Britain in December feels like a giant, wet morgue.
Wind laced with ice chips slips past every collar. For professionals it heralds the phrase every Premier League coach dreads: the Christmas Express.
Twenty days, six brutal fixtures—one knife fight every three days.
It is the league's cruellest tradition, the Meat Grinder that separates champions from also-rans and the graveyard of countless ACLs and menisci.
In the Cobham physio room the air reeks of wintergreen, Yunnan Baiyao and faint mildew.
Agh—easy! That's my groin!
Sprawled on the table, Cucurella squeals like a stuck pig. The physio, deadpan, grinds an elbow into his adductors, shredding the scar tissue.
Nearby, Enzo straps an ice bag round his swollen ankle; Caicedo slumps, staring at the ceiling as though the last match's mud swallowed his soul.
The place is thick with the low pressure of overdraft.
Only a treadmill hums in the corner.
Lin Yuan, vest soaked, jogs at 15 km/h, breathing slow and deep, each footfall heavy and metronomic—an engine that never stalls.
Freak… Enzo exhales, tugging his collar. He played ninety minutes last night and isn't tired?
No one sees the red warning box flashing in Lin Yuan's vision.
Warning: host fatigue at 85%. Continued high-intensity matches will sharply increase injury risk.
Available free attribute points: 5 (from Manchester City match and recent accumulation).
Available notoriety points: 18,000.
Lin Yuan doesn't hesitate.
System, dump all five points into Stamina.
Spend 15,000 notoriety points to purchase passive Iron Lung (S-rank).
Ding!
Attribute allocation complete. Stamina: 88 → 93 (S-).
Skill acquired: Iron Lung (S-rank).
Description: host's cardio breaks human limits. Lactic-acid build-up slowed 60%; recovery speed up 200%. After 80' you gain 'second wind'—all stats +5% for ten minutes.
A furnace blast pumps from his heart through every vein. Lead legs turn liquid; the ache is replaced by a craving to tear something apart.
He kills the treadmill and hops off.
Towelling sweat from his face, he steps into the middle of the dressing room. Surveying the wreckage, he claps—sharp cracks slicing the gloom.
Slap! Slap!
Stop lying around like capon turkeys, he growls. Brighton in three days, United in six. If you can't run, go ask Mourinho for leave—I won't carry soft shells.
No one argues; under that stare complaining feels shameful.
3 December, Stamford Bridge. Chelsea host Brighton.
65': Gallagher cramps, then sees red (second yellow for a mistimed lunge). Ten men for the remaining half-hour.
Score: 2-2.
Sleet turns the turf to an ice rink. Brighton's winger Mitoma squirms down the right like an eel.
We're caving! Disasi gasps, lungs on fire.
As Mitoma cuts inside again, a navy blur arrives.
Bang!
No finesse—just a freight-truck shoulder from Lin Yuan that launches the Japanese winger into the stands. Mitoma lands spinning, eyes wide in terror.
88'.
Both sides are spent; Brighton's midfielders lean on knees, praying for the whistle.
Yet Chelsea's No. 44 keeps sprinting.
He steals the ball on the centre circle, ignores team-mates waving him to slow, and stampedes half the pitch like a furious rhino.
A defender grabs his shirt, is dragged five metres through the sludge and dumped.
Stop him! the keeper screams.
Lin Yuan reaches the arc, winds up.
Boom!
The ball rockets into the top corner like a shell—3-2! Winner.
No wild celebration: he stands, chest heaving, exhaling a long plume of steam into the floodlit snow.
Three days later, Goodison Park. Away to Everton.
A dogfight. Everton, fighting relegation, snap at ankles like rabid dogs.
Enzo limps off inside half an hour; Palmer cramps by 70'.
Only Lin Yuan.
In the 94th he's still everywhere—slide-tackling on the left, out-jumping strikers on the right. At 80' Doucoure tries to muscle him, takes a shoulder in the ribs and kneels vomiting.
Chelsea scrape a 1-0 win.
After the whistle Sky Sports' Carragher stares at the stats sheet as if it's haunted.
It's not human… 13.8 km covered, and his sprint in the 93rd minute was faster than in the first—absolutely insane.
Look at the other players—Chelsea or Everton, they're all strolling through the last ten minutes. Only Lin is flying.
Neville added, "That's simply not a human stamina bar. One word comes to mind—cyborg."
December 9.
Only two days of rest.
Chelsea's squad rolled into Manchester. This time, though, their destination wasn't the Etihad but the Theatre of Dreams soaked in glory and curses—Old Trafford.
Rain streaked the bus windows.
The cabin was deathly quiet. Most players had headphones on, eyes shut, or were dead to the world. Weeks of away fixtures and high-intensity battles had pushed this young squad to the brink of collapse.
Mourinho sat at the front, brows locked, flipping through the medical report.
Sterling—groin discomfort, likely out."
Jackson—thigh muscle tightness, recommend bench."
Cucurella—fever and cold..."
He was almost out of cards to play.
Mourinho exhaled, turned and looked back.
Mid-bus, Lin Yuan wasn't sleeping. A tablet in his hands, he replayed United's recent matches. The screen lit his angular face; no fatigue in those eyes—only a hunter's focus on prey.
Lin," Mourinho stepped over, voice low. "Tomorrow, I want you for just one half. We need to save legs for what's coming—"
No need."
Lin didn't look up, finger freezing the frame on United captain Bruno Fernandes throwing his arms wide in complaint.
But I'm worried about your muscles—"
Boss." Lin lifted his head; a frightening fire burned there, the endless energy of Iron Lung stirring. "I'm not tired. Really."
He tapped the frozen Bruno on the screen.
Besides, I can't wait to get to Old Trafford and hear the boos. I hear they love cursing Chelsea there?"
Mourinho blinked, then smiled—pleased and ruthless.
Yeah, they'll call you a 'dirty Chelsea dog'."
Perfect." Lin shut the tablet, the corner of his mouth curving cold. "I'll make them swallow those words—along with their teeth."
The next night, Old Trafford felt suffocating.
United's season had been turmoil; ten Hag's job hung by a thread, and the Red Devils desperately needed a victory. A battered Chelsea looked the perfect sacrifice.
In the changing room.
Lin Yuan rubbed warming oil into his legs; the pungent scent wrinkled Mudryk's nose beside him.
Listen up!"
Mourinho burst in, voice hoarse. "I know you're exhausted. I know your legs feel like lead. I know it's unfair—those FA bastards fixed our schedule like it's murder.
But!"
He swung his arm toward the wall. "Outside, seventy-five thousand United fans are ready to laugh at us. They think we're soft, overpaid mercenaries."
Saying 'I'm not tired' is a lie." Lin Yuan rose suddenly.
Every head turned.
He stepped into the middle, adjusting the armband—Reece James out, Chilwell out, Gallagher suspended, the band now circling Lin's arm for the first time—and looked around.
The yellow captain's band blazed against the dark-blue shirt.
I'm tired too," Lin said, voice calm yet hammering every chest. "My knee hurts, my ankle's numb. But the second I'm on the pitch, no red shirt gets past me."
Tonight, give me the ball."
He clenched his fist—a promise from the Tyrant: "If you can't run, pass to me. I'll run. I'll hit. I'll kill."
We are Chelsea. We don't want pity."
Roaaar!!!"
The dead dressing-room ignited with the last spark… In the tunnel.
Two lines formed.
United captain Bruno stood at the front, glanced at Lin with scorn and provocation, turned to McTominay behind him, muttered something; they both chuckled.
Lin stared ahead, expressionless.
The instant he stepped onto the Old Trafford turf, a tsunami of boos crashed down.
Booooo!!!"
Go back to London, scum!"
F*** off Chelsea!"
Seventy-five thousand voices could buckle weak knees.
Lin only stood at the center circle, breathing in the hostile air.
Ding!
Extremely hostile environment detected: Old Trafford (Theatre of Dreams).
notoriety points gain efficiency +50%.
Quest issued: Nightmare of the Theatre of Dreams.
Objective: Win at United's home and make at least one United player lose his head.
Lin rolled his neck with a crack.
Thanks to Iron Lung, his body teetered on the edge of hyper-activation. No warm-up needed—his blood was already boiling.
The referee's whistle blew.
In the very first minute Lin showed what 'cyborg' meant.
United kicked off; Bruno took the ball and, before he could organize, the world went black.
A huge shadow swallowed him.
Bang!
No feeling-out—Lin smashed in shoulder-first like a road roller. Bruno tried to turn away but found himself out-muscled by orders of magnitude.
Lin shielded the ball, gave a light shrug, and Bruno staggered off balance.
Dispossessed!
The Old Trafford boos leapt an octave.
Lin trapped the ball, looked down at Bruno appealing to the ref, and spat a single word:
Soft."
Tonight belongs to the Tyrant. And Old Trafford's dream is about to become a nightmare.
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