As the coaches spoke, Valencia was already sprinting back, desperate to redeem himself.
"Behind you!" Ibrahimović bellowed, who had held his run.
Ling didn't hesitate.
Pogba's earlier, reckless press had left a huge gap.
Ling decisively played the ball across to the center.
Ibrahimović's "broadsword" was ready.
With one elegant, fluid touch, he killed the ball, spun past a flat-footed Phil Jones, and was in space.
At thirty-six, his raw speed had declined, but his football brain was sharper than ever.
He was still United's most reliable star, the focal point of the attack.
Ibra leaned his body slightly, then slid a crisp, perfectly-weighted through-pass to the left side of the penalty area.
Smack!
The ball rolled swiftly along the turf.
Kieran O'Hara, the White Team's keeper, charged out, brimming with confidence.
'If I stop this,' he thought, his heart pounding, 'if I stop him one-on-one, Mourinho has to see me.'
But then, just as he was about to commit, he hesitated.
The young winger approaching him wasn't just running.
His feet were a blur, his upper body swaying left, then right. It was a violent, rhythmic pendulum.
'Is he going left? Right?'
'Real? Fake?'
'It's both. It's neither. He can turn either feint into the real move instantly. It's impossible to predict.'
Kieran's heart raced.
Panicking, he gritted his teeth, took a gamble, and dove hard to his right.
The second he committed, Ling turned illusion into reality, his right foot gliding the ball effortlessly to the outside.
On the sideline, Rui Faria's jaw dropped.
The sheer smoothness of the touch was almost impossibly beautiful.
He couldn't tell if the foot was controlling the ball, or if the ball was guiding the foot.
Kieran collapsed helplessly to the ground, the goal gaping wide behind him.
Ling, avoiding any flashy finish, calmly slotted the ball into the empty net.
1:0!
The Red Team took the lead.
Ibrahimović put his hands on his head, his eyes, which had been calm, now burning with intensity.
'Ronaldo...' was the only thought that flashed through his mind.
The visual impact of that move, the pure, unstoppable flair... it made his soul tremble.
"Asian kid!" Ibra yelled, walking over and wrapping a massive arm around Ling's shoulder, pulling him into a headlock.
"Well done! Are you Japanese or Korean?"
"Cough... Chinese..." Ling wheezed, his airway crushed. "And... can't breathe..."
"Ah!" Ibrahimović looked embarrassed and quickly released him.
'Too skinny,' he thought to himself. 'He can't take any roughhousing. I'll have to take him to taekwondo. He needs to get stronger, or the Premier League will snap him in half. Look at Mkhitaryan.'
"I'm Chinese," Ling said again, catching his breath.
"But I don't know kung fu," he added with a small joke.
He had nothing to hide.
The common perception was that only Japanese and Korean players could excel in Asia.
He was here to change that.
"China is great," Ibra said, nodding. "When I was at Milan, I met many Chinese fans. Very passionate. Very friendly."
As a second-generation immigrant in Sweden, Ibrahimović had no patience for racial prejudice.
"It's fine if you don't know kung fu," he added, a grin spreading on his face. "From now on, you train in taekwondo with me. I guarantee no one will ever bully you again."
"Alright," Ling replied with a smile.
On the sidelines, Mourinho was scribbling furiously in his notebook.
"Skilled dribbling, quick reflexes, excellent awareness..." he muttered. "What I like most... what's impossible... is his composure. He's ice cold. Beyond his years. At his age, I'd be nervous in that one-on-one."
Faria's shock faded, replaced by a private, skeptical thought.
'Boss, you were a bang-average midfielder. Your technical level would barely get you a start in the Premiership. You and Ling are not the same species of player.'
But he didn't dare say that out loud.
"You're right, Boss," Faria said smoothly. "But your organizational skills and leadership were always your strength."
"Hmph," Mourinho grunted, shooting his old friend a disdainful look.
'He knows exactly what I was like.'
...
The match resumed.
Pogba, realizing his mistake had led directly to the goal, was embarrassed and angry.
He became more cautious, his play tightening up.
Valencia, too, felt a twinge of regret.
His performance must have disappointed the manager. He was now intensely focused, keeping a vice-grip on Ling.
The second Ling showed any intention of receiving the ball, Valencia was on his back, giving him no space to turn.
In the 36th minute, Ling dropped back to get the ball. Before he could even look up, he was double-teamed by Valencia and Herrera.
The old Ling might have tried to force it, to prove a point.
The new Ling simply played the safe pass back to Matic to reset the attack.
His team was winning.
They had control.
Let the other side get anxious.
When people grew anxious, they revealed weaknesses. That's when you strike.
Mourinho noticed the simple, mature pass and gave an almost imperceptible nod. That.
That was it. Not the pendulum.
Not the goal.
That decision.
The kid knew when not to attack. He was controlling the tempo.
Mourinho grew increasingly curious.
Where, exactly, had a 17-year-old boy learned that kind of maturity?
...
As time ticked away, the first half came to an end.
The score remained 1-0.
During halftime, several underperforming players were substituted.
They walked off, bitter and unwilling, but they could only blame their own poor form.
The world of football is both fair and cruel—true ability will always be seen.
Ling took a bottle from McTominay, swirled the liquid in his mouth, and spit. It wasn't water, but a carbohydrate solution.
Rinsing with it tricked the brain, reducing the feeling of fatigue.
Mourinho tapped the tactics board.
"Second half," he said, his voice serious. "We attack the spaces between their full-backs and center-backs. Use short, horizontal passes to draw them in, then we go vertical."
He then looked directly at Ling.
"And you. Don't be so rigid. This is a training match. I want you to be bold. Move into the space behind their defenders. Create room for Zlatan. Share his burden."
"Alright, lads, back on the pitch."
As Mourinho finished, nearly every youth player's eyes darted toward Ling.
In just a few words, the gaffer had clearly shown his high regard.
Rashford had gotten similar treatment last season, just before his promotion.
The envy was palpable.
Ling, however, just gave a short, sharp nod.
He wasn't an 18-year-old kid who would get carried away by a few words of praise.
"Understood, coach."
The second half began.
The White team, clearly having been chewed out, launched a fierce, high-pressing offensive. In response, the Red team's formation became a tight, compact block.
They crowded the final third, limiting Pogba's influence and strangling any attempts to play through the center.
Ling actively dropped back, forming a defensive line with his midfielders.
The only exception was Ibrahimović, who stayed high, a lone predator waiting for the counter-attack.
This was Mourinho's plan: Zlatan was the outlet, but he couldn't play full matches like this.
He would need to be rotated with Lukaku to maintain this high-intensity, defensive-first style.
As the match wore on, the balance tilted.
The Red team was in control, and Pogba was visibly growing impatient.
He couldn't accept losing to a team of youth players, and he started urging his teammates to push forward with more abandon.
The change was immediate.
Rashford cut inside with the ball.
Ling quickly followed, coordinating with McTominay to shut him down. But Rashford, without looking up, just laid the ball back to Pogba.
Pogba, first-time, sprayed it wide to Valencia on the right flank.
Valencia had one, predictable move. Push the ball, accelerate, drive to the byline, cross.
But predictable didn't mean stoppable.
His pure, raw speed was terrifying.
Facing Ashley Young's tackle, he did exactly that—pushing the ball outward and exploding past him. He reached the right side of the box and drilled a low, vicious cross.
Bailly didn't react in time. The ball zipped right through his legs.
And then, a truly agonizing scene unfolded.
Romelu Lukaku stood three meters from an open goal.
He seemed caught off guard, his body adopting a strange, awkward posture as he stabbed his right foot at the ball.
Smack!
The ball flew backward and landed squarely, gently, in De Gea's arms.
"Uh..." Lukaku said, his face a picture of embarrassment. "I didn't wear my scoring boots today. Just couldn't find the rhythm."
De Gea didn't even acknowledge him.
He saw Ling, who had already started his sprint.
It was a perfect counter-attacking opportunity.
De Gea swung his arm in a full arc, launching the ball with all his strength.
It descended rapidly toward the left flank.
Ling lifted his right foot high, just barely managing to rescue the ball before it went out of play.
'My first touch still needs work,' he thought, his mind already processing the next move. 'In the Premier League, that half-second is the difference between a goal and a tackle.'
Valencia was caught too high up the pitch. There were no defenders near Ling.
But then, Pogba came charging in from the side.
He was furious.
He was deeply dissatisfied with Ling's performance.
'I should be the brightest star on this pitch,' Pogba fumed internally. 'Admired. Worshipped. And this... this youth player...'
He angled his run, cutting off the pass to the center.
He was going to use a clean, powerful tackle to make this Chinese kid realize the gap between him and a top-tier player.
Ling was no greenhorn. He saw the freight train coming.
He feinted a forward burst, his body language screaming "sprint."
Pogba lunged, committing his entire body to the tackle.
The second he did, Ling abruptly halted, dragging the ball back and pushing it into the central space Pogba had just vacated.
"A very clear decision!" Mourinho exclaimed on the sidelines, impressed.
McTominay collected the pass and immediately switched the play wide to the right flank, finding Juan Mata.
Mata controlled it, his head already up.
He was the team's creative engine, and he saw everything.
He took one look, assumed a flawless passing posture, and struck the bottom of the ball with his left instep.
Smack!
The ball lifted off the ground, arcing like a brilliant rainbow across the entire pitch.
The White team's defense, which had been sucked over to deal with Mata and Ibra, was completely out of position.
At the same time, a figure quietly darted to the far edge of the penalty area.
Ling.
He didn't mishandle the ball this time. His control was perfect. He now had two options: a tight-angled shot, or a pass.
As Phil Jones charged at him, his mind was made up.
He decisively cut the ball back across the face of the goal.
"Beautiful pass!" Ibrahimović shouted.
He muscled Herrera out of the way, met the ball with a powerful side-footed shot, and buried it into the right side of the net.
Kieran, the keeper, dove, but the half-height shot was unsavable.
He could only crash helplessly onto the turf.
2-0!