Portugal, Lisbon, Estádio Nacional do Jamor.
The sky looked as if it had been torn open; the cloudburst had already lasted a full two hours. The turf was waterlogged, slick and muddy, every footstep sending up a splash of filthy water.
This was the Portuguese Cup final.
It was also Lin Yuan's farewell performance for Boavista.
In the stands, green-and-white stripes occupied three-quarters of the ground—the die-hard fans of Sporting CP. As one of the Primeira Liga's traditional Big Three, they were determined to take this trophy.
In one corner, the handful of Boavista supporters in their black-and-white checkered shirts looked pitifully exposed to wind and rain.
More interestingly, far away in the East, countless eyes were fixed on the live broadcast.
The bullet-screen comments were a carnival of malice:
"Here to watch the traitor make a fool of himself!"
"Come on, Sporting CP! Smash Lin Yuan!"
"Waiting for a massacre—5-0 at the very least!"
Team Leader Wang's phone call and the subsequent smear campaign had worked. Now Lin Yuan had to fight not only the opponents on the pitch but also the curses from his homeland…
Whistle—!
With the referee's whistle, the match began.
From the first minute, the gulf between the giants and the minnows was obvious.
Sporting CP's midfield general Pote was technically superb, still able to send scalpel-like passes along the soaked ground. The ball skidded over the drenched turf as if it had been greased.
Boavista's players clearly couldn't cope with the tempo; the rain blurred their vision and they panicked.
In the 19th minute, disaster struck.
Pote threaded a through-ball that split the Boavista defence.
Young centre-back António Silva slipped in a puddle and lost his footing. Seeing the striker about to go clean through, António hauled him down in desperation.
Whistle!!!
The shrill blast of the whistle.
The referee sprinted over, pointed to the spot, then reached for a bright red card.
Red card! Penalty!
"My God, Boavista have been dealt a crushing blow!" the commentator shouted. "Less than twenty minutes in, they're a man down and facing a penalty—this final might already be over!"
The bullet-screen erupted:
"Hahaha! Karma!"
"Feels good! No need to stay up late—collapse incoming!"
0-1.
Sporting CP scored the penalty and strolled into the lead.
Boavista's players hung their heads. António left the field in tears. The captain tried to rally them, but his voice was drowned by thunder and the cheers of Sporting fans.
Despair spread like a virus. A man down against a powerhouse—how could they go on?
"All of you—heads up!!!"
A roar louder than the thunder.
Everyone turned in shock.
There was Lin Yuan, on the edge of the box, hair plastered to his scalp, rainwater streaming off a face with eyes as fierce as a wolf's.
He didn't comfort the weeping teammate or complain to the referee. Like an enraged lion he stared at the celebrating Sporting players.
"We've only conceded one—are you all ready to die?"
He yanked his stunned midfield partner to his feet and pointed at the opposition. "As long as I'm on this pitch they won't score again. Got it?!"
The suffocating force of his words jolted his teammates back from the brink.
Play restarted.
Sporting wanted to strike while the iron was hot and finish the job. With Boavista a man short, they expected gaping holes in defence.
They were wrong.
Because that Chinese player had gone berserk.
25th minute: Pote tried to dribble through the middle again.
But just past halfway he felt as if he'd been hit by a speeding truck.
Bang!
Lin Yuan launched a sliding tackle through the puddle, scything Pote down, ball and man, sending up a two-metre spray of muddy water.
Brutal but fair.
Lin Yuan got up and looked down at the Primeira Liga star lying in the mud: "Welcome to the swamp—this is my turf."
32nd minute: Sporting swung in a cross.
Lin Yuan read the flight, leapt high, and chested the ball down. As he landed, the opposing striker stamped hard on his ankle.
He didn't even flinch; the instant his feet touched the ground he hoofed the ball into the top tier of the stand.
40th minute: the ugliest scene yet.
The opposition's towering centre-forward smashed an elbow into Lin Yuan's brow while contesting a corner.
For a moment everything went black; warm liquid trickled down his cheek, mixing with rain into pale-red rivulets that spattered his white jersey—an appalling sight.
The referee stopped play.
Team doctor Anna sprinted on with her medical bag. Seeing the split brow, her eyes reddened instantly.
"The cut's too deep—you need stitches! Lin, you have to go off!" she cried.
"No."
Sitting on the grass, letting the rain wash the wound, Lin Yuan's voice was ice-cold: "Tape it up. Wrap it tight."
"But—"
"Wrap it," Lin Yuan snapped, seizing her wrist. There was no pain in his eyes, only a terrifying resolve. "As long as my legs aren't broken I stay on. Don't make me say it a third time."
Biting back tears, Anna staunched the bleeding, pressed a pad onto the brow, and wound thick white bandage round his head.
A minute later.
When the figure with blood-stained bandage round his head rose again, the Boavista ultras in the Estádio do Bessa erupted in thunderous applause.
Even some Sporting fans fell silent for a moment.
Back in the Chinese stream, the hate-filled bullet-screen stuttered to a brief halt.
Watching the bloodied man whose eyes still burned like a wolf's, the online trolls felt an inexplicable chill.
Was this really the "money-grubbing", "spineless" waste they'd mocked?
Play continued.
The bandaged man became an unbreachable wall for Sporting CP.
Beat the defenders and Lin Yuan was still there.
Try a shot and he'd throw his body in the way.
Want a shoulder charge and he'd show you what a frame of iron feels like.
Half-time.
The score remained 0-1.
A man down, battered by wind and rain, Boavista were swaying but had not fallen—because that mud-and-blood-streaked pillar was holding up the sky.
As the teams walked off, Mourinho stood in a VIP box, swirling a glass of red wine, eyes locked on Lin Yuan's retreating back.
"José, what are you looking at?" his assistant asked.
Mourinho pointed at the blood-stained figure, a fanatical smile curling at his lips:
"I'm watching a born leader. He's bleeding, but his opponents are trembling. That's the man I want."