89: The last piece of the puzzle before the start of the game

The invitation from London lay quietly on the mahogany desk.

The gilded "K.K." signature reflected a cold and sharp light under the desk lamp.

Lin Feng's gaze rested on it for less than a second before moving away.

He pressed the intercom button, his voice devoid of any emotional fluctuation.

"On behalf of Hartlepool United Football Club, donate five hundred thousand pounds to the UNICEF dinner."

"Also, please reply to Miss Keira Knightley, thanking her for her kind invitation."

"The final stage of preparation for the new season is underway, and with heavy responsibilities, I am unable to travel to London."

"I wish the dinner a complete success."

The assistant on the other end of the line did not ask any questions, only the rustling sound of a pen scratching across paper remained.

Hanging up the call, Lin Feng's fingertip slid across the contact list on his phone screen, stopping precisely on the name "Sophie Green."

The call went through.

A slight flurry of rustling papers could be heard through the receiver, immediately replaced by a professional calmness.

"Hello, Mr. Lin."

"Sophie, it's me."

Lin Feng's tone relaxed, as if he were inviting a long-time friend.

"Are you free next week? Come with me to London."

Sophie on the other end of the line unconsciously tightened her grip on the receiver, her knuckles turning slightly white from the effort.

Her heartbeat faltered for a moment, but was quickly pulled back to normal by powerful reason.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lin."

Her voice carried a hint of appropriate regret, perfectly masking the turmoil within her.

"My work for the new season's League One preview series has already piled up."

"Perhaps next time."

"Alright."

Lin Feng ended the call cleanly, without any unnecessary persistence.

Listening to the dial tone from her phone, Sophie leaned back in her office chair and let out a long sigh.

She could clearly feel that behind that brief phone call was a silent confrontation.

A tacit test and tug-of-war between adults.

The last day before the League opener, in Hartlepool United's tactics room.

The air was so thick it felt like it could be squeezed.

The puppet coach, Old John, stood in front of the huge white tactics board, fine beads of sweat on his forehead reflecting the light from the overhead lamps.

On the tactics board, red and blue magnets representing players from both teams were interlocked, silently previewing a brutal struggle about to unfold.

Their opponents were the League One giant, Leeds United, who had just been relegated from the Championship and possessed the formidable home ground of Elland Road.

The door to the meeting room opened.

Lin Feng walked in.

All the players, young and old, focused their gaze on him at the same moment, with undisguised trust and reverence.

He walked straight to the tactics board, his slender finger gently tapping the red magnets representing Leeds United's midfield area.

"Their midfield, with its toughness, physicality, and experience, is enough to crush ninety percent of League One teams."

His voice was not loud, but it was like a surgical knife, precisely dissecting the core of the problem, clearly reaching everyone's ears.

"But any solid fortress has its weak structural points."

"Their turning speed is too slow."

Lin Feng picked up a red marker and drew a large, enclosed cage around the magnets representing Leeds United's midfield.

"Our first battle of the new season has only one tactical core, eight words."

"Midfield strangulation, simultaneous wing attacks."

His gaze slowly swept across the room, finally settling precisely on several young, eager faces.

"Kyle!"

New signing Kyle Walker almost instinctively straightened his back, like a soldier awaiting inspection.

"Your speed is the sharpest blade we have to tear open this old curtain."

"I want you to be like an F-16 fighter jet, tirelessly taking off, sprinting, and landing on the right flank, using your relentless shuttling ability to completely devastate their left wing."

"Ryan!"

Ryan Shawcross, like a silent mountain, had eyes as focused as a lion tracking its prey.

"Leeds United's aerial defense is very average; their center-backs fear high-intensity physical confrontations."

"Therefore, every set piece we get is an opportunity for strategic bombing."

"Your head will be our Tomahawk cruise missile detonated in their penalty area."

"Shaun!"

Shaun Maloney, who had just joined from Aston Villa, felt an unprecedented level of importance and trust.

"In this system, you are not a winger, nor an attacking midfielder; you are an assassin lurking in the shadows."

"Vardy will be like a rampaging bull, attracting the attention of all hunters."

"And you, in that most deadly vacuum behind him, must find an opportunity to deliver a fatal shot."

Lin Feng put down the marker and turned to face the faces filled with determination.

"Our tactics are not mechanical positioning, but a three-dimensional geometric war."

"John, initiate simulation."

Old John immediately walked to the wall and pressed the switch.

The lights in the meeting room dimmed, and in the center of the room, a futuristic-looking projection device shot out beams of light, casting a 1:1 scale, lifelike three-dimensional virtual football field onto the ground.

Red and blue light dots, representing the twenty-two players of both teams, floated in the air.

"This is one of the core functions of our system, tactical simulation."

Lin Feng's voice echoed in the darkness, carrying a calm sense of control.

"You see, when Leeds United's midfield is in possession, Henderson, Sigurdsson, and Bridcutt, the three of you will immediately form a rapidly contracting equilateral triangle."

On the virtual pitch, three blue light dots instantly converged, tightly locking a red light dot in the center, cutting off all its passing lanes.

"Your goal is not to tackle, but to press."

"Use geometry, use the most basic triangle, to compress his space, disrupt his rhythm, and make him feel suffocated with every touch of the ball."

"He is forced to pass, and our formation will be like a living cage, immediately forming a new triangle or diamond near the new ball carrier."

"We use this continuous geometric cutting to completely dismantle the opponent's attacking system."

The players' eyes widened, staring intently at the movement trajectories of the light dots, their breathing becoming rapid.

This tactic was too brutal, and too damn brilliant.

"Now, for offense."

Lin Feng's finger lightly swiped on the connected touchpad.

"The essence of offense is the transmission and release of energy; it is physics."

The blue light dot representing Kyle Walker lit up with a dazzling red.

"Walker's acceleration is our first-stage rocket to ignite the attack."

"His absolute speed will create a 'shockwave effect,' forcibly tearing at the opponent's defense, creating a fleeting 'tactical vacuum' between their left-back and left center-back."

"Jordan!"

Lin Feng's voice rose a notch.

"You must anticipate the appearance of this vacuum zone like a top physicist, moving there in advance; you are the second-stage rocket of our attack, responsible for transmitting energy to the front."

"And Jamie, your task is the simplest, yet the most difficult."

"You must become the 'gravitational singularity' on the field, using your relentless running to attract the attention of all opposing defenders to yourself."

"Create a universe where Maloney, where Sigurdsson, can calmly shoot."

A door to a new world was violently kicked open by Lin Feng in front of all the players, in a way that felt like a dimensionality reduction strike.

After a summer of hellish integration and indoctrination, they believed every word Lin Feng said without question.

Vardy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a cold and cruel smile playing on his lips.

Schmeichel stood in his goalkeeper position, his eyes sharp as knives.

Sigurdsson and Henderson, this brand new central midfield duo, had already shown an understanding beyond their years, even completing complex one-two passes with just a glance during training.

This team, from its tactical philosophy to its spiritual core, had been completely branded with Lin Feng's mark.

The club's official website announced the new season's jersey numbers.

Vardy.

Number 1, Kasper Schmeichel.

Number 10, Gylfi Sigurðsson.

Number 8, Jordan Henderson.

New signing Walker took the number 2, symbolizing the starting right-back, Shawcross wore the number 5, representing the defensive core, and the phantom assassin Maloney received the legendary number 7.

At the same time, external voices of pessimism, like dark clouds gathering, came pouring in.

In Sky Sports' flagship studio, renowned commentator Paul Merson pointed at Hartlepool's squad list, shaking his head with an exaggerated, almost comical tone.

"This is the most insane gamble in football history! Mr. Lin has bought a bunch of kids who've never played in the top League, and cast-offs who failed at big clubs, and he actually expects to challenge mighty Leeds United at Elland Road?"

"This is absolutely preposterous! I bet they'll be torn to shreds by the furious White Rose!"

The odds offered by major betting companies further reflected this disdain to the fullest.

The odds for Hartlepool to win away were an astonishing 8 to 1.

Lin Feng ignored these external noises.

He only believed in this war machine that he had personally debugged, assembled, and infused with a future soul.

Before departing, he called out to Old John, who was about to board the team bus.

"John."

He handed over a steaming cup of coffee.

"Tell the lads to forget the White Rose crest on the opponent's chest, and forget the deafening roar of Elland Road Stadium."

"That's not hell."

"It's just the first stepping stone we need to crush on our path to conquest this new season."

The team bus slowly started, escorted by security vehicles, and headed towards Leeds.

Outside the window, groups of Leeds United fans began to appear.

Waving white flags and scarves, their faces filled with hostility, they frantically raised their middle fingers at the bus, cursing with the foulest language.

The bus interior was quiet.

Everyone wore headphones, but everyone knew that the immense noise could still penetrate their eardrums.

Vardy wore black Beats headphones, the music turned up to maximum.

He watched the distorted and angry faces outside the window with an expressionless face, without a trace of anger in his eyes, only the bone-deep coldness of a hunter seeing his prey.

He took off one earphone, turned his head, and gave a sinister smile to Chris Smalling, who was sitting rigidly beside him, his face a little pale.

"Hey, Chris."

Smalling turned his head, a little nervous.

"Do you smell it?"

"What?"

Vardy's smile became even more cruel.

"It's the smell of prey."