North London, Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
This £1-billion modern coliseum is now thundering with the roars of 60,000 Spurs die-hards. A giant golden cockerel statue crowns the roof, gazing down on a ground hungry for attack and passion.
Inside the dressing room, the air reeks of pungent wintergreen and sour adrenaline.
Mourinho stands before the tactics board, every inch of it streaked with red arrows. Yet instead of his usual torrent of positional instructions, he slashes two huge crosses over two names in the opposition half.
One is Son Heung-min.
The other is Maddison.
'Listen.' Mourinho turns, eyes as predatory as an old wolf about to strike. He has special feelings for Tottenham—the only club that ever sacked him before he could deliver a trophy. A disgrace, and a spur.
'Ange Postecoglou, that Australian, loves to attack. He tucks both full-backs inside, pushes his back line to the centre circle, plays that damned "suicide" pretty football.'
Mourinho sneers, smacking the board until it rattles.
'The world raves about their attacking style. But I'm telling you—it's all show.'
'They want possession? Let them have it. Eighty per cent is fine.'
Suddenly Mourinho jabs a finger toward the corner where Lin Yuan is tying his laces.
'Lin.'
Lin Yuan looks up, gaze calm as still water.
'I don't need you running all over today. You have one job.' Mourinho taps Maddison's name on the board. 'James Maddison is their heart. He loves the ball, loves to turn, loves those fancy through-balls.'
'I want you to scare the strength out of his legs.'
'Every time he touches the ball I don't want to hear leather—I want to hear bone. I want him dreaming of your shadow when he sleeps.'
Lin Yuan stands, rolls his neck with a sickening crack.
'What about Son Heung-min?' he asks.
'Son?' A cruel curve lifts Mourinho's mouth. 'Once the heart stops beating, the hand holding the knife is just decoration.'
At that moment, a cold mechanical voice sounds in Lin Yuan's mind.
[Ding! Host detected in "Asian Derby" media spotlight.]
[System mission issued: Extinguish Asia's Light.]
[Mission objectives:
1. Limit Son Heung-min to zero shots on target this match.
2. Destroy Tottenham's midfield engine—James Maddison.]
[Reward: 3 free attribute points, special title: Muffler of White Hart Lane.]
Lin Yuan glances at the Chelsea crest on his chest.
'Extinguish Asia's Light?' he murmurs, lips curving. 'Sorry—today, London's sky doesn't need any light.'
… In the players' tunnel
The two lines form up. Spurs' players brim with spirit, chests high. Star and captain Son Heung-min, armband on sleeve, slaps palms with team-mates, that trademark warm smile lighting his face.
As Lin Yuan passes, the Korean king offers a polite nod.
Lin Yuan doesn't return it.
His gaze slides past Son, locking on the English midfielder standing behind—James Maddison.
Maddison, busy fixing his hair, feels a sudden chill. He turns and meets Lin Yuan's emotionless eyes.
It isn't the look one gives an opponent; it's the look a butcher gives meat on the block.
'Welcome to hell, pretty boy.'
Lin Yuan whispers it for only two ears.
Maddison frowns, but before he can answer, referee Michael Oliver's whistle signals them to enter the arena.
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