The sunlight outside was still bright, but the expression of Barça CEO Òscar Grau was gloomier than a rainy day in London. He looked at the iPad in his hands, his finger sliding across the screen; with every swipe, his brow furrowed a bit deeper.
"Chairman, are you sure you want to see more of this?" Grau asked cautiously.
Sitting in his executive chair, Bartomeu was leisurely trimming a cigar, looking as relaxed as if he were on vacation. "Read it. I want to hear just how 'creative' our members and the media can be."
Grau sighed, cleared his throat, and began reading the top comments from Twitter and major forums:
"Mundo Deportivo columnist Casanova wrote: 'This is Bartomeu's true face. Buying Mane and Eriksen a few days ago was just a smokescreen. Now he's finally showing his fox tail—spending 40 million euros on a semi-retired player from the Chinese Super League? This is blatant money laundering! This is an insult to Barça's DNA!'"
"Twitter user 'Messi's Left Foot' commented: 'I endured poaching stars from the Premier League, but now we're poaching from the Chinese Super League? Has Bartomeu gone mad? Paulinho? That piece of trash who was rejected by Tottenham? He was great in the CSL, but that's an amateur League!'"
"There's even worse..." Grau paused. "Someone started a petition to ban Paulinho from appearing at Camp Nou, saying he's unworthy of wearing the Blaugrana jersey. Evergrande's official Weibo is filled with insults from Barça fans, calling Evergrande a'scam group' for selling a piece of junk to Barça for 40 million."
Lin Feng listened to these harsh voices, and far from being angry, he let out a light chuckle.
"Money laundering? Junk? Amateur League?" Lin Feng lit his cigar, took a deep drag, and exhaled pale blue smoke. "Arrogance is humanity's greatest original sin, Óscar. Europeans always think the world of football begins and ends in Europe. They forget that there's something in this world called 'asymmetric competition.'"
"But Chairman, the pressure from public opinion is too great. Plus, we just lost the Super Cup to Real Madrid..."
"Then let them curse us." Lin Feng stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the tourists queuing to tour the stadium. "The louder the cursing is now, the louder the sound of the face-slap will be when they realize how 'delicious' it is later."
"'Delicious'? What does that mean?" Grau was completely baffled.
"An ancient Eastern philosophy." Lin Feng smiled mysteriously. "Contact Guangzhou Evergrande. Tell them the 40 million euro release clause has been deposited into the escrow account. I want Paulinho to arrive in Barcelona within 48 hours. And I want to hold a formal unveiling ceremony for him."
"You still want a ceremony? Fans might go to the scene to throw eggs..."
"Then let them throw. If Paulinho can't even handle a few eggs, then he's not the 'Beastly Bird' I want."
...Two days later, Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper.
Paulinho Bezerra sat in a corner of the locker room, appearing somewhat ill at ease.
Just a week ago, he was still in the hot and humid nights of Guangzhou, listening to the shouts of 'Guangzhou is never enough' at the Tianhe Stadium. And now, he was sitting in the locker room of Barcelona, the temple of world football.
But what he felt was not a welcome, but coldness.
Although Mane and Eriksen, as fellow new signings, gave him polite greetings, he could feel the other teammates—especially those technical players from La Masia—looking at him with a hint of suspicion.
A Brazilian who only knew how to rely on physical collisions, had crude technique, and had been 'exiled' in the CSL for two years—why should he come to Barça? Why was he worth 40 million?
Just then, the locker room door opened. Bartomeu walked in.
This time, he didn't bring a translator, but spoke directly in fluent Portuguese: "Paulinho, come with me for a moment."
The two came to a bench at the edge of the training ground.
"How does it feel? This is a giant club." Bartomeu handed him a bottle of water. "Do you feel like everyone is waiting to see you become a joke? Waiting to see you fail to control a ball within five meters?"
Paulinho twisted open the water bottle and gave a bitter smile. "Mr. Chairman, to be honest, I didn't expect you to buy me. I didn't even believe I could return to a top European club. I will work hard to prove..."
"No, don't work hard to prove you can do 'pass and move'."
Bartomeu interrupted him, his eyes burning as he stared into the Brazilian's eyes. "If you try to play like Busquets or Iniesta, you can get lost back to Guangzhou tomorrow. Because you will never learn that kind of finesse."
Paulinho was stunned. "Then why did you buy me?"
"For destruction. For slaughter."
Bartomeu pointed to Messi and Suárez, who were practicing 'rondo' on the training field.
"This team has too many artists playing the violin. While they are performing, there are always some blind opponents who want to rush up and smash the violin. Like Ramos, like Casemiro."
"What I want you to do is, when those bastards rush up, you stand in front of Messi and knock them flying. I want you to be like an out-of-control tank, crushing through the midfield, charging into the penalty area, and smashing those damn balls into the goal."
"Forget the so-called 'Barça DNA', forget Tiki-Taka. Your DNA is 'violence'. I want you to play a kind of 'violent aesthetics' at Camp Nou. Do you understand?"
Paulinho looked at the fanatical gaze of the Chairman before him, and the blood in his body began to boil. He had been shunned at Tottenham for being too crude and criticized in Brazil for being brainless; only Scolari at Evergrande had given him freedom. And now, the Barça Chairman was telling him: You can be a tank.
"I understand, Chairman." Paulinho clenched his fists, his gaze turning fierce. "If anyone dares touch Leo, I'll make them regret being born into this world."
...September 16, 2017, La Liga Round 4. Getafe, Coliseum Alfonso Pérez.
This was destined to be a difficult match. Getafe was a famous 'tough nut' in La Liga; their home pitch grass was deliberately left long and hadn't been watered, making it as dry and parched as a carpet, which greatly hindered the ball's rolling speed.
This was a 'dirty trick' specifically used to deal with Barça's passing and control system.
The match had gone on for 60 minutes, and the score was a suffocating 1-1. In the first half, Japanese player Gaku Shibasaki had pierced Ter Stegen's fingers with a miraculous world-class strike. Although Suárez equalized shortly after the second half began, Barça had fallen into a quagmire.
Getafe had set up an utterly shameless 6-3-1 'park the bus' formation. Nine men were huddled in the penalty area, using fierce fouls and physical confrontation to repeatedly break Barça's attacking rhythm.
When Messi got the ball, three people would swarm him. Eriksen tried through balls, but the ball slowed down on the dry grass and was intercepted by defenders. Although Mane was still sharp on the left wing, every time he broke through, he faced the opponent's 'lumberjack' style tackles.
On the sidelines, Valverde's brow was locked tight. He glanced at the bench. He needed to change the rhythm. He needed someone who could stir up the waters in front of the penalty area.
"Paulinho!" Valverde shouted.
In the 77th minute, the substitution board went up. Number 4 Rakitić out, number 15 Paulinho in.
The Getafe fans at the scene let out loud boos and mockery. In the commentary booth, the Catalan commentator also sighed: "Valverde has brought on Paulinho. Well, it seems we can only hope this 40-million-euro man can... uh, at least not make a mistake and give away a goal."
Barça fans on Twitter exploded even more: [My God! Bringing on Paulinho in this deadlock? Is he here to be a joke?] [What we need is needle-threading passing, not a crude guy coming on!] [Bartomeu resign! This 40 million is just thrown into the water!]
Paulinho stood at the sideline, listening to the widespread boos. He didn't lower his head; he just tightened his laces and took a deep breath of the dry air. The Chairman's words echoed in his ears: "Your DNA is violence."
The match continued. Paulinho's first touch after coming on almost resulted in a mistake. He controlled the ball a bit too far, but then he used that body, strong as an ox, to directly knock away the Getafe defender Djené who was trying to steal it, forcefully shielding the ball.
The referee didn't blow the whistle—a fair challenge. Messi glanced at Paulinho and nodded slightly. This toughness was interesting.
84th minute. The match entered the final stage of hand-to-hand combat. Getafe's entire team retreated, prepared to defend this 1 point to the death.
Messi got the ball near the center circle. It was still the familiar three-man double-team. In the past, Messi would look for Suárez or the overlapping Alba. But this time, he saw a dark shadow, like a roaring train, starting directly from the midfield, charging straight into the heart of Getafe's defense with unprecedented speed and momentum.
It was Paulinho. He wasn't looking at the ball; he was just running. He was using this off-the-ball run to tear through the opponent's airtight defense.
"Pass to him?" A moment of hesitation flashed through Messi's mind. That position wasn't a surefire chance, and two center-backs were closing the door on him. But that figure was too determined.
Messi sent a highly penetrating through ball with his left foot. The ball rolled across the dry turf, slipping through the gap between the two defenders.
Getafe's center-back Djené Dakonam had already secured his position. Normally, this ball would be intercepted, or Paulinho would be blocked behind him. But in the face of absolute power, positioning was just a joke.
"Get out of the way!!!" Although no one heard Paulinho shout, everyone saw those words in his movements.
Paulinho didn't slow down at all; he charged toward Djené, his shoulder suddenly dropping. "Bang!" The two collided. The seemingly strong Djené was like a pin hit by a bowling ball, losing his balance instantly and stumbling to the side.
This was the aesthetics of violence. No fancy step-overs, no nimble changes of direction. Only pure, unreasonable, crushing power!
After pushing past the defender, Paulinho faced the oncoming goalkeeper, Guaita. The ball was bouncing a bit, and the angle was narrow. If it were a La Masia player, they might have chosen a chip shot or a square pass. But Paulinho swung his right leg.
Power. A blast. Since there was no angle, he would just blast the goalkeeper into the net along with the ball!
"Boom!" The ball was like a shell from a cannon, whistling through the air as it zipped past Guaita's hand and slammed into the far corner of the net!
The net shook violently, as if protesting against this immense force.
2-1! A last-minute winner!
The entire Coliseum Alfonso Pérez went silent for a second. Then, a few hundred Barça fans in the corner of the away stand erupted into incredible screams.
Paulinho didn't celebrate wildly or dance after the goal. He just stood there, arms wide, head tilted back, eyes closed, savoring the moment. Then, he turned and pointed at a figure in the stands—Bartomeu.
His teammates rushed up like crazy. Messi was the first to jump on his back, Suárez rubbed his buzz cut, and Mane even gave him an excited punch to the chest.
"Are you a tank, Paulinho?!" Suárez yelled. "That hit was too brutal!"
"I just did what I had to do." Paulinho smiled honestly, revealing two rows of big white teeth... Later, in Barcelona.
This winning goal was like a loud slap across the faces of all the doubters. But those who were slapped felt... great!
On Twitter, the hashtag "Bartomeu Out" vanished, replaced by "Paulinho is actually great."
[My God! I have to apologize to Paulinho! That physical confrontation was simply brutal!] [This is the toughness we need! Before, we'd just pass around the bus; now, we just bulldoze right through!] [Who said the Chinese Super League was an amateur League? This guy is a total B2B monster!] [Is Bartomeu a time traveler? How is everyone he buys so useful?]
Mundo Deportivo even revised its draft overnight. The original headline "Barça Trapped in Draw" was scrapped, replaced by a massive front-page headline: "The Aesthetics of Violence from the East: Paulinho Saves Barça!"
The article read: "We must retract our previous arrogance and prejudice regarding this transfer. Tonight, on the dry turf of the Alfonso Pérez, when art failed, Paulinho's violence saved us. Chairman Bartomeu was right; Barça doesn't just need doctors with scalpels, but also workers with sledgehammers."
...Late at night, in the Chairman's office at Camp Nou.
Lin Feng looked at the newspaper in his hand, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. He took a sip of red wine, feeling exceptionally comfortable. This was the charm of the 'actually great' law.
"Chairman." Grau pushed the door open, his face filled with irrepressible excitement. "It's crazy! Paulinho's jersey sold 5,000 units on the official website in one hour! Also, because of his influence in China, we just received letters of intent for sponsorship from three Chinese companies, with a total value exceeding 20 million euros!"
"Tell them to wait in line," Lin Feng waved his hand calmly. "The price will double when Paulinho scores in El Clásico."
"He can even score in El Clásico?" Grau now had blind worship for Lin Feng.
"Of course." A glint flashed in Lin Feng's eyes. He remembered clearly that in the original history, Paulinho scored at the Bernabéu and even forced a red card from Carvajal's handball with a header.
"By the way, Óscar. What's the situation with the League table?"
"Four straight wins, 12 points, first place," Grau reported. "As for Real Madrid... they seem to be in trouble. Cristiano Ronaldo is suspended, Bale is injured, and they were just held to a draw at home by Levante. They're now 4 points behind us."
"Good." Lin Feng stood up and walked to the large tactics board. There, the puzzle pieces of the "New Barça" were complete. GK: Marc-André ter Stegen; DF: Alba, Umtiti, Iñigo, Semedo; MF: Busquets, Eriksen, Paulinho/Rakitić; FW: Mane, Suárez, Messi.
This lineup had the passing and control heritage of La Masia, the speed and physicality of the Premier League, and the aesthetics of violence from the East.
"It's still not enough," Lin Feng muttered to himself. "Not enough?" Grau was startled. "Do we need to buy more people? The transfer window is already closed."
"No, not buying players," Lin Feng turned and looked at Grau. "We're buying the future. Even though our first team is strong right now, La Masia is drying up. Look at the B team—besides Aleñá, who else can make it? We need to reopen the supply lines for the youth academy."
"So you mean..."
"Pedri." Lin Feng said a name. "There's a 16-year-old kid at Las Palmas named Pedri. Not many people know about him yet. Send someone to sign him as quickly as possible. Even if we buy him and loan him back to Las Palmas for a year."
"Also," Lin Feng narrowed his eyes, "there's a center-back in Uruguay named Ronald Araújo playing for a small club. Bring him to Barça B. Tell him he's Piqué's successor."
Grau quickly noted the names. Although he had never heard of these two, he was now a firm believer. If the Chairman said they were the future, they must be the future.
"Additionally, Chairman, there's some bad news." Grau suddenly remembered something, and his expression turned a bit grim. "It's about Dembélé."
"Dembélé? Didn't we decide not to buy him?"
"Yes, he stayed at Borussia Dortmund. But... just yesterday, in a Dortmund match, he suffered a serious injury. A ruptured tendon, out for the season."
Lin Feng paused for a moment, then let out a long sigh. Was this the corrective force of fate? In the original history, Dembélé suffered a major injury at this exact point after coming to Barça, causing Barça's 140 million to go down the drain. And now, even though he stayed at Dortmund, he still couldn't escape the injury curse.
"Send a message of sympathy to Borussia Dortmund," Lin Feng shook his head. "Also, have our medical team strengthen the physical monitoring of Mane and Eriksen. Our lineup is strong, but if a core player gets injured, it's still fragile."
"Understood."
Grau left. Lin Feng was left alone in the office. He looked out the window at Camp Nou. In the night, the stadium appeared exceptionally quiet and grand.
The first stage of "stopping the bleeding and reconstruction" was complete. Using Neymar's money, through financial leverage and precise recruitment, a dominant team had been built. But the real challenge was just beginning. The Champions League group stage draw was coming up. Given UEFA's tendency to "stir things up," as a team with massive commercial draw, Barça would very likely draw their old rivals.
Juventus? Or... Paris Saint-Germain?
Just then, the phone on the desk vibrated. It was a WhatsApp message from Messi. It was just a picture: a photo of Messi, Suárez, and Paulinho together in the dressing room. All three were smiling happily, with Paulinho holding the winning ball. The caption was simple: [Gracias, Presi. (Thank you, Chairman.)]
Lin Feng looked at the message and smiled from the bottom of his heart. This "thank you" gave him more of a sense of achievement than any numbers on a financial report. He hadn't just saved Barça's finances; he had saved the twilight of the King of Football's career, which had been destined to be tragic.
"Don't be so quick to thank me, Leo," Lin Feng replied: [This is just the appetizer. Get some good rest—it's for the Champions League.]