Gelsenkirchen, Veltins-Arena.
Tonight's air held a strange sense of ease. Having secured six points from the first two matches, Portugal had already locked in the top spot of Group F. For head coach Martinez, this match against Georgia was like a routine dinner—it didn't matter if it tasted good, what mattered was not choking or staining his clothes.
Therefore, the starting lineup underwent a massive shake-up.
Aside from Cristiano Ronaldo, who insisted on playing to break records, and goalkeeper Diogo Costa, almost every other position was changed.
At this moment, the match had yet to begin.
On the bench, Lin Yuan wore a thick training jacket, legs crossed, leaning back comfortably against his seat like a boss. Sitting next to him were Bernardo Silva and Bruno Fernandes; this trio formed the most expensive "spectator group" in all of Europe.
"I've forgotten the last time I could watch a game from the sidelines so leisurely," Bernardo Silva sighed, taking a sip from his thermos. "Georgia? It should be an easy night."
Lin Yuan chewed gum, watching the Georgian players warming up through his sunglasses.
That group in white jerseys had something in their eyes he often saw in Premier League relegation-threatened teams—the green light of hungry wolves seeing meat.
"Easy?"
Lin Yuan spoke the word flatly, his voice mostly drowned out by the noisy music. "In this position, no game is easy. Especially when you think the opponents are sheep, they tend to rip your throat out."
Bernardo Silva was stunned for a moment, having no time to retort.
With a blast of the referee's whistle, the match began.
Just 92 seconds.
Before the fans in the stands had even warmed their seats, some still looking for their places.
Georgia intercepted the ball for a counter-attack. António Silva—the highly anticipated young Benfica center-back—made a fatal back-pass error without any physical contact.
The ball was intercepted by Mikautadze and quickly passed to the surging Kvaratskhelia.
The Serie A MVP drove into the box and, facing the charging goalkeeper, calmly slotted it into the corner.
1-0!
The entire Georgian team went wild, and the Georgian fans in the stands let out a mountain-shaking roar.
On the bench, Bernardo Silva almost dropped his thermos.
"This..."
Martinez stood on the sidelines, hands in his pockets, his expression instantly turning from relaxed to rigid.
"That's the problem."
Lin Yuan was still leaning back, his tone as flat as if he were narrating an inconsequential game. "João Neves is a good prospect, but he's too clean. If it were that play just now, the moment António Silva made that mistake, that Georgian striker would already be on a stretcher."
Bruno Fernandes swallowed hard beside him. Although it sounded cruel, he knew Lin Yuan was speaking the truth. This was the art of the "tactical foul," and the very reason for Lin Yuan's existence.
The subsequent match time turned into a teaching demonstration of "toughness"—except this time, Portugal was the negative example.
The Georgians were clever. They realized that while this Portugal Team's midfield today was technically refined, capable of passing and controlling the tempo, the terrifying "Number 16 Thug" wasn't on the pitch.
Thus, they were no longer afraid of physical contact.
In the 30th minute, João Félix tried to break through on the wing but was forcefully bumped out of bounds by a Georgian defender's shoulder. The referee didn't blow the whistle.
In the 40th minute, Dalot received the ball in midfield and was sandwiched between two Georgian giants like a piece of meat; the ball was lost.
This luxury battleship, known as the "Brazil of Europe," appeared so fragile and weak before the Georgians' forest of muscles.
Without Lin Yuan's sweeping and deterrence in midfield, Portugal's defensive line was directly exposed to the opponent's fire. António Silva panicked; Danilo Pereira was slow.
That suffocating control had vanished, replaced by a panic that felt like a collapse could happen at any moment.
Cristiano Ronaldo repeatedly raised his hands in the front court asking for the ball, only to watch in disappointment as it was intercepted in midfield time and again. He waved his arms angrily, shouting at his young teammates: "Be tougher! Don't play like girls!"
But shouting couldn't solve the problem.
57th minute of the second half.
Disaster struck again.
It was António Silva again. A reckless challenge in the box tripped Lochoshvili.
VAR intervened. Penalty.
Mikautadze converted the penalty.
2-0!
Now, even the most optimistic Portuguese commentator fell silent.
The camera meaningfully cut to the bench.
In the frame, Martinez was leaning over, seemingly hesitating whether to make a substitution. His gaze turned toward Lin Yuan.
Lin Yuan had already taken off his sunglasses, his cold eyes staring at the scoreboard.
The Portuguese fans throughout the stadium began chanting Lin Yuan's name:
"Lin! Lin! Lin!"
The sound echoed through the Veltins-Arena, even drowning out the Georgians' celebrations. It was a distress signal.
Martinez walked up to Lin Yuan.
"Lin, go warm up." The head coach's voice was a bit strained.
Lin Yuan stood up and took off his jacket. But he didn't immediately run to the warm-up area; instead, he looked at Martinez and asked calmly:
"Sir, do you want to win this meaningless match, or do you want to win the European Cup?"
Martinez was stunned. "What do you mean?"
"If you send me on now, I either have to tear into them like a mad dog, risking injury to dig us out of this two-goal hole, or I just stroll around and take the blame for the loss."
Lin Yuan's voice was low, audible only to the two of them. "Let them lose this one. Let them feel the pain; only then will they know who is truly indispensable."
Martinez was silent for three seconds.
It was an extremely risky gamble. But as a tactical master, he understood Lin Yuan's meaning.
This blade should not be used to chop vegetables.
"Sit back down." Martinez sighed, turning to sub on Gonçalo Ramos and Diogo Jota, attempting to bolster the attack rather than the defense.
Ultimately, the score was fixed at 0-2.
Georgia had created a miracle, historically reaching the Round of 16. Their players wept on the pitch, celebrating this great victory.
Meanwhile, on the Portuguese side, there was a dead silence.
Young António Silva sat on the turf, burying his head in his knees and crying. João Félix stared blankly at the sky.
Mixed zone.
This time, reporters didn't swarm Cristiano Ronaldo or the error-prone Silva. All microphones were aimed at Lin Yuan, who had just walked out of the locker room without even breaking a sweat.
"Lin! What do you think about today's loss?"
"Is it because your absence caused the midfield to lose control?"
"Some commentators say that without you, the Portugal Team is like a boneless mollusk. Do you agree?"
Lin Yuan stopped walking.
He didn't fire back as usual, nor did he mock.
He just faced the camera, straightened his collar, his tone frighteningly calm:
"Losing is a good thing."
The reporters were taken aback.
"Pain makes the memory deeper." Lin Yuan pointed to his dejected teammates behind him. "Tonight, they will remember this feeling of helplessness. Then they will understand what a luxury it is when I am standing behind them."
Having said that, he turned and left.
[System Notification:]
[Passive Reputation Gain: Irreplaceability (S-rank).]
[Media sentiment across Europe has reversed.]
[notoriety points change: Decreased (those who used to call you crude are starting to miss your crudeness).]
[Current Status: The true backbone of Portugal.]
The next day, the headline of LÉquipe had only one line of large text, accompanied by a black-and-white photo of Lin Yuan watching coldly from the bench:
"When the Tyrant Rests, the Kingdom Crumbles."
This 0-2 loss, though a blow to their pride, strategically established Lin Yuan's god-like status within the national team.
From this moment on, no one dared to question his starting position.
Even Cancelo, on the bus back to the hotel, looked at the broad back in the front row with eyes no longer filled with disdain, but with deep reliance.
It was the kind of reliance people only have on a safe harbor during a storm.
Next, the knockout stage.
Opponent: Slovenia.
Lin Yuan looked at the German night scenery flying past the window and lightly clenched his fist.
"The playing around is over."
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