London, Mayfair, inside a private dining room of a Michelin three-star restaurant with extreme discretion.
The air carried faint notes of cigars and aged red wine.
Lin Yuan sat on a velvet sofa, leaving the exquisite dishes untouched. Across from him were two men.
The one on the left wore a hand-tailored suit, every strand of hair in place, eyes as sharp as a hawk hunting prey. He was one of the most powerful agents in world football—Jorge Mendes.
The man on the right, slightly older, exuded cultured elegance yet radiated the commanding aura of a coach. Presently the manager of the Portugal National Team, Roberto Martinez.
If The Sun caught wind of this, tomorrow's headlines would explode.
'Lin, let me get straight to it.'
Mendes swirled his wine glass, breaking the silence. 'I already heard you turned down Director Li of the Chinese FA yesterday. In this circle, nothing stays secret.'
Lin Yuan wasn't surprised. For a shark like Mendes, lacking that intelligence network would be the real shock.
'So you're here to enjoy the show?' Lin asked flatly.
'No, I'm here to hand you the crown.' Mendes set down his glass and leaned forward, those hawk-eyes locking onto Lin. 'Chinese football is a desert—a swamp that not only grows no crops but rots every good seed. Refusing them was the smartest decision of your career. Yet you now face one problem: without a national team, you'll never touch the Ballon d'Or.'
Lin Yuan leaned back, fingers drumming the armrest. 'If you're trying to lure me to the Primeira Liga, forget it. I'm happy at Chelsea.'
'I'm not asking you to play in Portugal, Lin.' Martinez finally spoke, his English accented but sincere. 'I'm asking you to represent Portugal.'
Lin's hand froze mid-gesture.
Martinez pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
'I know it sounds insane. Normally naturalisation takes five years of residency. But Portuguese law allows the president to sign an exceptional decree for individuals of "significant prospective contribution to the nation."'
He tapped the state seal on the file. 'The application is already in process. Sign, and within a week you'll have a passport—in time for September's international break.'
Lin skimmed the pages without reaching for a pen.
'Why me?' He looked at Martinez. 'Portugal's stacked in midfield. Bruno, Bernardo, Palhinha, Vitinha… you're not short of talent.'
'We're short—desperately.'
Martinez's smile vanished, expression grave. 'We possess the world's finest technical midfielders, the most dazzling violinists, the most creative painters. But when we face France, face England—those physical monsters—our spine isn't strong enough.'
He traced a tactical shape on the table.
'We need a hammer. One that can shatter opponents' rhythm, let Bruno and Bernardo dance up front without a care. I've watched every Chelsea match of yours—that suffocating press, that aura that makes foes cower before kick-off—is the missing piece Portugal craves.'
Lin stayed silent. The reasoning was solid, yet insufficient for instant consent.
Mendes sensed the hesitation. For a lone-wolf 'villain' like Lin, tactical importance was only the baseline; to move him required a stronger elixir.
'Lin, before coming today someone asked me to pass you a message.'
Mendes produced an unsealed envelope and slid it over.
Inside lay a single note in forceful handwriting.
'Who?' Lin raised an eyebrow.
'Cristiano,' Mendes murmured.
Lin's pupils contracted.
On this planet a player may dislike Messi or Cristiano Ronaldo, but no one dismisses the weight those names carry—for this generation they are twin towering idols.
Lin unfolded the note.
No lengthy speech, just one line in Portuguese (and an English translation):
'Eu preciso de uma parede que não caia atrás de mim. (I need a wall behind me that will never fall.)'
Lin stared at the words.
He understood their implication.
It was a plea from a king still battling time despite every laurel already won.
Today's Cristiano still hungers for victory, yet age admits he can no longer sprint back to defend like in his youth. He needs someone to do the dirty work, to block vicious tackles, to free him for unbridled assault.
An invitation—and a trust.
'He said,' Mendes added, watching Lin's face, 'as long as you let him turn without worry, you'll forever be his brother—no one in the Portugal squad will dare touch you.'
The room sank into deathly silence.
Seconds later, Lin smiled.
Not the earlier cold smirk, but the excited grin of a hunter spotting worthy prey or a warrior finding a leader worth following.
'Interesting.'
He picked up the pen and, in one fluid stroke, signed the special-naturalisation papers.
'Tell him—' Lin stood, tossed the file at the stunned Martinez, straightened his collar. 'The wall is here. Let him run, and don't look back.'
A flash of wild joy lit Mendes's eyes; he had just brokered one of the most fearsome 'deals' in recent football history.
'Welcome to Portugal, Lin.' Mendes extended his hand. 'Pleasure doing business.'
'Pleasure.' Lin gripped it so hard Mendes winced. 'Since we're family now, let's talk commercial contracts. You know I'm not cheap.'
Mendes laughed. 'Relax, I'm Mendes. I'll make you the richest defensive midfielder on Earth.'
After seeing them out, Lin stood alone at the hotel's floor-to-ceiling window, gazing over London's glittering nightscape.
The mechanical voice dormant for days rang out in his mind again.
[Ding!]
[Major career decision detected: joining the Portugal National Team!]
[This is more than a nationality change; it is the start of dual identities—'World Enemy' and 'Legendary Bodyguard.']
[Main quest updated: Red Storm]
Quest briefing: On the upcoming international break, make your Portugal debut and earn the squad's—especially Cristiano Ronaldo's—recognition.
Reward preview:
1. Talent module unlocked: [Cannon (Basic)]—shot power greatly boosted, accuracy luck-based.
2. Passive skill: [Leader's Back]—when you play, the team's top star loses 10% less stamina.
Lin stared at his reflection; black eyes seemed ablaze.
'Cannon, huh?' he muttered, clenching a fist. 'So besides sending people flying, I can now rip nets too.'
His phone buzzed again.
Not a call—an Instagram notification.
@Cristiano has just followed you.
Thousands of kilometres away in Riyadh, a man fresh from training eyed his screen, a hopeful curve on his lips.
'Finally here.'