In the away team's dressing room during halftime, it was as deathly silent as a tomb that had just been visited by grave robbers.
There was only the sound of heavy breathing, the sharp rip of bandages being torn, and the clatter of ice packs colliding in the team doctor's hands.
Lin Yuan sat in the corner, head bowed. Sweat dripped from the tips of his hair onto the floor, gathering into a small, dark puddle. His chest felt as if it were stuffed with water-logged cotton, heavy enough to suffocate him.
The images of the two goals conceded in the first half played repeatedly in his mind like a slideshow.
Specifically, the face Nunez made after scoring, and Van Dijk's words: "Hesitation is death."
"Bang!!!"
A loud explosion, like a grenade detonating in the center of the dressing room.
A plastic water bottle full of sports drink was slammed violently against the tactical whiteboard. Blue liquid exploded, splashing all over Enzo and Caicedo in the front row. No one dared to dodge; no one even dared to blink.
Mourinho stood before the tactics board, his face ashen, the veins in his neck bulging like earthworms.
"Is this your response?!"
The Special One's roar echoed in the small space, vibrating painfully against their eardrums.
"Is this the team led by the man who called himself a 'tyrant' at Old Trafford?!" Mourinho whipped his head around, his hawk-like eyes locking onto Lin Yuan in the corner.
Lin Yuan looked up, and for the first time, a hint of avoidance appeared in his eyes.
"Look at me! Don't lower your head like a coward!" Mourinho strode over to Lin Yuan, his soles making a squelching sound as he stepped on the sticky drink stains.
He pointed at Lin Yuan's nose, spit flying onto his face: "What are you afraid of? Afraid of Van Dijk? Afraid of Klopp's pressing? Or are you afraid to admit that you actually don't know how to play football at all, and can only charge around like a wild boar?"
"I'm not afraid," Lin Yuan gritted out, his voice hoarse.
"Then prove it to me!" Mourinho grabbed Lin Yuan's collar and yanked him up from his seat. "In the first half, you were hogging the ball in midfield like a headless fly. What were you doing? You want to be a hero? You want to dribble past five men and score?"
"Listen, Lin!" Mourinho's voice suddenly dropped, carrying a bone-chilling coldness. "This is Anfield. Here, heroes die the fastest. In the second half, I don't want to see you carry the ball for even more than three meters. Win it, then pass it. If you can't pass it, find a way to make them stay! Even if you have to take their legs off—within the rules—don't let them pass through the midfield comfortably!"
"I want that bastard who suffocated De Bruyne back, not a fool who wants to show off his footwork. Do you understand?!"
"Understood."
Lin Yuan clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.
The arrogant tyrant had been cursed awake. At this moment, he didn't need face; he only needed to win back even a shred of dignity... The second half began.
The rain had stopped, but the wind at Anfield remained clamorous.
Chelsea changed their formation. Mourinho subbed off the invisible Jackson and brought on a defensive midfielder, Gallagher, shifting to a more conservative 5-4-1.
Lin Yuan stopped attempting any long passes or forward drives.
He turned himself into a pure monolith, firmly anchored in front of the defensive line.
In the 55th minute, Mac Allister tried to repeat his old trick, attempting to pierce through the middle with a quick one-touch pass.
But this time, the moment the ball left his foot, he felt a massive force collide with his body.
Lin Yuan had anticipated his intention, slamming into him like an out-of-control truck and knocking him two meters away. Although the ball was released, Szoboszlai, who received it, was immediately swarmed by Gallagher.
"Good tackle!" Mourinho clapped from the touchline.
In the 60th minute, Chelsea got a rare counter-attacking opportunity.
Lin Yuan intercepted the ball from Salah in the backfield. Without any hesitation or even looking up, he directly booted the ball into the front court.
It was a clearance devoid of any technical finesse.
But Nkunku, who had just come on as a substitute, used his speed to catch up to the ball. Facing the oncoming Alisson, he calmly chipped it into the net!
1-2!
Chelsea pulled one back!
The Chelsea players celebrated wildly after the goal, as if seeing hope for an equalizer. Only Lin Yuan didn't celebrate; he bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
[Warning: Stamina at 20%. Iron Lungs effect is fading.]
That interception just now had exhausted the last of his explosive power.
Liverpool were incensed by the goal.
Klopp waved his hand, bringing on Jota and Gakpo. The Reds' offensive came in waves like a rising tide.
The 75th minute.
The most tragic scene occurred.
Chelsea had pushed their entire line up trying to equalize, but the resulting corner was headed out by Van Dijk.
Liverpool counter-attack!
Luis Díaz got the ball on the left wing with open space ahead. Chelsea's defenders were all in the opposing box, leaving only Cucurella and Lin Yuan at the back.
A two-on-two.
Díaz was too fast, blowing right past Cucurella.
A one-on-one!
If this went in, the game was over.
Lin Yuan sprinted through the middle. His lungs felt as if they were filled with sand, every breath tasting of blood. His legs felt like lead, but he couldn't stop.
He was the captain. Even if it was only for a second.
Díaz had already entered the edge of the penalty area, preparing to shoot.
In that instant, Lin Yuan made a decision.
He couldn't catch up. Even with the system's buff, he couldn't complete a clean tackle through speed in his overextended state.
There was only one way.
A flash of resolve crossed Lin Yuan's eyes. He didn't slow down; instead, he threw himself forward violently from the side-rear.
It was a textbook slide tackle aimed straight at the man.
"Bang!"
Lin Yuan's studs slammed into the turf, tearing up a large chunk of sod, and then his body, carrying immense momentum, swept through the shooting Díaz like a harvester.
Díaz went flying with a scream.
The ball rolled out of bounds.
"Beep!!!!"
The referee's whistle pierced sharply through the Anfield night sky.
The entire stadium erupted in massive boos and insults.
Liverpool players rushed up to surround Lin Yuan in anger; Van Dijk even looked like he wanted to shove him.
Lin Yuan lay on the grass, looking up at the pitch-black night sky. He didn't argue, didn't get up, and didn't even look at his furious opponents. He was too tired; that tackle had used up every ounce of his strength.
The referee ran over, reaching into his pocket.
First, a yellow card.
Immediately followed by a red card.
Two yellows become a red.
Sent off!
"Lin Yuan has been sent off! In the final moments, he used this method to stop a certain Liverpool goal!" The commentator's voice was filled with complex emotions. "It's a tactical foul, but it's also a desperate struggle."
Lin Yuan slowly pushed himself up from the ground.
He pushed aside the surrounding Liverpool players, looking neither at the referee nor the scoreboard. He took off the yellow captain's armband—the glory he had worn for less than two matches.
He walked up to a terrified Gallagher and pressed the armband firmly into the young man's hand.
"Hold it."
Lin Yuan's voice was terrifyingly low. "Don't let them score again."
With that, he walked toward the player tunnel without looking back.
He was greeted by the overwhelming mockery of fifty thousand Liverpool fans:
"Cheerio! Cheerio! Cheerio!"
Lin Yuan walked into the dark tunnel with his head down.
Just as his silhouette vanished into the darkness, a deafening cheer erupted behind him.
It was the sound of a goal.
Chelsea hadn't held on.
That free kick.
Szoboszlai stood at the spot and, with a perfect curling strike, bypassed the wall and found the top corner.
1-3.
The game was killed.
Lin Yuan stopped his pace and leaned against the cold wall of the tunnel. Listening to the song "You'll Never Walk Alone" that threatened to blow the roof off the stadium, he slowly slid down the wall into a sitting position.
He covered his face with both hands.
Between his fingers, the tyrant who always held his head high and acted invincible trembled slightly in the darkness for the first time.
Lost.
A total defeat.
Not just the score, but the man himself.
[Ding!]
[Detected host experiencing a major setback: The Anfield Massacre.]
[mental state value heavily damaged. notoriety points acquisition suspended.]
[System Prompt: A true powerhouse is not one who never fails, but one who crawls back up from the ruins.]
[Next Match: Suspended.]
Lin Yuan closed his eyes.
In the darkness, Mourinho's words "You actually don't know how to play football at all" were like a knife, slicing through his self-esteem over and over again.
But this knife also cut through the layer of illusion called "system dependence" that had been blinding him.
"I'll be back."
In the empty tunnel, he let out a low growl like an injured beast, to the air and to himself.
"Next time I come here, I'll make this stadium shut up."