Chapter 80: The Fated Showdown
Nyon, Switzerland. UEFA Headquarters.
This is the heart of European football power, and the tribunal that decides the fate of countless giants. Under the massive crystal chandeliers, officials in suits sat upright, the air thick with a suffocating sense of solemnity.
At this very moment, thousands of kilometers away at the Cobham Training Centre in London, the entire Chelsea squad was gathered around a large screen in the tactical meeting room.
No one spoke; even Madueke, who usually loved to joke around the most, kept his mouth shut. Except for the slight plastic crinkling sound from the water bottle in the hands of the recovering Reece James, the room was so quiet that the hum of the air conditioning could be heard.
The Champions League Quarter-Final Draw.
These were the final three hurdles on the road to Wembley. Of the eight teams remaining, not one was a soft touch.
Real Madrid, Bayern Munich, Manchester City, Arsenal, Paris Saint-Germain, Barcelona, Atlético Madrid, and Chelsea.
It was practically a "Death List."
"As long as we don't hit Manchester City, it's fine," Enzo muttered under his breath. "Playing them is too exhausting; that possession rate makes you want to sleep."
"Real Madrid is also a lot of trouble," Caicedo shook his head. "Bellingham's form this season has been on an extraterrestrial level."
Lin Yuan sat in the front row, arms crossed, staring expressionlessly at the screen. He had just finished extra training, and a faint scent of body wash still lingered on him. To him, it didn't matter who they drew.
What mattered was who would be unlucky enough to draw Chelsea.
On the screen, former legendary Chelsea captain John Terry, serving as the guest for the draw, reached his hand into the transparent glass bowl.
At that moment, the breath of every Blues player hitched.
Terry pulled out a small ball, twisted it open, and revealed the slip of paper inside.
"Chelsea FC"
"Alright, we're away first, then home," Mourinho sat in the corner, twirling a pen in his hand, his tone calm. "Now, let's see which unlucky soul is coming to Stamford Bridge to die."
Terry's hand reached into the glass bowl again.
This time, he stirred it for a long while, as if fate itself were hesitating at this moment.
Finally, he pulled out the small ball that would decide their destiny.
He twisted it open.
The name on the slip of paper was revealed clearly under the high-definition lens.
"Club Atlético de Madrid"
"Fuck..."
A synchronized gasp filled the meeting room, followed by several irrepressible sighs of lament.
Even the usually combative Gallagher couldn't help but scratch his head: "Atlético... we're in for it now."
If Manchester City was a desperate suffocation and Real Madrid was an unexplainable metaphysics, then Atlético Madrid was pure physiological pain.
The Colchoneros under Diego Simeone were universally recognized as the toughest nut to crack in Europe—the dirtiest, craftiest team, and the best at turning a football match into a street brawl.
"Now this is going to be lively."
Mourinho looked at Simeone's grim face on the screen and suddenly laughed out loud. It was the kind of excitement one felt when encountering an old rival, or perhaps even a "kindred spirit."
"The two most hated managers, the two toughest teams," Mourinho stood up and clapped his hands. "Gentlemen, get your shin guards ready. The next match isn't a game of football; it's a war."
...As soon as the draw results were out, public opinion in European football instantly exploded.
The headline of Marca was simple and blunt: "Iron-Blooded Showdown: Simeone vs. Mourinho."
Meanwhile, England's The Times used a more vivid metaphor: "Wrestling in the Mud."
The article stated: "This is a match destined to be devoid of any aesthetic beauty. Chelsea possesses the Premier League's toughest spine (Lin Yuan), while Atlético has La Liga's dirtiest shield (the whole team). It's like two wild boars fighting in a swamp; the winner might not be the strongest, but they will certainly be the one most resistant to filth."
On social media, the heat of the discussion regarding this matchup even surpassed the "Clash of the Titans" between Real Madrid and Manchester City.
What fans looked forward to most wasn't the tactical maneuvering, but a specific head-to-head individual matchup:
Lin Yuan vs. Rodrigo De Paul.
De Paul, the "bodyguard" of the Argentina national team, the armed escort by Messi's side, and a notorious villain of La Liga. He was famous for his tireless running, rough play, and constant dark arts.
Immediately after the draw concluded, De Paul spoke harshly during an interview with Spanish media.
"Lin? I know him. That kid who's been rampaging through the Premier League."
In the footage, De Paul sported his signature mohawk, his gaze fierce. "I heard he calls himself the 'Tyrant'? Interesting. In Madrid, we specialize in overthrowing tyrannies. I hope his bones are as hard as his mouth, because at the Metropolitano, we don't provide stretchers."
This interview video was quickly forwarded into the Chelsea group chat.
In the dining hall of the Cobham Training Ground.
Lin Yuan cut the steak on his plate while looking at De Paul's provocative face on his phone screen.
"This guy is a madman," Enzo said from across the table, looking somewhat worried. "Lin, you need to be careful. De Paul is responsible for the dirty work in the Argentina team; he has a lot of tricks and is a very good actor."
"Is that so?"
Lin Yuan forked a piece of rare beef and put it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
The system's prompt sounded in his mind at the right time:
[Detection: Fated Showdown Mission Triggered!]
[Mission Name: There is Only One Color.]
[Mission Description: Atlético Madrid is famous for its iron blood, and De Paul is one of their spiritual totems. In this 'mud wrestling' match, prove who is the true King of Villains.]
[Reward Preview: Special Skill Fragment (???).]
Lin Yuan swallowed the beef and picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth.
"Enzo, what did you just say he was?" Lin Yuan asked.
"Messi's bodyguard," Enzo replied.
"Bodyguard?"
Lin Yuan stood up and straightened his collar, a heart-palpitating cold light flickering in his black eyes.
He tossed the phone back to Enzo, his tone as flat as if he were stating a trivial matter:
"Tell him."
"Bodyguards are for stopping bullets."
"And I am the one pulling the trigger."
Lin Yuan turned and walked out of the dining hall. Outside, the sky was overcast with dark clouds, as if foreshadowing that the upcoming trip to Madrid was destined to be a bloodbath.
"Also," Lin Yuan stopped at the door and suddenly turned back to add, "Tell the kit manager to prepare a few extra jerseys. In the next match, the shirts might get torn apart very quickly."
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