Chapter 94: Night in Istanbul (Part One)
The sea breeze from the Bosphorus Strait carried salty moisture, blowing across this ancient city that straddles Europe and Asia.
Istanbul, Atatürk Olympic Stadium.
As night fell, this magnificent structure, which once witnessed the "Miracle of Istanbul," had now transformed into a burning furnace. Seventy-five thousand fans divided the stands into two distinct halves—one a deep blue Chelsea ocean, the other a vibrant red Arsenal flame.
There was no Wembley chill, no Bernabéu oppression. The air here was filled with an almost fanatical, primal restlessness. Red fireworks ascended outside the stadium, and the colossal roar of cheers struck the stadium's dome like a physical sledgehammer, blow after blow.
This was the pinnacle of European football.
In the locker room, the atmosphere was eerily quiet.
Mourinho didn't deliver another passionate speech. He simply stood by the door, looking at the warriors who had followed him all the way to the final.
Enzo Fernández was wrapping the final bandage around his ankle. Although doctors had warned him of the risks, he had taken a pain-killing injection and chose to start.
Osimhen was kissing his shin guards, which bore photos of his deceased parents.
And Lin Yuan sat in the very center. His eyes were closed, as if he were asleep.
In his mind, the 3D map named "Atatürk" slowly unfolded. The length and width of the grass, even the subtle influence of wind speed on the ball's trajectory, became clearly visible within the calculation model of Gods Perspective (S-rank).
"Time to go out."
Mourinho clapped his hands.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes. In that instant, the air in the locker room seemed to freeze.
It wasn't a human gaze. It was the signal light of a precise, cold, and destructively ambitious war machine coming to life.
He stood up and tightened the captain's armband on his left arm.
"Let's go."
Just one word... In the player tunnel.
The narrow space forced players from both teams to face each other at close quarters.
Arsenal's captain, Ødegaard, stood at the very front, but it was Declan Rice behind him who was the team's spiritual totem.
Rice looked at Lin Yuan, his eyes burning with vengeful fury. The three losses this season, especially the "silencing" humiliation at Emirates Stadium, felt like a thorn in his throat.
"Hey, Tyrant."
Rice's voice was low, filled with gritted-teeth intensity, "That foot of yours isn't meant for playing football. You'd better not tremble tonight. Because we'll bite you like mad dogs until you suffocate."
Lin Yuan was adjusting his collar; hearing this, his movements didn't even pause.
He slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping past Ødegaard and landing on Rice's face.
"Mad dogs?"
Lin Yuan's lips curled slightly, revealing a look of extreme disdain.
"This is the Champions League final, not a pet park. If all you can do is bark, then go back to London."
"You..." Rice was about to erupt, but the referee team had already signaled for them to enter the field.
The majestic Champions League anthem, "Champions League," began, its solemn and sacred melody instantly pushing everyone's emotions to their peak.
Lin Yuan stepped out of the tunnel.
As the dazzling spotlight hit him, and the cheers of seventy thousand people crashed over him like a tsunami, he took a deep breath.
This was the taste of the pinnacle... "Beep—!!!"
With a whistle from head referee Szymon Marciniak, the 2024-2025 Champions League final officially kicked off.
No probing whatsoever.
From the very first second, Arsenal displayed Arteta's meticulously designed tactical intention—the Meat Grinder.
This young Gunners squad possessed the best running ability in all of Europe. Saka and Martinelli surged forward like sharp knives on both wings, while Rice, Thomas, and Ødegaard in the center formed an impenetrable net.
The 5th minute.
Lin Yuan received a pass from Disasi in the backfield.
As soon as the ball left the ground, a large net named "The Cage" instantly tightened.
Rice blocked from the front, Thomas flanked from the side and behind, while Ødegaard cut off the passing lane between Lin Yuan and Enzo.
Three Ghosts Knocking on the Door!
This was a targeted tactic Arteta had studied for two full weeks. No matter how strong Lin Yuan was, under the triple-team, any slight hesitation would undoubtedly result in losing possession.
The Arsenal fans in the stands erupted in expectant cheers.
"Die!!" Rice roared in his heart, stretching out his leg to poke the ball.
At this critical moment.
Lin Yuan's world slowed down.
Gods Perspective was fully activated.
In his vision, the three opponents who had been charging menacingly transformed into three moving light points with obvious flaws. Rice's center of gravity was too far forward, Thomas's footwork was half a beat slow, and Ødegaard's positioning left a gap only 15 centimeters wide.
That was enough.
Lin Yuan did not choose to resist with his body, nor did he opt for a long clearance.
The instant the three converged, he lightly flicked the bottom of the ball with the tip of his right foot.
It was an extremely incongruous, extremely delicate movement. Like an elephant performing fine needlework.
"Pop."
The ball, with strong backspin, flew out between the shoulders of Rice and Thomas, like a mischievous bird.
A Chipped Pass to Get Past the Defender!
Rice only felt a blur before his eyes, and the ball was gone.
The ball sailed over the encirclement and landed precisely at the feet of Palmer, who had dropped back to receive it.
"What?!" Arteta, on the sidelines, took a startled step forward, nearly stepping onto the field.
In such a confined space, under such intense pressure, how did he see that passing lane?
Palmer received the ball, turned, and Chelsea's counterattack instantly launched!
Although this attack was ultimately thwarted by Saliba, Lin Yuan's seemingly effortless chipped pass was like a silent slap, hitting Arsenal's meticulously planned tactical board.
"Is this your cage?"
Lin Yuan stood still, looking at the stunned Rice, and said coldly, "The bars are too sparse; it can't even hold a cat."
Rice's face turned ashen.
"Don't get cocky too soon!" Rice growled, turning to defend.
The match continued.
Arsenal did not abandon their tactics because of this failure. On the contrary, they became even more frantic.
If they couldn't block him with skill, they'd use physicality.
The 18th minute.
Lin Yuan got the ball again. This time, Rice didn't slow down but charged in like a cannonball.
"Thump!"
A muffled sound of muscle impact. This was an unreserved collision. Although Rice was bounced back half a step, he successfully slowed Lin Yuan's advance. Immediately after, Thomas came in with a fierce slide tackle from the side, aiming directly at Lin Yuan's ankle.
This was an unreserved collision. Although Rice was bounced back half a step, he successfully slowed Lin Yuan's advance. Immediately after, Thomas came in with a fierce slide tackle from the side, aiming directly at Lin Yuan's ankle.
Lin Yuan reacted extremely quickly, jumping to evade.
But the ball was lost.
Arsenal immediately counterattacked!
Saka received the ball on the right wing, faced Cucurella, cut inside with a change of direction, and curled a shot with his left foot!
The ball flew past the post and out of bounds.
Sending a cold sweat down the spines of Chelsea fans.
"Be tougher! Don't let him get comfortable on the ball!" Arteta roared hoarsely from the sidelines, "It's a final! Hit him with your body! Stop him with fouls!"
For the next twenty minutes, the match turned into a brutal melee.
Arsenal's midfielders began to take turns employing "Lumbering" tactics against Lin Yuan. Shirt pulling, hidden elbows, shoves from behind... every available means was used.
Lin Yuan's jersey was soon covered in grass stains and mud. There were several scratches on his arm, which Rice had inflicted during a scramble for the ball.
The 35th minute.
Lin Yuan shielded the ball near the sideline.
Ben White and Rice squeezed him into the corner flag area.
Lin Yuan leaned back against the two, unmoving like a lighthouse. His legs were rooted to the ground like tree roots, and no matter how the two behind him pushed, he kept the ball under his control.
"Get lost!"
Lin Yuan suddenly exerted force, leaning his shoulder back sharply.
Ben White was directly knocked back over the end line, almost falling.
Lin Yuan seized the opportunity to turn and sent a horizontal pass to Enzo.
But just as the ball was passed, an enraged Rice stomped fiercely on Lin Yuan's instep.
"Hiss—"
Excruciating pain struck. Lin Yuan grunted, staggering.
The referee blew his whistle. Foul.
But no yellow card.
Lin Yuan squatted down, untied his shoelace, and glanced at his slightly deformed sock.
Rice stood beside him, looking down provocatively: "Does it hurt? This is just the beginning. You'll keep hurting like this tonight."
Lin Yuan re-tied his shoelace and slowly stood up.
He was taller than Rice, and this height advantage became an oppressive presence in close-quarters confrontation.
Lin Yuan wasn't angry, not even furious.
He looked at Rice, and in those eyes, there was only a chilling calm.
"You know, Declan."
Lin Yuan's voice was soft, yet it cut through the surrounding noise.
"The more you resort to these dirty tricks, the more it proves you're afraid."
"You're scared."
Lin Yuan extended his index finger and poked Rice's rapidly rising and falling chest.
"Your heart is trembling. Because you know you can't beat me by playing football. So you can only resort to kicking people."
Rice's pupils suddenly constricted. The shame of having his innermost thoughts exposed instantly enraged him, and just as he was about to shove, Lin Yuan had already turned and run off.
"Just you wait." Rice gritted his teeth.
Before halftime, Chelsea remained on the back foot.
Arsenal's offense surged like a tide. Ødegaard's through balls, Martinelli's breakthroughs, tested Chelsea's defense again and again.
If not for Lin Yuan's sweeping presence in midfield, like a Wall of Lamentations, Chelsea might have already conceded.
In the 42nd minute, he made a crucial block at the edge of the penalty area, using his body to deflect Rice's long-range shot.
In the 44th minute, he tracked back to the byline, breaking up Saka's cross with a precise tackle.
He was like a tireless repairman, patching leaks everywhere on this crumbling ship.
"Beep—"
Halftime.
0:0.
This was a score that brought relief to Chelsea fans but regret to Arsenal fans.
In the player tunnel.
Lin Yuan walked last. His jersey was soaked, clinging tightly to his body, revealing the scarred yet powerful muscles beneath.
Enzo limped beside him (an old knee injury had flared up during the recent scramble).
"Captain, they're too crazy." Enzo panted, "That cage tactic... it's really tough. I can't even receive your passes."
Lin Yuan wiped the sweat from his face, his eyes deepening.
"Then we'll change the way we play."
He glanced at the Arsenal players walking ahead, a cold sneer forming at the corner of his mouth.
"Since they want to turn the game into a Meat Grinder..."
"Then in the second half, I'll show them who truly owns this machine."
Under the night sky of Istanbul, the calm before the storm had been broken.
The second half was destined to be an even bloodier battle.