85th minute of the second half.
The rain at Jamor Stadium hadn't let up; it was falling even harder, as though determined to wash the pitch into the Atlantic.
The score was now 1-1.
Ten minutes earlier, Lin Yuan had charged into the box like a battering ram, shrugged off two Sporting CP centre-backs, and powered the ball into the net with his bandage-wrapped head.
The impact tore the wound on his scalp open, turning the white gauze a deep crimson.
But now Boavista faced the final judgment.
Fourth minute of stoppage time—the last minute of the match.
Exhausted and a man down, the Boavista players could barely lift their legs; the disadvantage was magnified in the dying moments. Sporting CP threw everything forward, desperate to avoid extra time, desperate for a winner.
'Defend! Everyone back!'
Lin Yuan's hoarse roar echoed through the rain. His lungs felt on fire; every breath tasted of rust.
Bang!
Sporting CP playmaker Gonçalves lofted a pass over Boavista's weary back line.
Sporting striker Paulinho broke the offside trap!
One-on-one!
The Boavista keeper rushed out in despair, but Paulinho squared it calmly.
The ball rolled toward the far post.
An open goal.
The Sporting winger racing in was already grinning, ready to tap in the winner.
'It's over…'
Boavista fans in the stands shut their eyes in agony.
In the Chinese live-stream, trolls' fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to fire: 'Gallant losers? Laughable—still losers!'
Yet, just as the winger pulled back his foot to shoot—
A mud-caked, red-bandaged figure sprinted in from outside the box.
Too far. Impossible reach.
At this distance, a slide wouldn't do, a stretch wouldn't do.
'Then throw your life at it.'
That single thought blazed through Lin Yuan's mind.
Before tens of thousands of horrified eyes, he did something that defied every survival instinct—
Without slowing, he hurled himself horizontal, a flying header—but he wasn't heading the ball; he was using his face, his skull, to block the shot!
THUD!!!
A sickening smack.
The ball slammed square into Lin Yuan's face.
The impact snapped his head back; he crashed into the goal-line mud and lay still.
The ball ricocheted away!
No goal!
'My God!!!' the commentator screamed, voice cracking. 'He blocked it with his face—has he lost his mind?!'
Lin Yuan's world spun; a shrill ringing filled his ears. Warm liquid gushed from his nose—blood.
[System Alert: Severe concussion risk! Pain block engaged!]
'Up… not… over…'
He didn't collapse as everyone expected.
Before the ball even landed, muscle memory—drilled through countless system-space tortures—took over.
He clawed to his feet, vision blurred, seeing double.
The ball dropped at his feet.
Every Sporting player was still reeling in disbelief; with the entire team upfield, their half was empty.
Lin Yuan couldn't see clearly, but he sensed his teammate.
A substitute speedster, arms raised, sprinting into open space.
'Go.'
Gritting his teeth, Lin Yuan summoned the last of his strength and lashed his right foot under the ball.
Thud!
It flew in a soaring arc, half the length of the pitch, landing perfectly at the striker's feet.
Clean through!
Now it was Boavista's turn!
The striker raced fifty metres, rounded the keeper, rolled it into the empty net!
GOAL!!!
2-1!!!
Peep-peep-peeeep!!!
The referee blew for full-time.
A last-gasp winner!
A goal in the literal last second!
Jamor Stadium exploded. Boavista fans wept, clambering over barriers to storm the pitch.
At the centre circle, the architect of it all, Lin Yuan, finally gave in.
His knees buckled; he dropped to the turf, gasping. Rain, sweat, nose- and brow-blood streaked his face like a demon fresh from hell.
Teammates piled on in a delirious heap.
'Lin! We're champions! Champions!'
'You're insane—and a god!'
…The award ceremony.
Rain still poured.
When Boavista's captain tried to hand Lin Yuan the trophy to hoist first, he refused.
He stood silently at the back of the line, draped in a towel, face swollen, brow split, purple bruises blooming.
Until the team photo.
Someone shouted: 'Put the Chinese guy in the middle!'
No one objected.
Even the most senior veterans stepped aside.
Under the lights, Lin Yuan held the silver Portuguese Cup.
Click.
The moment froze.
Golden confetti swirled through the downpour. Lin Yuan's face was stone-cold, eyes sharp, bandage seeping red, trophy dangling like a severed head.
That image would later be voted by L'Équipe 'the most brutal football art of the 21st century.'
The caption read only: 'Mad Dog.'
Across the ocean, in China,
The live-stream fell silent.
The jeers—'traitor', 'softie'—vanished. Only blank screens and a few trembling lines:
'Is… is he even human?'
'I'm crying, bros.'
'The FA claims he asked for appearance money? A man who throws away his life—cares about cash?'
Public opinion flipped 180 degrees after the blood-soaked battle.
Team Leader Wang stared at the screen; the teacup slipped from his grip and shattered.
He knew—some things could no longer be contained.
Just then, from the dressing room, Lin Yuan posted via Anna's phone.
No words.
Only a photo: his bruised, bleeding legs and the trophy stained red.
Plus a short audio clip—
The recording of Team Leader Wang.
Victory achieved, it was time for reckoning.