The match restarted.
Team B kicked off, but Team A, stung by the goal, pressed high and intense.
McTominay, receiving the ball under pressure, feinted past a lunging Angel Gomes and immediately sprayed the ball wide to the left flank.
Ling didn't even need to look.
He heard the defender's boots pounding the turf behind him, felt the pressure on his back.
Instead of taking a touch to control it, he let the ball run through his legs and, with a subtle, almost lazy motion, back-heeled it into the open space.
Tap.
The ball glided in a perfect angled path, completely bypassing the charging defender.
On the sideline, Mourinho, who had been watching his feet, looked up.
"Hmm," he murmured to himself. "Not just speed. Instinct."
He locked his gaze on the young winger.
Ling was already in full stride, the move to turn and collect the ball all one fluid motion.
He felt... light.
Every touch was perfect, and he could see his teammates' movements in his peripheral vision without even trying.
Demetri Mitchell, the defender he'd just bypassed, recovered quickly.
As the main left-back for England's youth national team, Mitchell was fast, strong, and loved a tackle.
He was on track to be promoted to the first team next year, and he knew it.
The gap between them closed.
Everyone on the pitch held their breath.
Ling didn't hesitate.
He feinted, dropping his right shoulder as if to burst down the outside line.
Mitchell lunged, committing his entire body to the tackle.
'Fatal tackle.'
In the same instant, Ling chopped the ball with the inside of his boot, cutting back inside at full speed.
Mitchell's outstretched leg hit nothing but air.
Team A's center-back, Axel Tuanzebe, saw the danger and hurriedly stepped out to cover.
He was a fraction too late.
Ling didn't even look up. He struck the ball with a terrifying, clean power.
BANG!
The explosive sound echoed through the training hall.
The ball shot out like a cannonball.
The keeper, Kieran O'Hara, leaped, stretching his body to its absolute limit.
The ball grazed his fingertips and thudded into the netting.
The training ground went dead silent.
Every player there, even the ones on the other team, knew they had just seen something far beyond the level of a U21 training match.
"Ling! Mate! What was that?!" McTominay was the first to break the silence, running over and clapping him on the back.
"When did you learn that? Holding out on me, you snake?"
"Had to make your pass look good, didn't I?" Ling replied with an easy smile.
As he walked back to the halfway line, he flexed his fingers. He'd felt something different in that touch.
That burst of speed.
'Is this the template?' he thought. 'The ceiling... it really is higher.'
"Haha, you left Mitchell for dead! Absolutely sent him! So satisfying!" McTominay boomed, scratching his head loudly.
Across the pitch, Mitchell's face was thunderous.
He heard McTominay's voice and spat on the turf.
He hated Ling.
Ever since the academy, when he and his mates used to rough up the then-scrawny McTominay, Ling had played the hero.
It had led to a full-on brawl in the changing rooms, one that got both of them suspended for a week.
Sir Alex Ferguson himself had learned of it and dragged them into his office.
"Settle it on the pitch," the gaffer had warned, his voice was cold like ice.
And for years, they had.
They were evenly matched, a fierce rivalry where neither could get the upper hand.
Until today.
Today, Ling had made him look like an amateur.
Mitchell spat again.
'Never again.'
...
The match resumed.
Team B, sensing the shift, started feeding the ball to the left flank.
Ten minutes later, Ling received a pass in the 30-meter zone.
Mitchell was seeing red.
He sprinted at Ling, closing him down with pure, aggressive spite, leaving no room.
'I've got you.'
Ling remained perfectly calm.
He saw the reckless charge coming.
s Mitchell lunged in, Ling simply opened his stance and...
Tap.
A gentle, almost insulting, touch. The ball slipped perfectly between Mitchell's charging legs.
A clean nutmeg.
Mitchell's brain froze.
His body, committed to the tackle, kept going. He tumbled over his own feet, falling in a heap on the grass.
Ling was already past him, sprinting into the box.
Tuanzebe scrambled across, desperately trying to block the shooting angle.
But Ling had already drawn him in.
He didn't even look at the goal.
e simply squared the ball to the penalty spot, where McTominay, who had made the forward run, met it with a powerful side-footed strike that flew into the top right corner.
2-1, Team B.
O'Hara, the keeper, stood up and angrily berated his defense.
Mitchell, still on the grass, just stared.
The first time was luck.
This... this was humiliation.
On the sidelines, Mourinho turned to his long-time assistant.
"Rui. That boy. Ling."
Rui Faria nodded, a small notebook in his hand. "Yes, boss."
"Premier League B match, day after tomorrow. I want him watched. Full data."
"Of course," Faria said. "You see something?"
Mourinho's expression was annoyed, which was his version of intrigued.
"Don't you? We are desperate for a winger who can break a line. He just did it twice. Cleanly. Against Mitchell, who is no slouch."
Faria permitted himself a small smile. "He's explosive. The way he cuts inside... it's a bit familiar, no?"
"Don't say it," Mourinho grunted.
"Barcelona, '96," Faria continued, ignoring him.
"The young one. The phenomenon. The one who never wanted to do my fitness plans."
A rare, thin smile cracked Mourinho's face.
"Ronaldo. Yes. I remember you trying to chase him around the training pitch... This boy... he has that type. The raw power."
"Have we struck gold, boss?"
Mourinho's face instantly hardened again.
"It is training. Training is nothing. Football is a contact sport. Get me the data from the match. I have to fly to North America for the ICC. See if he is a lion in training, or a lion in a game."
With that, Mourinho turned and walked off the pitch, not waiting for the session to end.
...
The morning training session ended quickly after that.
"Ling, are you sure you're not on something?" McTominay said, his voice echoing in the changing room.
"You made Mitchell look like he was running in mud! How'd you do it?"
"Stop talking nonsense," Ling laughed, hooking his arm around McTominay's shoulder.
"Let's go eat."
....
On the other side of the room, Mitchell sat on the bench, his face pale.
He was already doubting his own abilities.
'Have I gotten that bad?'
It's never easy for a proud man to accept that his rival has just left him in the dust.
....
In the canteen, McTominay was piling food onto his plate.
"Mmm, the mushroom and chicken skewers are insane today. I heard tomorrow they're doing that sweet flower-brewed chicken!" He was in his growth phase and needed to consume a massive amount of calories.
"If it's good, eat more," Ling said with a smile, grabbing a plate of his own.
"Of course I am! We're definitely making it to the first team this season," McTominay said, his mouth full.
"Then we can eat whatever we want."
Ling just smiled and didn't reply.
He remembered his past life.
He remembered the stories that came out years later, when United fully entered the "Ten Hag era."
Stories of homegrown players being pushed out, disrespected...
He shook his head, pushing the bitter memory away.
That was the old timeline.
This was the new one.
"What?" Scott asked, noticing his silence. "You don't think so?"
"No, I do," Ling said, his smile becoming more determined. "I was just thinking... This is only the beginning."