Chapter 213: The First Hat-Trick of His Career!
"What the f*** kind of defending is that?!"
As the Premier League season wore on, Pep Guardiola—once the epitome of poise and elegance in media narratives—was becoming increasingly volatile.
When he saw Manchester City's entire back line collapse into the penalty box, leaving Li Ang completely unmarked at the top of the D to take a clean shot, Guardiola couldn't hold back anymore.
He exploded on the sidelines, shouting and gesturing furiously.
And when Joe Hart dove the wrong way and Li Ang's rocket found the back of the net, Guardiola let out a pained groan, threw up his hands, and stormed back to the bench, shaking his head.
On the City bench, no one dared make a sound.
They all feared the tyrant they knew from the training ground and the locker room would now show up on the touchline.
"I said it a hundred times before the game—watch Li Ang! Focus on Li Ang! Why does no one ever f***ing listen?!"
Pep wasn't mad because Li Ang had scored—he was mad because this was the exact scenario he'd warned about.
Li Ang wasn't some unpredictable variable—he was Chelsea's most consistent weapon, the one Guardiola had singled out for special attention.
Yet somehow, despite all the prep, his defenders had let him slip through again.
That was what set him off.
One of his assistants considered saying something—trying to cool him down.
After all, from a tactical standpoint, it wasn't a complete disaster. When De Bruyne lined up his cross, Chelsea had three attackers surging into the box.
In that scenario, it was only natural for City's defenders to prioritize marking inside the penalty area.
Nobody could've guessed De Bruyne would slide a low ball across the top of the box instead of swinging it in.
If anyone deserved blame, it was Fàbregas, who hadn't anticipated that Li Ang would trail the play and be the one to receive the pass.
But seeing Guardiola still seething, the assistant wisely chose silence.
"Pull Samir and Jesús back to the midfield line!" Guardiola barked, already sketching frantic adjustments on his clipboard. "If Mourinho wants to overload our half, we'll outnumber him! Go low! Keep it on the ground! No more long balls!"
To Pep's credit, he responded with a clear and concise plan.
He called for Nasri and Navas to drop deeper, and for full-backs Clichy and Zabaleta to push higher up the flanks.
That would give Fàbregas passing options on both sides—wings and touchlines—and help rebuild a numerical advantage in City's half.
In total, City's build-up shape now included seven or even eight players.
Don't forget, under Guardiola, center-backs weren't just defenders—what Piqué could do, Kompany could, too.
Pep was ready to sacrifice width and verticality if it meant controlling the ball.
But what he didn't anticipate… was Mourinho pulling a reverse.
At the same time Pep was pushing more men forward, Mourinho was calling his own players back.
Just like that, Chelsea collapsed into a compact, deep 4-2-3-1.
Li Ang dropped back.
Lampard and Matić formed the midfield screen, and De Bruyne and Hazard tucked in to help on the flanks.
The 4-3-3 that had sliced City open moments ago now morphed into a fortress.
And in that moment, every City player, and Guardiola himself, had the same chilling realization:
Mourinho had just baited them.
Chelsea had taken the lead and then immediately shut the shop.
Why did City still have all these players sitting deep?
They had no choice but to spread back out again and try to build patiently.
Only now did the match finally start to resemble what the media had predicted.
City: possession-heavy, probing, dominant in the final third.
Chelsea: organized, deep, waiting for the counter.
But Chelsea had the lead.
And with that lead, City's dominance in possession didn't feel threatening—it felt tense.
Because everyone knew that Chelsea's fist had just been drawn back.
And at any moment… it could strike again.
Li Ang, already with a goal to his name, had channeled all his adrenaline into focus.
He didn't know why, but facing a Guardiola team always lit a fire inside him.
It didn't matter if it was attacking or defending—he needed to dominate both ends of the pitch.
Now that Chelsea had fallen back into a defensive shell, he knew he had backup. So he started hunting.
Using his elite positioning and endless stamina, he began harassing City's attackers one by one.
It was like Khedira in his Real Madrid days—except Li Ang had the frame and the talent.
He wasn't just physical. He was surgical.
For City's midfielders, it was like running into a wall that followed them.
The smart ones didn't try to challenge him head-on.
Yaya Touré, who would've probably tried, was benched.
So the rest—Silva, Navas, Nasri—moved the ball quickly, choosing to play around him rather than through him.
It helped preserve possession, but it killed their tempo.
Because no matter where they played it, Li Ang would still eventually show up.
And that—more than anything—started to wear them down.
Sure, they could outlast him. Let the ball do the work, draw Chelsea out.
But they were the ones trailing.
And Chelsea had home-field advantage.
City needed to push. But every push risked the sucker punch.
For almost 20 minutes, they circled, passed, and poked at the edges of Chelsea's defense.
And nothing worked.
By the 30th minute, Guardiola was already restless.
He knew the ref was going to favor Chelsea slightly—it was their ground.
Every shoulder bump, every 50-50, leaned in the Blues' favor.
The match was getting scrappy. Chelsea didn't care.
They weren't trying to play pretty.
They were trying to win.
Guardiola hated it.
But he swallowed it.
Because whining about home whistle advantage made you look weak.
But that didn't change what was happening on the pitch:
Li Ang was dominating again.
And everyone in the stadium could feel it:
He was just getting started.
And this might be the day he scores his first career hat-trick.
Li Ang might have been calm, but after thirty minutes of relentless pressure, Manchester City's players were gradually being dragged into Chelsea's rhythm.
Their tackles grew heavier, and their tempers shorter.
Sergio Agüero and Samir Nasri in particular were becoming hotheads on the pitch.
In the 36th minute, desperate to force a tempo change, Nasri tried a quick one-two with David Silva and charged directly toward the top of Chelsea's box.
But Matić wasn't having any of it.
City had been patient so far, avoiding aggressive thrusts into the final third unless the chance was clear.
Matić, itching for action, finally saw his moment.
He stepped up assertively, and with one long leg, snuffed Nasri out before he could react.
Not only did Nasri lose the ball—he also crashed straight into Matić and tumbled to the ground.
Before Agüero could even raise his arm to protest, Chelsea had already shifted into counterattack mode.
Like clockwork, the machine turned.
Matić immediately launched a long pass toward Zlatan Ibrahimović, who had dropped to the center circle to receive.
Li Ang, not part of the first wave of attack, was trailing behind. Hazard and De Bruyne were the first to burst forward, followed by Lampard, and then him.
But Li Ang's acceleration was explosive.
By the time Zlatan held up the ball and laid it off to Lampard, Li Ang had already overtaken him.
Faced with Fernandinho's positioning, Lampard didn't look for a quick combination.
Instead, he shifted play left—to a sprinting Eden Hazard.
"Watch the top of the box!" Guardiola roared from the touchline, not daring to be late with his warning this time.
If Hazard decided to copy De Bruyne's earlier low ball across the top of the penalty area, Lampard and Li Ang were both positioned to unload their cannons.
Ibrahimović once again charged into the box—not necessarily to shoot, but to draw attention.
Kompany couldn't afford to treat him as anything less than a primary threat.
As Kompany tracked Zlatan, Li Ang and Lampard crossed paths just outside the penalty area, switching positions like a dance.
Hazard seized the space, used a sudden burst of speed to shake off Zabaleta, and curled in a cross.
"Hazard with the shimmy… and the cross! Near post!!!" Jian Jun shouted, his voice cracking with excitement.
All eyes turned to the near post.
Moments ago, Li Ang had been heading toward the far post, and Lampard toward the middle.
But their switch had thrown off City's back line.
Li Ang now charged toward the near post—unmarked and fully committed.
Kompany, locked in with Zlatan, couldn't break away in time.
City's young center-back Matija Nastasić hadn't even set his feet before Li Ang leapt into him full force.
Nastasić was taller, yes—but he hadn't positioned himself properly, and his lighter frame gave him no chance in the air.
With a grunt, Nastasić lost his balance mid-air and crashed down.
But Li Ang controlled his body with precision and connected firmly with the header.
Joe Hart reacted well this time—perfect technique, quick reflexes—he even got his palm to it.
But all he could do was deflect it slightly.
The ball glanced off the inside of the post and rolled into the net.
Goal!
"IT'S IN!!! GOAL—IT'S LI ANG AGAIN!!! A BRACE!!! LI ANG SCORES HIS SECOND TO PUT CHELSEA 2–0 UP OVER MANCHESTER CITY!!!"
Jian Jun bellowed into his mic.
Across China, fans echoed that same roar in living rooms, bars, and cafes.
Stamford Bridge exploded.
It was like a volcanic eruption—the roar of the crowd surged like a tidal wave, shaking the stadium.
Li Ang, rolling once on the grass, spotted the ball nestled in the net and sprang to his feet, ready to slide toward the corner flag in celebration.
But he only made it two steps before a pack of screaming teammates tackled him to the ground.
"You've stolen the whole damn spotlight today!"
"Hell yeah, what a f***ing header! Put these Mancs in their place!"
"One more, Li Ang! You're scoring a f***ing hat-trick today!"
"Do it in the first half!"
Voices overlapped around him, echoing in his ears like thunder.
After the pile-on finally broke up, Li Ang stood, heart pounding.
A first-half brace.
His first ever.
Fifty-plus minutes to go—why not go for it?
A hat-trick on a night like this would be perfect.
Two goals already. His team up 2–0. The opportunity to ask Mourinho for more attacking freedom?
He had to go for it.
But first—focus.
Before the half ended, keep the clean sheet. Don't let City sneak one back.
City, now desperate, pushed hard before halftime.
But Li Ang's composure kept Chelsea's shape intact.
And when Terry rose up to head Silva's last-ditch cross clear, the referee blew the whistle for halftime.
Stamford Bridge became a sea of celebration.
Mourinho, beaming, rushed into the tunnel and wrapped his arms around his star pupil.
Under the broadcast cameras, Mourinho said something with a hand covering his mouth, and Li Ang laughed as he slung an arm around the coach's shoulder.
Two goals in one half against Manchester City.
The news spread like wildfire in those 15 minutes of halftime.
Fans who hadn't even been watching the game scrambled to turn on their TVs.
And just minutes later, highlight clips of both goals lit up the internet.
One—an absolute rocket from outside the box.
Two—a powerful header at the near post.
Two goals. Two different styles. Both a masterclass in power and precision.
Viewership soared.
The second half of the Chelsea vs. Manchester City clash—already one of the season's most anticipated matches—was about to begin.
And Pep Guardiola?
He had a lot of work to do in that locker room.
City's attacks grew more aggressive, layered with individual flair.
Guardiola had clearly realized what was happening.
Chelsea had fully committed to counter-attacking football. If City stuck to their usual slow, patient build-up and tiki-taka, there would be no hope of a comeback.
It was time to unleash the stars.
In the tight confines of Chelsea's half, David Silva and Nasri began to flaunt their technical skills.
Their give-and-go plays, combined with Jesús Navas' wide runs and dangerous crosses, created real panic in Chelsea's defensive third.
Mourinho responded quickly.
He pulled off Ashley Cole, who was starting to lag behind City's younger, more explosive attackers, and sent on Bertrand.
Meanwhile, Li Ang kept his sights locked on David Silva, ignoring Fàbregas entirely.
His years of watching Cesc in Barcelona had convinced him: Fàbregas had lost the flair of his younger days.
He was still a brilliant conductor—dangerous when running the show—but one-on-one, he was no longer the elegant dribbler of old.
The match entered its most intense stretch. It was a full-blown tug-of-war.
Before coming off, Ashley Cole even took Silva out with a hard tackle.
The tension on the pitch boiled over.
Li Ang hadn't even started pushing the tempo yet, and Agüero had already thrown him to the ground in a heated scuffle.
The referee didn't hesitate—a yellow card straight to Agüero.
Matić, clever as always, sprinted over to taunt him.
If Silva and Navas hadn't stepped in to hold the raging striker back, it could've turned ugly.
On the sideline, Guardiola grimaced and sent Džeko to warm up.
Seeing this, Agüero immediately deflated.
But five minutes later, Guardiola shocked everyone—not by subbing off Agüero, but by pulling Navas and switching to a 4-4-2.
Fans who'd followed Pep's career were stunned.
Guardiola using a traditional target man?!
Even more shocking—was he going for a classic high-cross, long-ball strategy?
It was surreal. The same Pep Guardiola now embracing brute-force football?
But it made sense.
Time and again, he'd been outwitted by Mourinho in high-stakes matches.
Back at Barcelona, he didn't have a physical striker to lean on. Now, at City, he did. So he adapted.
With the hour mark approaching, Guardiola pushed everything forward.
If they didn't go all in now, they'd be praying for a miracle.
Chelsea, meanwhile, had been holding back for twenty minutes, biding their time.
In the 64th minute, Bertrand dispossessed Agüero out wide before the Argentine could draw a foul.
With a quick toe-poke, he launched a counter.
Hazard sprang into action.
Zabaleta rushed up the pitch, dead-set on committing a tactical foul to stop him.
But Hazard read the intent and offloaded quickly—to Li Ang.
De Bruyne tucked in. Zlatan dropped deep.
Chelsea's players swarmed around Li Ang like satellites, creating space.
But this time, Li Ang didn't pass.
He powered forward, barreling past Fàbregas with brute force and charging toward City's box.
The Stamford Bridge crowd erupted.
His teammates peeled off in different directions, clearing the lane.
He still had Fernandinho to beat.
Fernandinho locked eyes with him, ignoring Zlatan entirely. He knew what everyone else knew—Li Ang could control the ball, but dribbling had never been his strong suit.
He braced himself. Position secured. Speed advantage. What could go wrong?
Then Li Ang pulled out a step-over.
Fernandinho's eyes widened.
The motion wasn't awkward—it was smooth, natural.
No way. Did he really develop dribbling skills over the last season?!
Before he could process that terrifying thought, Li Ang feinted left and then—bam—snapped the ball right with another touch.
The move wasn't elegant. It wasn't pretty.
But it worked.
He blew past Fernandinho and broke into the right side of the penalty box—his favorite launch zone.
Pep Guardiola stood, mouth agape.
"He can dribble now?!"
Li Ang steadied himself, took a breath, and fired.
A quick backswing, tight core, perfect contact.
He aimed for the far post.
Joe Hart hesitated, then decided to hold his ground.
Wrong move.
The shot struck the underside of the crossbar and ricocheted into the net.
Hart stood frozen, staring at the ball.
No one cared about his blunder.
Commentators around the world were losing their minds.
On the pitch, Chelsea players screamed in celebration.
Li Ang ripped off his jersey, arms outstretched, sprinting across the Stamford Bridge turf.
His hair flew. His sculpted torso gleamed under the lights.
Mourinho raised both fists and shouted for the crowd to cheer louder.
Up in the box, Abramovich and the Chelsea executives clapped wildly, all grins.
Forget that €80 million valuation.
In that moment, Abramovich made up his mind.
Build the team around Li Ang. Whoever Mourinho wants—he gets.
Li Ang was now, officially, Chelsea's only untouchable.
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