Oeiras, Portugal, Cidade do Futebol.
The Iberian sun is dazzling enough to make you dizzy.
Lin Yuan stood at the gate of the Portugal National Team training base, a small travel bag in hand. On the wall, the huge red-and-green crest glittered in the sunlight—the emblem of the 2016 European champions.
He had already earned a fearsome reputation in the Premier League, but stepping through this gate meant he had officially entered a new world.
'Take a deep breath, Lin.'
Mendes, who had come with him, patted his shoulder and smiled. 'There's a bunch of picky geniuses in there, and one stubborn king. Ready for the inspection?'
Lin Yuan chewed gum, eyes calm behind his sunglasses. 'They'd better be ready for me.'
...Locker room.
The atmosphere was delicate.
The Portugal National Team locker room has never been a place of meek courtesy. It's packed with core players from Manchester City, Manchester United, PSG and other top giants.
Bruno Fernandes was tying his laces, Bernardo Silva murmuring to Rúben Dias. Veteran Pepe, shirtless, showed off lean, battle-hardened muscle, his gaze fixed on the doorway.
News that 'the Chinese thug from Chelsea' had been naturalised had already blown up their group chat.
Some questioned it—Cancelo, for instance, felt it unnecessary; some in the coaching staff were intrigued; others waited to see.
Just then, the door swung open.
Lin Yuan walked in.
He was tall—189 cm—and the training top stretched over years of strength work made him look like a moving wall.
Conversation died instantly.
Pepe narrowed his eyes; the once-notorious 'monk' smelled familiar blood in Lin Yuan.
'Hey.'
Vice-captain Bruno stood first, polite but distant. 'Lin? Welcome. Your locker's over there, next to Dalot.'
'Thanks.' Lin Yuan nodded and headed straight to it.
He felt a dozen spotlights sweeping over him—scrutiny, doubt, curiosity.
'Heard you took Havertz out in the Premier League?'
A voice came from the corner—Vitinha from PSG.
'That tackle was nasty. Tone it down in training. We're all about technique here.'
A classic show of dominance.
Lin Yuan paused lacing his boot, turned, and swept a cold stare over Vitinha, then around the room.
'As long as you don't lose the ball in dangerous areas, I won't need dangerous tackles. I'm here to win, not to make friends.'
Vitinha's face stiffened.
Tension crackled, and all eyes drifted to the deepest locker—the empty No. 7.
'Where is he?' Lin Yuan asked.
Bernardo pointed out the window. 'Ronnie's always first. He's doing extra work.'
Without a word, Lin Yuan pulled on a training bib and walked out.
September, yet the Lisbon turf gleamed emerald.
By the far goal, a figure sprinted shuttles, over and over.
Even from behind, Lin Yuan recognised him at once—the trademark hair, the 38-year-old body still at peak body-fat, every stride pounding the grass like a hammer.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Sweat poured; he'd clearly trained for hours. Hearing footsteps, he stopped and turned.
Time had etched lines at his eyes, but the hazel stare still hungered for victory like a twenty-year-old.
Ten metres apart, they locked eyes.
The new 'tyrant' faced the fading 'king' for the first time.
Cristiano took water from the fitness coach, drank, and skipped the polite welcome.
He simply sized Lin Yuan up, judging the edge of the weapon before him.
'Mendes says you're a wall,' he rasped.
'That was then.' Lin Yuan stepped closer, half a head taller and without a hint of awe. 'Now I'm a spiked shield.'
A crooked, arrogant smile tugged at Cristiano's mouth.
'I don't care if you're a wall or a shield.'
Cristiano Ronaldo pointed at the ball at his feet. "In this team, only one rule matters: whoever helps me win is my brother. If you can't keep up, or if you're just the brute the media claims you are, I'll kick you out myself."
Lin Yuan smiled.
This was the leader he wanted—no fake concern, just pure hunger for victory.
"Deal." Lin Yuan extended his fist.
Ronaldo hesitated, then bumped his own fist against Lin Yuan's with a solid thud.
[System prompt: Bond mission "King's Guard" triggered.]
[Current approval: 10/100 (initial contact).]
…Half an hour later, full-team training began.
Martinez set up a red-vs-blue scrimmage. To test whether the new signing could become the immovable wall behind Cristiano Ronaldo, the staff made a bold call—placing Lin Yuan on the first-team (red) side alongside Ronaldo and Pepe.
To mimic high-intensity pressing, the creative midfielders like Bruno and Bernardo Silva were deliberately assigned to the blue squad (reserves/training partners) with orders to storm the red back line relentlessly.
Kickoff.
Though the blue team were substitutes, they bossed possession thanks to Bruno and Bernardo's slick passing; the ball might as well have been glued to their boots. Lin Yuan's physique was imposing, but against such tiki-taka he looked clumsy at first and was repeatedly left chasing shadows.
On the touchline the assistant frowned: "Looks a step slow?"
Then, in the 15th minute, the wind shifted.
Red's right-back Cancelo surged forward but dwelt on the ball and was pick-pocketed by the blue winger for a counter.
Ronaldo was waiting for a pass upfield, leaving a huge gap behind the red defence.
Blue striker Gonçalo Ramos latched onto Bernardo's through-ball and raced clear, clean through on goal.
A black blur surged from the side and behind.
Lin Yuan triggered Savage Physique and exploded across thirty metres like a runaway train to catch rampaging Ramos.
No foul.
He simply muscled in, using his frame to shoulder-charge Ramos off the ball.
Ramos lost balance and tumbled over the touchline.
A textbook, brute-force dispossession.
Without lingering, Lin Yuan glanced up after stealing the ball.
Upfield, Ronaldo, having missed Cancelo's pass, was jogging back to help.
"Run!!"
he roared in shaky Portuguese.
Ronaldo spun and sprinted on instinct.
The instant he did, the ball came screaming.
Lin Yuan delivered the long pass he'd been polishing at Chelsea—only B-grade accuracy, but hit with such power and pace that it pierced the blue back line.
Ronaldo watched it arc in, eyes lighting up.
Perfect drop—no need to check his stride, just run onto it.
He cushioned the ball with his chest, burst into the box, and lashed it past the keeper.
Goal.
Instinct almost sent Ronaldo to the corner flag for his "Siu" celebration, but after two strides he stopped, turned, and pointed back to the halfway line—at Lin Yuan.
He crooked a finger, beckoning him, then gave a thumbs-up.
Far away, Lin Yuan's poker-face barely twitched in a nod.
On the touchline Martinez grabbed his assistant's arm: "See? That's what we've missed—someone who cleans up when the fancy lads lose it and still fires the shell straight to Cristiano!"
In the dressing room the veterans' eyes toward Lin Yuan changed.
That tackle-and-launch was crude but damn effective.
After training.
Ronaldo sought out Lin Yuan.
"Nice pass," he said, wiping sweat. "But next time keep it lower—my knees don't like jumping these days."
"Got it," Lin Yuan replied. "And if that full-back doesn't play it back, you don't have to drop deep—I'll nick it and find you."
Ronaldo, a dozen years older, burst out laughing and slapped the younger man's back.
"Good."
"You start Friday against Slovakia."
Not the coach's order—the captain's promise.
At that moment the system panel in Lin Yuan's mind flickered:
[Cristiano Ronaldo approval: 10 → 30 (that pass showed him a path back to the summit).]
[Passive skill unlocked: Sword-Carrying Bodyguard (when within 20 m behind Cristiano Ronaldo, your tackle success +15%, his shot accuracy +5%).]
Lin Yuan gazed at the Lisbon sunset and murmured:
"Since I'm here, I'll go crazy with you one last time."
European Cup… or even that distant World Cup.
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