Borussia Dortmund, Signal Iduna Park.
Europe's most notorious cauldron of a stadium wasn't quiet today just because the host nation was absent. Instead, it was washed in a different, fiercer red—Turkish red.
Turkey, with its huge immigrant community in Germany, had turned this second-round Group F clash into a home game. More than fifty thousand Turkish fans packed the stands, their roar making the steel rafters tremble.
Inside the tunnel, the air was stifling.
Cristiano Ronaldo stood at the front of the line, adjusting his captain's armband. He glanced at the seething red sea beyond the mouth of the tunnel and gave a familiar, cold smile.
'Listen to that,' he said over his shoulder to Lin Yuan. 'They want to scare us to death with noise. These Turks, always over-enthusiastic.'
Lin Yuan was winding white athletic tape round his wrist—once, twice, tight enough to make the veins on his forearm stand out, thick with power.
'Just noise.'
He bit the tape free, rolled his neck with a crack. 'Choke their throats and the world goes quiet.'
The Turkish players opposite didn't understand Portuguese, but they could feel the contempt radiating from the tall, powerful No. 16.
Especially the kid in the No. 8 shirt—Arda Güler.
Nineteen years old, fresh Champions League winner with Real Madrid, he was at the peak of confidence. Nicknamed the 'Turkish Messi', his technique was dazzling. Right now he was sizing Lin Yuan up with fearless, provocative eyes.
To him, Premier League defending was only brutish; his skill could toy with this lumbering beast.
Peep—!
The referee's whistle set this powder-keg match alight.
Turkey, drunk on the crowd's frenzy—or blind faith—didn't sit back. They poured forward, daring to take on Portugal with pace and flair.
Güler became the center of attention.
After just ten minutes the Real Madrid kid twisted past Cancelo twice with heel-flicks so flashy the Turkish end screamed as if the trophy was already theirs.
'Damn, he's slippery,' Cancelo cursed, chasing in vain.
18th minute.
Turkey came again. Calhanoglu slid the ball from midfield; it rolled to Güler near the center circle.
Güler looked up.
Ahead lay open space, one tall figure in deep-red No. 16 blocking the road to the box—Lin Yuan.
A sneer curled Güler's lip. He'd seen plenty of hulking pivots in La Liga—slow, cumbersome, reduced to hacking him down. One feint and their ankles snapped.
The teenage prodigy decided to put on a show. He would humiliate the so-called 'Premier League tyrant'.
He bore down, feet flickering.
Two metres out, Güler dipped his left shoulder, feinted left, then snapped the ball back with the outside of his right, trying to nutmeg him—
Nutmeg after a croqueta.
Imaginative, insulting. Against most defenders the ball would be gone, leaving a spinning defender and a viral highlight.
But Lin Yuan didn't move.
Or rather, he didn't lunge, didn't lose balance to the feint.
His eyes, cold as dead water, locked on Güler's hips.
As the ball threaded between his legs, Lin Yuan simply stepped forward.
One step—not to tackle, but to invade.
He never looked at the ball. Knee and thigh like steel plates barred Güler's path.
Bang!
It wasn't a tackle; it was a traffic accident.
Seventy kilos of teenage speed hit Lin Yuan's wall-like frame like a sparrow smashing into bullet-proof glass.
Güler flew backward, feet flailing, slammed onto the turf and rolled, cheek smeared with dirt, hair a mess.
The ball sat obediently under Lin Yuan's boot.
The stadium's thunder was strangled silent in an instant.
Westfalen fell into stunned hush.
Lin Yuan ignored ball and boy alike. He stood over the gasping prodigy, gaze dropping from a height.
Floodlights cast his shadow long enough to swallow Güler whole.
The pressure froze the Turkish players rushing to protest.
'Welcome to the adult world, kid.'
Lin Yuan's voice wasn't loud, but in the deathly hush it carried clearly enough for everyone nearby to hear. There was no anger in his tone—only the quiet authority of a godfather.
"Real Madrid taught you how to play; I'm teaching you how to be a man."
Güler lifted his head. The arrogance in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something called fear. The impact moments ago had felt as if his ribs were about to snap, and that absolute, crushing power seeded deep doubt about the technique he prided himself on.
The referee hurried over, glanced at Güler on the ground, then at Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan spread his hands, the picture of innocence, and tapped his shoulder to signal a fair shoulder charge: "Ref, he ran into me. I didn't move a muscle."
The referee hesitated, then kept his cards in his pocket.
Because on the slow-motion replay Lin Yuan had indeed stuck out no leg to trip, nor hand to push. He had simply stood his ground, claimed the space, and the Turkish kid had bounced off like he'd hit a wall.
This is Premier League contact; this is a man's game.
Play continued.
But everyone could see the Turkish team's spirit had snapped.
The once-mercurial, even brash Güler simply vanished. Whenever Lin Yuan came within five metres he instinctively passed—sometimes all the way back. He dared attempt no more fancy dribbles; that dark silhouette had become his nightmare.
Without their core creator and dribbler, Turkey were headless flies, aimlessly knocking the ball around at the back.
21st minute: Portugal counter.
Lin Yuan again.
He read Çalhanoğlu's passing lane from deep, stretched a long leg, and intercepted.
The moment he stole it he looked up toward the right flank.
[Gods Perspective] activated.
He launched an instant long pass. The ball arced perfectly over the left-back and found the sprinting Bernardo Silva.
B Silva pulled it back from the byline.
At the near post Cristiano Ronaldo drew both centre-backs and deliberately let it run.
At the far post, unmarked, B Fernandes smashed it home.
Swish!
The ball rippled the net.
1-0! Portugal led.
That goal shattered Turkey's last mental resistance.
Only seven minutes later, the 28th.
Turkish defender Akaydin, barely pressed, panicked at the sight of Lin Yuan closing down and tried to roll the ball back to his keeper.
But the keeper, Bayındır, had already rushed out, and the ball trickled into the empty net.
Own goal!
2-0!
The farcical scene left the Turkish fans in stunned silence; their red flares died while Portuguese voices grew ever louder.
Second half: Lin Yuan flicked the switch to "slaughter" mode.
No longer content to defend, he surged forward. Every time he drove with the ball, Turkey's midfield scattered like startled birds—no one dared a shoulder-to-shoulder challenge.
55th minute.
From central midfield Lin Yuan slid a through-ball into Cristiano Ronaldo.
Cr seven beat the offside trap, saw the keeper rushing, and—ever the unselfish captain—squared to the better-positioned B Fernandes.
3-0!
The tie was dead.
70th minute: Martinez readied a change.
The fourth official raised the board: 1 João Neves on.
As Lin Yuan jogged off, the Turkish fans who had jeered him earlier found their voices gone. They stared at the man who had erased their teenage prodigy and suffocated their entire side, awe in their eyes.
Such is the deterrent of absolute power.
Lin Yuan reached the touchline and high-fived every substitute.
"Brilliant, Beast," Martinez beamed, hand outstretched; victory meant Portugal top the group with a game to spare.
Lin Yuan took a towel, wiped the sweat, and sat.
His gaze drifted to the Turkish bench.
The boy Güler had already been withdrawn, head buried in a towel, shoulders shaking—crying.
Lin Yuan expressionlessly cracked open a bottle and drank.
Cruel?
Perhaps.
But this is professional football—no fairy tales, only the survival of the fittest. If you're not hard enough, strong enough, you get chewed up and swallowed.
Full-time. Portugal 3-0 Turkey, into the last sixteen with a match to spare.
Post-match mixed zone.
Reporters surrounded Lin Yuan again; this time no one asked about "elegance."
"Lin, what did you make of Güler? Many compared you two before the game."
Lin Yuan paused, glanced at the camera.
"He's gifted," he said flatly, "but he's addicted to showboating. If he hasn't learned how to fight at Real Madrid, this European Cup will teach him."
"Next up is Georgia. Since you're through, will you rest?"
Lin Yuan shrugged.
"That's the coach's call. But…"
He looked toward the dressing room where Cristiano Ronaldo was receiving ice treatment.
"If I were coach, I'd let some old-timers put their feet up—the real war starts in the knockouts."
With that he pushed through the crowd and left.
Under the tunnel lights his silhouette looked taller than ever.
Two group games, two clean sheets, two assists.
The "Tyrant" once dismissed as a mere destroyer is carrying Portugal on his shoulders and marching on Berlin in undeniable fashion.