The player tunnel at Anfield is narrower than any other stadium in the Premier League.
When you stand under the famous 'THIS IS Anfield' sign, the oppressive low ceiling and the cramped walls on both sides can trigger claustrophobia. At this moment, what is even more suffocating than the architecture is the singing coming from the other side of the wall.
"Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart..."
That wasn't just singing; it was a sonic weapon created by fifty-four thousand Red Army faithful.
Lin Yuan stood at the front of the line, with Enzo behind him, his face a little pale, subconsciously swallowing. Consecutive away games and the bloody battle against Manchester United had drained Chelsea's stamina. Now, at their most exhausted, they had to face the fastest and most suffocating team on the planet.
Standing beside Lin Yuan was Liverpool's captain, Virgil Van Dijk.
The Dutch giant was even taller than Lin Yuan. He adjusted his red captain's armband, glanced at Lin Yuan from the corner of his eye, a faint sneer playing on his lips.
"I heard you made Bruno (B Fee) cry at Old Trafford?" Van Dijk suddenly spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "But at Anfield, brute force alone is useless, kid."
Lin Yuan didn't look at him, just stared up at the sign touched by countless legends.
"Whether it's brute force or not, your ribs will tell you later."
Lin Yuan retorted coldly. But his clenched fist at his side was slightly stiff—his thigh muscles were throbbing, a side effect of his 'Iron Lungs' being overdrawn.
At the referee's command.
The red and blue teams lined up and walked out of the tunnel.
The moment Lin Yuan stepped onto the Anfield turf, the red sonic wave, like a tangible tsunami, slammed into his face.
If Old Trafford was a damp curse, then Anfield was a blazing furnace... In the first ten minutes of the match, Chelsea barely touched the ball.
Jürgen Klopp stood on the sidelines, waving his arms and roaring like a mad rock conductor. His tactics were clear: don't give Chelsea any chance to breathe.
"Heavy Metal Rock" football showed its most terrifying side at this moment.
As soon as a Chelsea defender got the ball, Liverpool's trident—Salah, Nunez, and Dias—would pounce like mad dogs. And behind them, Mac Allister and Szoboszlai formed a second noose.
The 12th minute.
Lin Yuan received a frantic pass from Disasi in the middle.
As soon as the ball reached his feet, he felt something was wrong.
In the past, opponents would instinctively keep their distance when they saw him with the ball, to prevent him from breaking through forcefully. But this time, Szoboszlai and Wataru Endō rushed straight at him, completely disregarding physical contact, determined to double-team him.
Lin Yuan leaned sideways, trying to use his body to push Szoboszlai away.
When he was full of energy, this move could send the Hungarian handsome guy flying two meters. But today, Lin Yuan only felt his shoulder heavy, his power output only about seventy percent of his usual.
Szoboszlai merely staggered, then immediately clung back like a sticky candy, sticking out his foot and poking the ball away!
"Damn it!"
Lin Yuan cursed under his breath, turning to chase back.
But Liverpool's counterattack was too fast. After three passes, the ball was already at Salah's feet on the right wing.
The Egyptian Pharaoh, facing Cucurella, who had been inconsistent this season, simply used a shoulder drop and a feint to open up a shooting angle.
Curling shot to the far corner.
The ball traced a perfect arc, bypassed Sánchez's fingertips, and nestled into the net.
1:0!
The cheers from Anfield made Lin Yuan's eardrums ache.
Klopp on the sidelines performed a set of his signature Three Farmer's Punches, while Lin Yuan could only stand with his hands on his hips, watching Salah's back as he knelt in prayer, his chest heaving violently.
"Is this your defense?!" Lin Yuan roared at the backline, but his voice was instantly drowned out by the singing from the stands.
His teammates' eyes were filled with confusion and exhaustion. Enzo didn't even dare to look Lin Yuan in the eye; he should have covered that position, but he really couldn't run anymore... After conceding, Chelsea tried to counterattack, but they found themselves caught in a meticulously woven trap.
Klopp had clearly thoroughly studied Lin Yuan.
He knew that Chelsea now relied entirely on Lin Yuan's individual progression and sweeping. So, Liverpool's strategy was to cut Lin Yuan off from his teammates.
Whenever Lin Yuan got the ball, there would always be three red shirts forming a "cage" around him. They weren't in a hurry to tackle, but rather cut off all of Lin Yuan's passing lanes, forcing him to go it alone and exhaust his stamina.
The 35th minute.
Lin Yuan had the ball in the center circle. Red figures surrounded him.
He looked up ahead; Mudryk and Jackson were both marked, and no one was coming to support him.
[Warning: Stamina decreased to 60%. Concentration is disturbed.]
The system's red frame flashed wildly at the edge of his vision.
A never-before-felt sense of powerlessness welled up in his heart. It was like having immense strength but punching into cotton.
"Since no one is there to receive, I'll charge myself!"
Lin Yuan gritted his teeth, a fierce glint in his eyes. The arrogance of a "Tyrant" took over at this moment. He ignored the safe option of passing back to the goalkeeper, forcefully turned with the ball, and tried to break through Mac Allister in the middle.
This was a wrong decision.
Although Mac Allister was not as physically strong as Lin Yuan, he was extremely clever. He anticipated Lin Yuan's move, didn't resist head-on, but rather moved aside, simultaneously sticking out a leg to trip him.
It wasn't a foul kind of trip, but a precise poke at the ball.
The ball was lost again!
And this time, it was deep in Chelsea's half!
"Lin Yuan lost the ball! He's holding onto it in the most dangerous area!" Commentator Carragher was so excited he almost jumped up. "This is a fatal mistake!"
Liverpool instantly accelerated after winning the ball.
Mac Allister made a through pass.
Darwin Nunez, like a beast unleashed, used his explosive power to instantly shake off Lin Yuan, who was still turning.
Lin Yuan chased back desperately.
The air in his lungs felt like it was burning, his thigh muscles ached as if they were about to tear. He watched helplessly as Nunez carried the ball into the penalty area, and facing the rushing Sánchez, calmly slotted it into the near corner.
2:0!
After scoring, Nunez frantically ran towards the corner flag, celebrating with a knee slide, even making a face at Chelsea's half.
Lin Yuan stopped.
He stood on the edge of the penalty area, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the turf like rain.
That lost ball was entirely his fault.
He had trusted his body too much, he had underestimated Liverpool's midfield stranglehold, he was... too tired.
"Is this the arrogant Tyrant from Old Trafford?"
Van Dijk deliberately walked past Lin Yuan as he ran to celebrate, not to mock, but with a condescending statement, "Your movements are too slow. Here, a second of hesitation means death."
Lin Yuan straightened up, staring intently at Van Dijk.
He wanted to retort, to curse back, to say, "Try colliding again." But looking at the glaring 2:0 on the scoreboard, seeing his teammates' dejected faces, all words got stuck in his throat.
In the stands, Liverpool fans began to chant, "Who are ya? Who are ya?"
This kind of taunt was more hurtful than boos.
It was contempt. They were mocking Chelsea's captain as merely a reckless brute who only knew how to use brute force, and who would flounder like a headless fly when encountering a true technical and tactical system.
For the next ten minutes, Lin Yuan played like a sleepwalker.
His mindset had wavered.
His impatience led him to frequently attempt risky long passes, most of which were easily headed away by Van Dijk. His defensive actions also began to deform; in the 43rd minute, in a challenge that wasn't particularly threatening, he tackled Dias from behind.
"Beep!"
The referee unhesitatingly showed a yellow card.
This yellow card meant he would be suspended for the next League match due to accumulated yellow cards.
Lin Yuan sat on the grass, looking at the yellow card, his mind buzzing.
He looked up at Mourinho on the sidelines.
The Special One was not furious, not throwing water bottles. He simply stood under the shelter, hands in his trench coat pockets, quietly watching Lin Yuan. There was no blame in his eyes, only a deep scrutiny.
It was like watching a piece of steel being forged in a raging fire.
Would it melt into scrap iron in this fire? Or would it be refined under heavy blows, becoming true fine steel?
"First half ends."
The whistle blew.
Chelsea players rushed into the player tunnel as if fleeing for their lives. No one spoke; the atmosphere in the locker room would be colder than hell.
Lin Yuan was the last to enter the tunnel.
He paused as he passed the "THIS IS Anfield" sign.
This time, he didn't look up.
Because he knew that, as he was now, he didn't deserve to look up.
The tunnel's shadow swallowed his tall figure, only his soaked number 44 jersey, heavy against his back, like shackles.
The lesson at Anfield was too painful.
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