London's sky was as gloomy as ever, fine rain veiling the old city in a grey filter.
Cobham Training Centre.
It is the beating heart of Chelsea and the holy grail countless youngsters dream of, yet today the air felt strangely heavy.
Inside the medical centre, several machines hummed.
Paco Biosca, Chelsea's head doctor, held the freshly printed report, brows knitted as if he'd seen something impossible. He took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and read the numbers again.
"What is it, Paco?"
A slightly hoarse, magnetic voice sounded at the door.
José Mourinho stood leaning against the frame, hands in his coat pockets. His trademark silver hair looked razor-sharp under the cold lights, eyes appraising.
"José, you're sure this kid's only nineteen?" Paco handed the report, voice theatrical. "If the bone-age scan didn't confirm it, I'd swear you shipped in a ten-year Spetsnaz veteran from Siberia."
Mourinho took the sheet, gaze sweeping the columns.
Bone density: far above normal, hardness rivalling pro fighters.
Muscle-fibre profile: red fibres dominate, meaning terrifying stamina and post-burst recovery.
Joint wear: knees and ankles show no damage from his brutal style—only shocking resilience.
"Look at his back and leg groups," Paco tapped the MRI. "Core strength like this needs zero adaptation to Premier League contact. The so-called hard men here will bounce off him and fall apart themselves."
"Naturally." Mourinho's lips curled in a smug smirk. "I didn't buy a player, I bought a tank. I'm parking it in front of Chelsea's penalty area—anyone who wants past pays a toll."
At that moment the door of the next room opened.
Lin Yuan walked out, shirtless.
Even in the Premier League, packed with muscular physiques, his frame was striking. Not Cristiano's chiselled art, but blocks of raw, primitive violence.
Most arresting were the intersecting scars, and the fresh pink line above his left brow—a medal from blocking a shot with his face in the Portuguese Super Cup final.
"How do you feel?" Mourinho asked.
Lin rolled his neck; vertebrae cracked.
"London's heating's too high—makes me drowsy," he said flatly. "When can I play?"
"Easy, my butcher." Mourinho patted his shoulder; though he had to look up at the 1.89-metre kid, his aura didn't yield an inch. "Sign the contract first. The press outside can't wait to tear you apart."
…Stamford Bridge press auditorium.
Flashbulbs popped like a storm, shutters rattling. Chelsea's €18 million capture of Boavista midfielder Lin Yuan had sent shockwaves across the British Isles.
Most English media scoffed.
Eighteen million for a Chinese who'd only shone half a season in the Primeira Liga, famous for fouls and savage defending?
Another bone-headed vanity buy by chairman Boehly.
On stage, Lin sat beside Mourinho in a brand-new No. 44 Chelsea shirt—a number rarely seen in the Premier League, almost ill-omened.
"Mr Lin!"
First to strike, predictably, was the notorious Sun journalist.
A balding middle-aged white man rose, plastering on a fake smile. "Congratulations on joining Chelsea. But in England many see this as a move to tap the Chinese market—your shirt sales may outnumber your tackles. Any response to claims it's a 'commercial signing'?"
Low chuckles rippled.
A trap: anger would brand him volatile, humility would brand him weak.
Mourinho's face darkened; he reached for the mic—only for a large hand to pin it down.
Lin leaned forward slightly, abyss-deep eyes locking onto the reporter until the man's grin froze and the laughter died.
"What's your name?" Lin's voice, calm and cold, carried through the room.
"Er… Smith, The Sun."
"Listen up, Smith."
Lin eased back, eyeing him like a corpse, mouth curving cruelly:
"I came to Chelsea not to sell shirts, not to please anyone."
"I came so Premier League forwards learn to check over their shoulders from today."
He raised two fingers, pointing to the number on his back.
"Remember this number. Soon you'll worry less about my shirt sales than whether Chelsea's medical budget can cover the opponents' bills."
Silence.
Even Mourinho blinked, admiration almost spilling over.
He sipped water to hide a grin.
This kid—cockier than he'd ever been.
Exactly what he wanted: a rabid dog that could kill.
After the presser, the long-silent mechanical voice in Lin's mind finally spoke:
[Ding! Host has entered a top-five League – Premier League.]
[Map updated.]
[Newbie mission (Premier League arc): Debut Statement.]
[Objective: In the next match vs Everton, make an opponent feel "fear".]
[Reward: +2 free attribute points, one random passive skill.]
Walking down the Stamford Bridge tunnel, Lin traced the club crest on the wall.
"Fear?" he murmured. "That's my specialty."