Chapter 91: Double Crown?
The rain at Stamford Bridge finally stopped.
Or rather, even the dark clouds above London's gloomy sky were dispersed by the heat waves erupting from the blue volcano below.
In the center of the pitch, staff were setting up the podium that symbolized the highest honor in English football. The massive Premier League trophy—the Barclays Cup—lay quietly on its sterling silver base, with deep blue ribbons belonging to Chelsea already tied to its ears.
The air was filled with a mixture of champagne, firework sulfur, and the sweat of tens of thousands of hormone-filled men. To the losers, this smell was a suffocating toxic gas, but to the winners, it was the most expensive perfume in the world.
Lin Yuan stood at the very end of the line.
He didn't slide on his knees across the turf or take selfies as excitedly as the young Palmer or Madueke, nor did he embrace every stand with teary eyes like Mourinho.
He just stood there quietly, hands tucked into his soaked shorts pockets, his black eyes half-hidden by the stray hairs on his forehead, his emotions unreadable.
The effects of the [body reset agent] were still maintaining his body's peak functions, making him feel not a shred of fatigue. But he knew this was a false prosperity. It was like a vintage car forcibly injected with liquid nitrogen; the louder the engine roared now, the more complete the breakdown would be later.
"What are you thinking about, Captain?"
Enzo Fernández hobbled over on crutches, supported by Reece James, who was also out with an injury. The Argentine had that fresh League Cup medal hanging around his neck, and his eyes were red and swollen—evidence of his recent crying.
"Thinking about whether this trophy is heavy enough."
Lin Yuan turned his head to look at these two brothers who had broken their legs for the team, and his expression softened slightly, a rare occurrence.
"Don't worry, it's definitely heavier than that three-eared pot from the League Cup," Reece James grinned. "This is the Premier League. The hardest League title in the world to win."
"Is that so?"
Lin Yuan gave a non-committal grunt.
Just then, the DJ's penetrating voice echoed through the sky:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome—the 2024-2025 Premier League Champions! Chelsea!!!"
A massive wave of sound instantly drowned out all of West London.
The Chelsea players walked onto the podium amidst the cheers of two rows of hostesses. Everyone had a heavy gold medal placed around their neck.
Finally, it was the captain's turn.
The moment Lin Yuan stepped onto the stairs, the clamor in the stands reached its peak.
"Tyrant! Tyrant! Tyrant!"
It wasn't an elegant praise; it was a primal shout of worship, like a tribe for its chief.
The FA Chairman, face beaming with smiles, handed over the heavy silver trophy.
Lin Yuan reached out with both hands.
This time, his hands were steady, without trembling or loss of strength. The system's power gave him a grip strength sufficient to crush rocks at this moment.
He grasped the handles of the trophy, feeling the cold texture of the metal.
He was in no hurry to lift it.
He turned around, facing the group of expectant, soaked teammates behind him, and looked down at the white-haired Mourinho, who was gazing up at him from below the stage.
"ROAR!!!"
Lin Yuan exerted a sudden burst of strength, hoisting the trophy that represented the kings of England high above his head!
At that moment, blue confetti fluttered through the air like a blizzard.
Flame throwers around the podium spat out tongues of fire, illuminating Lin Yuan's arrogant and unbridled face.
He was smiling.
But in that smile, there was no sense of relief like "finally free"; instead, it carried a greed that suggested "this isn't enough"... The celebration in the locker room lasted for a full two hours.
Champagne was sprayed everywhere like tap water. The floor was covered in sticky wine, and the alcohol concentration in the air was so high that a single match could have caused an explosion.
Mourinho was pinned to the tactics table by the players and soaked like a drowned rat. The "Special One" cursed while laughing as he wiped the wine from his face.
This was his first League title since returning to the Premier League. He had proven once again that he was still the Special One.
Lin Yuan sat alone by his locker in the corner. He had changed into a dry championship commemorative T-shirt and held a bottle of mineral water.
Just then, the door was pushed open.
A few reporters with cameras and microphones were allowed into the locker room for brief interviews. This was customary after winning the Premier League.
When the reporters saw the man sitting as quiet as a statue in the corner, they swarmed over like a pack of wolves spotting meat.
"Lin! Congratulations! The Double!"
The chief reporter from Sky Sports handed over the microphone with a fawning smile. "The League Cup plus the Premier League title. This season can already be called perfect for Chelsea. Guardiola just said in the press conference that you deserve this title. How are you feeling right now? Do you feel this is the pinnacle of your career?"
The noise in the locker room quieted down slightly. The teammates also stopped what they were doing and looked at their captain.
Everyone was waiting for a standard victory speech. Something like "thanks to the fans," "thanks to the coach," or "this is a team victory."
Lin Yuan unscrewed the cap and took a sip of water.
He looked up, glanced at the reporter, and then scanned the messy locker room.
"Pinnacle?"
Lin Yuan asked back, his tone as flat as if he were discussing dinner. "Winning two domestic cups is called the pinnacle?"
The reporter was stunned for a moment. "But... this is the Premier League. The most competitive League in the world..."
"So what?"
Lin Yuan stood up. He was a head taller than the reporter, and his imposing presence made the other man subconsciously take a step back.
He walked to the center of the locker room, where the Premier League trophy they had just brought back was placed casually on a massage bed, right next to the slightly dented League Cup trophy.
Lin Yuan reached out and lightly flicked the base of the Premier League trophy.
*Ding!*
The crisp sound echoed through the quieted locker room.
"This thing is indeed not bad; it's quite shiny."
Lin Yuan's voice was low, yet it reached everyone's ears clearly:
"But in my eyes, this is just the appetizer."
"Ap... Appetizer?" the reporter stammered.
"Exactly."
Lin Yuan turned around, his gaze passing through the crowd to the large fixture list on the locker room wall.
There, in the very last slot, was a line of text:
[UEFA Champions League Final: Istanbul]
"We aren't full yet."
Lin Yuan pointed at that line, his eyes burning with a heart-stopping ambition—a look even more terrifying than when he had just lifted the trophy.
"For some people, winning the Premier League might be a lifelong dream, a reason to go on vacation in Dubai or squander money in nightclubs."
His gaze swept over a few young players; the boys who had planned to party all night immediately shrank their necks.
"But at Chelsea, in this team, as long as there is still one trophy we haven't brought back, no one is allowed to say 'perfect'."
Lin Yuan walked up to the camera—the one broadcasting live to the whole world.
He held up three fingers.
"We won one." He folded one finger (League Cup).
"Now we've won the second." He folded another finger (Premier League).
Finally, he left only his index finger pointing at the camera, as if pointing at every Arsenal player watching the broadcast, pointing at the opponent waiting for them in Istanbul.
"There's still this last bite left."
"Tell Rice, tell Arteta. Wipe that big ears cup clean."
A bloodthirsty sneer curled on Lin Yuan's lips:
"That is my property. I don't like other people's fingerprints on it."
...Ten minutes later, this interview set the global social networks ablaze.
#Lin Yuan: Premier League Title is Just an Appetizer#
#Chelsea Eyes the treble#
#The Tyrant's Greed#
In a world accustomed to players' humble, polished, and even somewhat hypocritical PR talk, Lin Yuan's naked and undisguised ambition was like a depth charge dropped into stagnant water.
Some cursed him for his arrogance, saying he was already dreaming before even getting to Istanbul.
Others were driven wild for him, saying this was the true aura of a king.
Meanwhile, at the London Colney training ground in North London...
In the Arsenal locker room, the TV on the wall was replaying Lin Yuan's interview.
Declan Rice watched the man on the screen pointing his index finger, his expression blank.
He was clutching a water bottle, the plastic body already deformed by his grip, letting out a sharp creaking sound.
"Appetizer?"
Rice gave a cold laugh, a trace of ruthlessness flashing in his eyes.
"Who does he think he is? God?"
Beside him, Saka said while wiping sweat, "But he really is strong. Even Manchester City was crushed by him."
"That's because Manchester City is soft." Rice stood up and threw the water bottle hard into the trash can. "In Istanbul, I'll make him spit out that 'appetizer' he ate, with interest."
"Since he wants the treble..."
Rice looked at the tactics board on the wall, where a photo of Lin Yuan was pinned, covered in red circles and arrows.
"Then I'll make him fall into hell from the place closest to heaven."
...The clamor at Stamford Bridge finally faded away.
Late at night, Lin Yuan drove home alone.
Anna was already asleep.
He didn't turn on the lights, sitting on the living room sofa, looking at the night view of London outside the window.
The effects of the [body reset agent] in his body were slowly fading. That familiar and terrifying sense of weakness began to rise like a tide, submerging his ankles and eroding his knees.
He knew this was the price.
The 48 hours of invincibility were about to end. For the next two weeks, until the eve of the Champions League final, he would have to face an even more difficult recovery period.
But looking at the gold Premier League medal on the table, Lin Yuan smiled.
He took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the calendar.
There were 14 days left until the night in Istanbul.
"14 days..."
Lin Yuan closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa, letting the deep fatigue swallow him whole.
"It's enough."
"Enough for me to sharpen my blade one more time."
In the darkness, the Tyrant's breathing gradually became heavy. He was accumulating strength for that final strike, for the night that would allow him to be truly crowned as king.
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