his own half. De Bruyne's through balls were anticipated and intercepted by him, Foden's breakthroughs were blocked by his body, and Haaland's attempts to hold up the ball with his back to the goal were firmly suppressed by him.
That kind of dominance was even more terrifying than before his injury. Because at this moment, he was overdrawing his future, burning his very life.
Even Mourinho on the sidelines felt his hands trembling slightly as he watched Lin Yuan's tireless running. He knew what the cost behind this was.
The second half began.
The score was still 0-0. Manchester City was getting anxious; they needed a win to overtake Chelsea in points. A draw meant the initiative remained with Chelsea, and a loss... was a death sentence.
The 75th minute.
Guardiola waved his hand, and Manchester City pushed forward on all fronts. Rúben Dias even moved up near the center circle.
Chelsea built a wall of flesh and blood in front of the penalty area.
The 82nd minute.
A Manchester City corner attack failed, and the ball was cleared with a big kick by Disasi.
The ball flew high toward the center circle.
That should have been a vacuum zone contested by both sides. But a deep blue figure had already started moving, as if he had predicted where it would land.
It was Lin Yuan!
While everyone else was still watching the ball's flight path, he had already charged out like a cheetah.
Rodri chased back desperately, trying to grab Lin Yuan's jersey.
"Get lost!"
Lin Yuan gave a thunderous shout, swinging his left arm back and swatting away the 100-million-euro Rodri like he was shooing a fly.
He brought the ball down with his chest near the top of the center circle.
At this moment, laid out before him was Manchester City's empty half.
Manchester City goalkeeper Ederson, because the team had pushed forward in mass, was positioned very far out, almost standing outside the penalty area.
Seeing Lin Yuan take the ball, Ederson didn't retreat in a panic but chose to come out further, trying to compress the space. This was a gamble—betting that Lin Yuan's stamina had dropped and that he wouldn't dare to take a shot from such a distance.
But he lost the bet.
Lin Yuan looked up and noted Ederson's position.
In his [Gods Perspective (S-Rank)], a red parabolic line had already been generated in his mind.
Distance to the goal: forty meters.
No need to dribble forward, no need to beat anyone.
Lin Yuan adjusted his steps, his right leg tensing like a fully drawn longbow.
"Get... IN!!!"
"Boom!"
There wasn't the explosive sound of a heavy cannon shot, but rather a crisp sound of contact.
Lin Yuan didn't use his laces for a power shot; instead, he used the inside of his foot to curl an incredibly imaginative lob!
The ball soared into the air, carrying intense top-spin as it flew toward the gloomy sky over Stamford Bridge.
It flew very high, so high it seemed as if it would fly out of the stadium.
Rodri, who was tracking back at full speed, stopped in his tracks, looking up at the ball with eyes full of despair.
The retreating Ederson also stopped. He turned around, watching the black-and-white orb pass over his head, beyond his fingertips, and then dive sharply over the six-yard box.
It was a perfect, cruel, and breathtaking rainbow.
"Swish!"
The ball dropped into the net, not even causing much of a ripple in the netting, like a fallen leaf returning to its roots.
1-0!
In the 82nd minute, Lin Yuan used a stunning forty-meter lob to kill the game and kill Manchester City's championship dream!
The entire Stamford Bridge stadium fell into a brief vacuum, followed by an explosion of the maximum roar a human voice could achieve.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!!!"
After scoring, Lin Yuan didn't sprint in celebration.
He stood in the center circle, watching the ball still rolling in the net, and slowly spread his arms wide.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the cold rain wash over his face.
Behind him, Osimhen, Enzo (cheering on crutches off the pitch), Palmer... all his teammates rushed toward him like madmen.
Across from him, the Manchester City players collapsed onto the grass. Rodri covered his face with his hands, Haaland shook his head helplessly, and Guardiola looked as if he had aged ten years in an instant, sitting dazed on the manager's bench.
At this moment, the winner had been decided.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes. There was no wild joy in them, only the loneliness and dominance of one who has reached the summit.
He faced the stands and slowly raised one finger.
Not to silence anyone, but to declare:
We are number one.
The final whistle blew.
Chelsea defeated Manchester City 1-0, clinching the 2024-2025 Premier League title with one round to spare!
While his teammates threw Mourinho into the air, Lin Yuan walked to the sidelines alone. As the effects of the drug began to fade, his body felt a wave of exhaustion—an exhaustion that went deep into his soul.
But he still kept his back straight.
In the mixed zone.
All the reporters were going crazy, wanting to interview the captain who had just performed a miracle.
"Lin! Congratulations on the title! That lob was a stroke of genius! What were you thinking?"
"This is Chelsea's first Premier League title in years. What does this mean to you?"
Lin Yuan stopped, took the champions cap handed to him by a staff member, and casually pulled it onto his head.
He looked into the camera, his gaze as calm as if he were talking about tomorrow's breakfast.
"What does it mean?"
Lin Yuan asked back softly, then his lips curled into an inscrutable smile.
"It means our domestic mission is complete."
He pointed to Stamford Bridge behind him, where the celebration was in full swing, and then pointed east—in the direction of Istanbul.
"But this was just a warm-up."
Lin Yuan's voice was low, yet it sounded like a war drum beating in everyone's hearts:
"The big one is yet to come."
"Tell Arsenal to polish the trophy. That big ears cup, I'm bringing it back to London. But not to North London—to here."
Having said that, he pushed the microphone away and turned to walk into the blue sea of celebration.
The Premier League title was just a stepping stone.
The Tyrant's ambition always lay on the next peak.