Chapter 81: Only One Color
Madrid, Spain.
Wanda Metropolitano Stadium.
The Iberian Peninsula's night sky in April was clear, but the air above this pitch was thick enough to suffocate. Sixty-eight thousand Atlético Madrid die-hards had turned this stadium into a massive red-and-white powder keg, their unique, blood-scented cheers sounding like a pack of hungry wolves howling.
"Atlético Madrid! Atlético Madrid!"
A massive TIFO slowly rose, depicting a Spartan warrior holding a blood-stained spear.
Inside the players' tunnel.
Lin Yuan stood at the front of the Chelsea line, adjusting his yellow captain's armband. He could feel his teammates' breathing behind him becoming rapid—young Colwill was even swallowing repeatedly.
Opposite him, the Argentine with a mohawk and a neck full of tattoos—Rodrigo De Paul—was staring at him with an extremely unsettling gaze.
De Paul was chewing gum with exaggerated jaw movements. His look wasn't that of a player facing an opponent, but of someone eyeing a piece of raw meat about to be tossed into a Meat Grinder.
"Hey, Brit."
De Paul suddenly spoke, his voice heavy with a South American accent and dripping with provocation. "I heard you're a tough nut to crack? Hope your shin guards are just as tough. The grass is slippery tonight; be careful not to break a leg."
Lin Yuan's movements paused for a moment.
He slowly turned his head, looking down at De Paul across the half-meter gap between them.
"You know what?" Lin Yuan's voice was as steady as if he were reading an instruction manual. "I've always found Madrid to be quite noisy. Especially the flies here—always buzzing around."
De Paul's expression soured. Just as he was about to lash out, the head referee blew the whistle to enter the pitch.
Lin Yuan didn't give him another glance. He strode forward with his long legs, leading the way into that boiling red-and-white sea... "Tweet—!"
With the sound of the whistle, the match—predicted by all European media as a "mud wrestling" bout—officially began.
Diego Simeone, dressed in his signature all-black suit, stood on the sidelines like a mob enforcer, roaring and waving his arms from the first second. His tactical intent couldn't be clearer:
Break the game into pieces. Slow down the tempo. Turn football into a brawl.
5th minute.
Lin Yuan received a backpass from Enzo in the center circle.
The moment the ball reached his feet, he felt a vicious wind rushing toward him.
De Paul wasn't looking at the ball at all; he was going for the man. As Lin Yuan trapped the ball, De Paul's studs covertly stepped onto Lin Yuan's foot while his shoulder slammed hard into Lin Yuan's chest.
Any ordinary player would have collapsed in agony, perhaps even losing the ball from the sharp pain in their foot.
But Lin Yuan didn't.
[System Passive: Savage Physique (Pain reduction 30%)]
He didn't even flinch.
Faced with De Paul's charge, Lin Yuan simply dropped his shoulder slightly, his core muscles instantly tensing like a steel plate.
"Thump!"
A dull thud echoed.
De Paul, the one who initiated the contact, was actually the one knocked back.
Lin Yuan took the opportunity to turn, but he had barely taken a step when he felt his jersey being gripped tightly.
De Paul's hand was like a hook, snagging the fabric at Lin Yuan's waist and pulling back forcefully.
*Streeetch—*
Although the high-quality jersey didn't tear, the tug was enough to disrupt Lin Yuan's balance.
The referee blew his whistle. Foul.
But there was no yellow card, not even a verbal warning. It was just a standard tactical foul.
De Paul let go, raising his hands to the referee to signal his innocence. Then, as he turned to walk away, he leaned into Lin Yuan's ear, whispered a profanity, and intentionally bumped Lin Yuan's jaw with his shoulder.
"This is just the beginning, asshole."
Lin Yuan stood his ground, pressing his tongue against the inside of his bumped cheek, tasting a hint of iron.
He watched De Paul's arrogant retreating figure, a tint of crimson slowly spreading in the depths of his eyes.
"Want to play dirty?"
Lin Yuan bent down and reset the ball.
"Then I'll play along."
The next twenty minutes of the match turned into a disaster movie.
Football? No, there was no football here. Only endless physical combat, players hitting the deck, sliding tackles, and dirty tricks.
In the 18th minute, Koke struck Gallagher in the back of the head with his elbow during an aerial challenge.
In the 24th minute, Savic covertly punched Osimhen in the penalty area.
As for the "special attention" given to Lin Yuan, it reached a level of sheer insanity.
Whenever Lin Yuan had the ball, De Paul and Llorente would pounce on him like rabid dogs. They weren't looking to win the ball, only to disrupt. Stepping on toes, pinching his waist, kneeing the back of his legs... they used every dirty trick hidden from the referee's line of sight.
Chelsea's young players were losing their composure due to this thuggish style of play. After being fouled, Enzo shoved his opponent in anger and ended up receiving a yellow card instead.
"Calm down!" Lin Yuan grabbed the furious Enzo and pushed him behind him.
"But Captain, they..."
"Shut up." Lin Yuan's voice was as cold as ice. "They're trying to provoke you. Don't be an idiot and fall for it."
35th minute.
Lin Yuan received the ball in midfield again.
This time, De Paul didn't charge directly; he opted for a sliding tackle.
It was an extremely dangerous move. He tackled from the side-rear, and while one foot reached the ball, his other knee acted like a battering ram, aimed straight for Lin Yuan's shin.
He was definitely trying to end a career!
The traveling Chelsea fans in the stands let out terrified screams.
But in that split second, Lin Yuan's [Defensive Instinct (S-rank)] triggered a primal reaction.
He didn't dodge.
If he dodged, he'd lose the ball.
In a flash, Lin Yuan tensed the muscles of his supporting leg to the absolute limit and lowered his center of gravity, like an iron stake driven deep into the ground.
Force against force!
"Crack!!"
The teeth-gritting sound of shin guards colliding.
Lin Yuan's lower leg shuddered violently, and sharp pain surged instantly.
But he didn't budge an inch.
Instead, it was De Paul, who had come flying in with the tackle, who felt as if his knee had struck a granite pillar. The massive counter-force made him scream in pain, and he rolled several times across the grass in agony.
The ball was still at Lin Yuan's feet.
But he didn't continue the attack. The referee blew the whistle to stop play because the way De Paul was rolling on the ground looked truly pathetic.
The Atlético Madrid players immediately swarmed, accusing Lin Yuan of a malicious foul.
Simeone was even more frenzied on the sidelines, roaring at the fourth official and demanding a red card for Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan stood in the eye of the storm, watching it all with cold eyes. He looked down at his sock; it had been sliced open by studs, leaving a deep white mark on his shin guard.
If not for [Iron Bones], his shin bone might have fractured from that impact.
The head referee ran over, looking somewhat hesitant.
Lin Yuan pointed at De Paul, who was still acting on the ground, then at his own torn sock. His tone was frighteningly calm:
"Mr. Referee, if you don't stop this attempted murder, I'll have to protect myself in my own way."
The referee eventually gave De Paul a yellow card—ruling it a dangerous play.
De Paul stopped rolling immediately, scrambled to his feet, and glared venomously at Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan walked up to him until their noses almost touched.
"Does it hurt?" Lin Yuan asked.
De Paul gritted his teeth. "F**k you."
"We've barely started." A cruel curve formed on the corner of Lin Yuan's mouth—the smile of a demon. "Your knee isn't tough enough. Next time you stick your leg out, make sure you have good insurance."
The first half ended in a suffocating atmosphere of hostility.
0-0.
The entire Chelsea squad looked like they had just crawled off a battlefield, every player carrying some form of injury.
In the dressing room, Mourinho didn't lose his temper.
He looked at Lin Yuan, who was icing his leg, and then at the indignant young players.
"This is Atlético Madrid," Mourinho said softly. "They want to drag you into the mire and then use their wealth of experience to beat you."
"So what do we do, Boss?" Gallagher asked. "Do we just let them kick us?"
Mourinho looked at Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan removed the ice pack and stood up. There was a bruise on his shin, but on his bronzed skin, it didn't look out of place; instead, it looked like a medal of honor.
"No."
Lin Yuan walked to the center of the dressing room, his gaze sweeping over everyone.
"In the second half, don't bother trying to reason with them."
He turned around and took a fresh number 44 jersey from the kit manager to put on.
"Since they want to play mud wrestling..."
Lin Yuan pulled on the jersey, revealing only his murderous eyes:
"Then we'll pin them into the mud until they suffocate."
"Remember, there is only one color in this stadium."
"And that's red. But not the red and white of Atlético."
Lin Yuan clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking loudly:
"It's the color of blood."
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