Boavista Club, Sporting Director's Office.
A printed contract lay on the desk.
"A weekly salary of 2,000 euros, a 5-year contract, and a release clause of 20 million euros."
The Sporting Director, a balding fat man, twirled his pen and spoke in a patronizing tone:
"Lin, for a newcomer who has yet to prove himself in the Primeira Liga, this is a very generous contract. You know, your reputation right now is... unique. Many sponsors don't like violent thugs."
Lin Yuan sat opposite him, quickly scanning the terms.
A typical'slave contract'.
The low salary locked down five years of his youth, while the high release clause prevented him from being poached. The club was treating him like a cheap lottery ticket—if they won, they'd make a fortune; if they didn't, they lost nothing.
An ordinary eighteen-year-old player might have been furious or tried to haggle.
But Lin Yuan picked up the pen and signed his name with a flourish.
"Deal."
He dropped the pen and stood up.
"There will be money later. What I need now is just the qualification to stay here."
The director froze for a moment, watching the young man's decisive departure, an inexplicable chill rising in his heart.
---
3:00 PM, training ground.
When Lin Yuan appeared on the turf in his jersey, the air seemed to freeze for an instant.
Although he had signed a formal contract, the hierarchy in the Boavista locker room was strict. Led by Camacho, several "technical" veterans were clearly hostile toward this Easterner who only knew how to cause destruction.
"Hey, listen," Camacho whispered to a few South American teammates, his eyes glancing at Lin Yuan from time to time. "That murderer is a formal member of the first team now. But he doesn't know the rules of Boavista; we have to teach him."
Tactical drills began.
Coach Petit arranged an 11v11 full-pitch scrimmage.
Since the starting defensive midfielder was still recovering from an injury, Lin Yuan was assigned to the starters' group (yellow vests), partnering with Camacho in midfield.
It was an extremely awkward combination.
For the first ten minutes of the match, Lin Yuan seemed to disappear from the pitch.
It wasn't that he didn't want to run, but the ball simply wouldn't reach his feet.
"Here! Give me the ball!" Lin Yuan was in an open position and raised his hand for the ball.
But the right-back with the ball didn't even look at him, preferring to launch a long ball to Camacho in the front court rather than pass to Lin Yuan nearby.
Camacho received the ball in the attacking half. Facing the defense, he could have passed back to Lin Yuan behind him to reorganize, but he chose to force a dribble and ended up losing possession.
This scene played out three times.
Once, while being pressed, Camacho even deliberately sent an extremely difficult 'hospital pass' to Lin Yuan, causing him to nearly twist his ankle trying to receive it, which drew a burst of laughter from the bench.
"If you don't want to play, get the hell off!"
Lin Yuan climbed up from the ground, staring gloomily at Camacho's back.
Camacho shrugged with an innocent look. "It's your technique that's too trash to catch it. Blaming me?"
The assistant coach on the sideline frowned. "Boss, Camacho is messing around. If this continues, this lineup won't be able to gel at all."
Petit remained expressionless, chewing gum. "The football pitch is a jungle. If Lin can't even handle this bit of internal conflict, he doesn't deserve a place in the Primeira Liga. Keep watching."
25th minute.
The conflict finally erupted.
Camacho tried to show off again near the center circle, attempting to nutmeg a substitute team defender.
He messed up, and the ball was intercepted.
The substitute team immediately launched a fast counterattack!
As the attacking midfielder, Camacho was closest to the ball carrier. As long as he reached out to pull him or tracked back at full speed, he could have delayed the attack.
But he didn't.
He stood there with his arms out, complaining to the referee that there was no foul, watching helplessly as the opponent charged toward his own defensive line.
At this moment, Boavista's defensive line was empty, leaving only Lin Yuan as the final barrier.
Facing a one-two combination from two opposing players, Lin Yuan was in a desperate situation.
But he did not retreat.
[Passive Skill: Meat Grinder (Elementary) Activated!]
A fierce light flashed in Lin Yuan's eyes. In that instant, he gave up on predicting the ball and charged directly at the ball carrier.
Under that terrifying sense of pressure, the substitute player with the ball felt an inexplicable panic, and his movements slowed by half a beat.
In that half-beat of time, Lin Yuan turned himself into a torpedo, blasting through both man and ball!
The ball was cleared out of bounds.
The crisis was averted.
But Lin Yuan didn't walk back silently as usual.
He bounced up from the grass, turned around, and covered in grass clippings and dirt, like a raging black bear, he charged straight at Camacho, who was still strolling and complaining in the center circle.
"Lin! What are you doing!" The surrounding teammates were startled and tried to pull them apart.
Lin Yuan was too fast.
He rushed up to Camacho, grabbed the number 10 playmaker by the collar, and with one hand, he actually lifted the scrawny Camacho off the ground!
"Let... let go of me! You lunatic!" Camacho screamed in terror, his hands clutching Lin Yuan's iron-clamp-like wrists.
Lin Yuan pulled him close until their noses nearly touched. Camacho saw the undisguised tyranny in Lin Yuan's eyes—it was a gaze that truly wanted to tear him apart.
"Listen, you acrobatic monkey."
Lin Yuan's voice was low and raspy, echoing across the quiet training ground:
"You want to isolate me? No problem. You don't want to pass to me? Suit yourself."
"But—"
Lin Yuan suddenly tightened his grip, making Camacho's face turn red and his breathing difficult:
"If you lose the ball up front and don't track back for me, making me clean up your mess in the back..."
"Next time I tackle, my studs won't be aimed at the opponent, but at your ankle."
"Do I make myself clear?!"
A sudden roar made Camacho tremble all over, and he nodded subconsciously.
Lin Yuan threw him to the ground like a piece of trash and looked around at his stunned teammates.
At this moment, because of the deterrent effect of [Meat Grinder], not a single person dared to come forward to accuse him of assaulting a teammate.
"Continue the game!"
Lin Yuan shouted at the terrified referee.
In the following twenty minutes of the training match, the atmosphere changed completely.
Camacho was like a different person, tracking back desperately after losing the ball, for fear that if he ran too slowly, he would be 'purged' by the monster behind him. The other teammates also became exceptionally rigorous when handling the ball.
Because they found that as long as Lin Yuan stood in the midfield, a 'Tyrant's Field' seemed to form there.
When he was on the pitch, no one dared to slack off.
Sideline.
Coach Petit finally showed a satisfied smile.
He drew a heavy circle in his notebook:
"This is the midfield leader I want. A tyrant, but effective."
...After training.
The locker room was unusually quiet.
No one joked about Lin Yuan anymore; even when he passed by, everyone subconsciously pulled their legs back.
Lin Yuan finished showering, changed his clothes, and prepared to leave.
His phone suddenly rang. It was an unknown number.
"Hello?"
A voice that sounded somewhat smooth but spoke fluent Chinese came from the other end:
"Hello, Mr. Lin Yuan. Let me introduce myself. I am a partner at Mendes' agency. But I'm not calling for Mendes this time; I'm representing another gentleman... who is very interested in you."
Lin Yuan frowned. "Who?"
"José Mourinho."
The other party paused and dropped a bombshell:
"Mou watched the recording of your match at the Estádio da Luz. He said he smelled a long-lost scent of blood on you. Although you are still a rough stone, he wants to know if you are interested in going to a bigger stage to become a truly murderous blade?"