Chapter 88: The Bernabéu Trial
Spain, Madrid.
Estadio Santiago Bernabéu.
This is the grandest shrine of European football and the burial ground for countless challengers. After renovation, Bernabéu's fully enclosed metal shell and roof trap every decibel; the roar of 80,000 Madridistas becomes a colossal pressure cooker, determined to steam the visitors alive.
"Booooo—!!!"
When Lin Yuan stepped out of the tunnel, the cascade of jeers struck him like a tangible tide.
Madrid remembers. They remember how Lin Yuan ripped apart the Atlético shirt at the Metropolitano, and how, in the first leg at Stamford Bridge, he pinned Real's star-studded midfield to the centre-circle like a nail.
The giant screen flashed a close-up of Lin Yuan.
His face was bloodless, even his lips ash-grey. Yet he stared straight into the lens, eyes hollow and cold, as though watching a swarm of ants.
Only Lin Yuan knew how wretched he felt.
[Warning: Bio-current stimulation has reached critical threshold.]
[Muscle tissue is undergoing irreversible dissolution.]
[Time remaining until forced shutdown: 95 minutes.]
His legs had lost all sensation; the numbness crawled to his waist. He felt like a Gundam on the verge of falling apart, every movement demanding a colossal mental command.
"So this is the trial?" Lin Yuan glanced around the white stands, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"If it is, the one in the dock shouldn't be me."
…Peep!
With the referee's whistle, the second leg of the Champions League semi-final began—a battle of life and death.
Real Madrid attacked frantically from the first second. Ancelotti knew Lin Yuan's condition; his tactic was simple—run him into the ground.
Bellingham, Valverde, Camavinga—the three tireless midfielders sprinted and weaved, determined to drag the "fixed turret" down.
15th minute.
Valverde burned down the right, cut a low square ball back.
Lin Yuan read the pass, but the current-driven right leg answered a tenth of a second late.
That blink let the ball roll past him.
Vinicius collected, nudged past Disasi, and slid the ball into the far corner.
1-0!
Aggregate score 3-2—Real Madrid lead!
Bernabéu erupted; a white tsunami threatened to drown the blue of Chelsea.
Lin Yuan stood motionless, watching the ball nestle in the net. He said nothing, only clenched his fists until nails bit flesh, trying to jolt his dead nerves with pain.
"Not over yet," he told himself.
35th minute.
Chelsea won a corner.
Dragging heavy legs, Lin Yuan moved into the box. Rüdiger closed in, the German centre-back eyeing his former foe with a complicated look.
"You're dying, Lin," he murmured. "Is winning worth it?"
Lin Yuan didn't look at him; he stared at the corner flag.
"Die?" He gave a cold laugh. "Before I send you home, Death wouldn't dare take me."
The corner came in.
Lin Yuan rose above the crowd. Even on legs about to collapse, the Iron Head & Steel Bones trait won him the header.
Thud!
He smashed the ball into the turf.
Carvajal blocked it on the line with his body.
In the scramble, Osimhen poked it home.
1-1!
Aggregate 3-3!
Back to square one… The second half became a battle of will.
Every minute was a torment. Sweat soaked his shirt, yet he felt no heat—only the chill of life ebbing away.
70th minute, 80th minute… Real's waves crashed forward; Chelsea's defence creaked. Sánchez pulled off three miraculous saves.
If no winner emerged, extra time would decide.
But Lin Yuan knew he wouldn't last that long; the countdown inside him ticked its final minutes. Once it hit zero, even an immortal couldn't keep him on the grass.
The match had to be settled inside ninety.
88th minute.
Chelsea had a throw-in deep in Real's half.
This could be the last chance.
On the touchline, Mourinho couldn't bear to watch; he turned his back, hands clasped as if in prayer.
Reece James hurled the ball in, finding Madueke wide.
Madueke didn't cross blindly; he spotted the raised arm in the box—
The captain's signal.
"Give it to me!!!" Lin Yuan roared inside.
Madueke lofted the ball.
It arced high toward the far post—
Right where Lin Yuan waited.
But Rüdiger and Nacho bracketed him.
[System: Burn all remaining energy—activate Violent Header (S-Class).]
[Warning: After this action, host will lose ability to stand.]
"Good enough."
Lin Yuan issued the final command.
His ruined legs found one last after-shock of power; he took off like a rocket.
Rüdiger and Nacho leapt too, sandwiching him.
But in the air Lin Yuan was absolute, an immovable idol, shrugging both aside to win the ball.
Yet he didn't shoot.
From this distance and angle, a shot was low-percentage.
Time froze; Gods Perspective showed him the blue shadow lurking unseen—
Reece James.
Chelsea's other captain, a right-back plagued by injuries, had ghosted to the edge of the six-yard box.
Lin Yuan flexed his core; instead of heading at goal, he produced an exquisite—
Header across!
Thud!
He smashed the ball toward the centre.
Courtois had already committed to the shot he expected.
When the ball changed trajectory, every white shirt despaired.
There, Reece James met it in front of a half-empty net, no need for a touch.
He swung his laces through it.
BOOM!!!
The ball cannoned into the roof of the net, sending up a spray of white.
1-2!
Aggregate 3-4!
89th minute—winner!
Bernabéu fell into vacuum silence, then the away end exploded in a raw, tearing roar.
Reece James sprinted to the corner flag, Chelsea players chasing from every direction.
Outside the celebrating swarm,
the man who had supplied the killer pass never landed.
The instant he headed the ball, Lin Yuan, like a booster out of fuel, lost all control in mid-air.
He dropped.
Thud.
He hit the turf without even bracing himself.
Pain?
No pain.
In that instant the system's pain-block failed; pure darkness took over.
His legs were gone, limp as severed wires; consciousness blurred, cheers turning distant and warped.
But he knew: the ball had gone in.
Face pressed to the cold Bernabéu grass, he forced the corner of his mouth to move.
"Trial… over."
With his last shred of strength, he spoke the words inside.
Then boundless night swallowed him.
When the teammates finished celebrating and looked back for their captain, they saw only the motionless figure lying in the box.
This time, he did not get up.
The stretcher came on.
Mourinho raced onto the pitch.
The final whistle blew.
Chelsea into the Champions League final!
But on that night of wild celebration, every Chelsea fan watched the receding stretcher and wept.
The Tyrant had fallen—
yet with his final breath he had pushed open the door to Istanbul for Chelsea.
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