At 10:30 AM Beijing time, Manchester United's official announcement created barely a ripple in Europe.
In China, it stirred up a storm.
Chinese football, to put it mildly, had just plunged into an unprecedented darkness.
The wound was fresh.
Just weeks earlier, in June, the national team had traveled to Malacca to face Syria in a World Cup qualifier.
After going down 1-0, they had clawed their way back to a 2-1 lead, holding it until the 93rd minute.
Then, a defensive foul just outside the box.
A perfectly-placed free kick from Al Somah.
2-2.
In that instant, ninety minutes of agonizing effort vanished.
The 0.02% mathematical chance of qualification was extinguished.
It was another "black three minutes," a despair that countless Chinese fans knew all too well.
So, when the news of Ling's promotion dropped, the online forums—Weibo, Hupu, Tieba—erupted in a fierce, bitter civil war.
[Trying to fool us again?]
[First Wolfsburg with Zhang, now United with Ling. They're just 'marketing forwards.' They just want to sell shirts in Asia.]
[After that Syria game, I'm done. Why can't we find 11 people who can play football out of 1.4 BILLION?]
[In competitive sports, being weak is the original sin. I have the right to support strong teams. If we play South Korea, I'll support South Korea. What about it?]
[Look at this clown. Decades ago, you'd be a traitor. Now you just think you're 'rebellious.' It's just deep-seated insecurity.]
[Go, Ling! Succeed and shut these traitors up!]
[Given United's squad, his chances of playing are slim. He'll probably sit on the bench all season.]
[That's fine. I watch every United game anyway. I'll be waiting. Even if it's just for one minute, I'll be happy.]
The debate raged, but amid the flood of public opinion, the news was quickly diluted.
The hope was too small, and the despair was too large.
...
Carrington Training Ground
Head Coach's Office
"Coach, Mr. Faria said you were looking for me?"
Ling, still catching his breath from training, knocked on the open door.
"Yes, come in." Mourinho nodded from his desk. "The new season starts tomorrow. You've been training with the first team for a few days. Your thoughts?"
Ling sat on the bench opposite the desk, gathered his thoughts, and gave his honest summary.
"I feel... a bit sluggish," Ling admitted. "On the first step. When I try to break the line, I feel a sense of lag. I need to improve my explosive speed over the first five meters. And my ball control... it's fine in drills, but during high-speed dribbling, it's not at the first-team level yet."
Mourinho's lips curled slightly upward. "Good. You have a clear understanding of yourself."
'Unlike others,' he thought, 'who get arrogant with just a bit of talent, this one is humble and hardworking.'
He quickly straightened his face, his expression turning serious again.
"As for all your extra off-ball training," Mourinho said, "I don't think it's necessary."
He leaned forward. "A great pianist does not run circles around the piano. He does not do push-ups beside it. He practices, continuously, on the keys."
"Your next two training cycles will focus on improving team awareness and, as you said, ball control under pressure."
He then went into a detailed explanation of his training philosophy—periodization, tactical triggers, and psychological management.
Ling committed every word to memory, feeling like he hadn't heard enough.
This was one-on-one guidance from a top-tier coach.
An hour passed before Ling knew it.
"Ling," Mourinho said, his tone earnest as they wrapped up. "I have no doubt about your potential. But you must remember: for a professional player, not improving is regressing. The only way to prevent regression is through hard training."
He looked Ling straight in the eye.
"You will face many temptations. Food, indulgence, alcohol, women, laziness. I hope you don't become obsessed with them. Because one day, you will wake up, and you will be thirty, and you will realize you can't achieve what you should have achieved. And then, it will be too late for regrets."
He paused. "Trust me. You must demand more from yourself."
Mourinho had seen hundreds of talented players fall before they could even rise.
He wouldn't normally say this much, but after observing Ling, he felt compelled to offer the warning.
The gentle breeze from the open window ruffled the black hair at the young man's temples.
Ling met his gaze, and a bright smile—full of the unique, fearless vitality of youth—spread across his face.
"Don't worry, boss. I demand plenty."
-------
August 12th.The 17-18 Premier League Season
The new season was back.
The opening weekend had already been chaotic.
Arsenal had won a 4-3 thriller, Liverpool drew 3-3, and Chelsea, had lost at home to Burnley.
The "Big Six" already looked vulnerable.
Now, it was the final match of the round: Manchester United hosting West Ham United at Old Trafford.
It was a strange twist of fate.
Just weeks after the U21s had faced off, with Ling's goals securing the win, the first teams were now set to clash.
...
One hour before kickoff.
The official Premier League website updated the 18-man squad lists.
At 11 PM, a prime-time slot in China, the news broke.
In the streaming chat rooms, the comments exploded, stacking up by the thousands.
[Wait, Ling is on the bench?! He actually made the squad list!]
[Lucky I didn't go to sleep, or I would have missed this!]
[Probably just using Ling to bait us for clicks. He won't play.]
[All I can say is, the higher the hopes, the harder the fall. Don't get excited.]
[Given Mourinho's style, if we're 1-0 up, he'd never bring on an attacking kid. He'll park the bus.]
[Don't underestimate the Hammers. They're the classic 'rob the rich, feed the poor' team, specializing in upsetting the Big Six.]
[Man, even though I'm a United fan, I almost hope we fall behind. Just one minute on the pitch for Ling is better than him warming the bench all game.]
...
Bin City, China
A hot, sticky breeze swept in, and the old ceiling fan creaked, doing little to disperse the heat.
Yan Lanxia felt restless.
She tapped the 'Goal.com' app on her phone for the tenth time.
As the ad ended, two crimson headlines appeared:
"MANCHESTER UNITED RELEASES SQUAD, CHINESE PLAYER LING INCLUDED!"
"AUGUST 13TH, 11 PM SHARP, TUNE IN LIVE!"
"Hey, Chang, come here! Quickly!"
"What's the rush?" her husband grumbled. "There's still half an hour until the match. Why don't you come mop the floor?"
"What did you say?" Yan Lanxia widened her eyes.
"Nothing," Ling Changzheng's voice immediately softened. "I said, even if he's on the list, whether he'll play is another matter. Don't get your hopes up too high."
"Fine! As a father, you don't wish for the best? You're cursing our son not to play!"
Refusing to back down, Yan Lanxia angrily opened WeChat and sent a message
'Son, do your best! Your dad and I are watching the livestream, cheering you on!'
'She doesn't get it at all', Changzheng thought, rolling his eyes.
'Professional players can't check their phones before a match. Sending this is pointless.'
But he didn't dare say it out loud.
Just as Yan Lanxia finished typing, she looked up.
The TV screen flickered, switching to the live broadcast from Old Trafford.
The camera was panning across the substitutes warming up on the pitch.
She gasped. "Chang, look! Isn't that our son?"
Ling Changzheng leaned the mop against the wall and walked over, a slow smile spreading on his face.
"That rascal. He's grown taller. Gotten a lot tanner, too."
"It's all your fault!" Yan Lanxia suddenly said, her voice growing choked.
"If you hadn't insisted on him going abroad... who knows how much hardship he's endured..."
She stared intently at her son's figure, her nose tingling.
Hearing this, Ling Changzheng hung his head and let out a silent sigh.
...
Old Trafford Locker Room
Ling followed his new teammates in from the warm-up, his heart pounding in his chest.
He was trying to absorb everything, the roar of the crowd, the smell of the pitch.
He knew he wouldn't be starting. But he was on the bench.
He had a chance.
'And even if I don't get to play,' he thought, grabbing a towel, 'I'm watching the match from a VIP seat, for free.'
"Everyone, look here!"
Mourinho's voice cut through the room.
"For the full 90 minutes of this match, you must be tenacious. You must be a bunch of bastards. Intelligent bastards."
He slapped the tactics board. "Remember, football is not a gentleman's game. Our attack will lean to the left. We advance through wing play and central penetration."
He scanned the faces of his team, his eyes landing on every single player.
"Is that clear?"
A roar came back from the players.
"CRYSTAL CLEAR!"