LeSports Broadcast Room
"LING! LING CUTS INSIDE!"
"BEAUTIFUL! HE'S PAST ZABALETA!"
"PULLS IT BACK ACROSS THE GOAL... LUKAKU! TAP-IN! GOAL! IT'S IN!"
Zhan Jun's voice cracked as he leaped to his feet, instinctively grabbing the microphone as it slipped from his headset.
"In the 87th minute, Lukaku scores the goal that seals the victory! Manchester United leads West Ham United 3-0!"
Zhang Lu chuckled twice, a complex, proud expression on his face.
"Ling used a brilliant drop of the shoulder to get past a world-class defender and create a perfect, unselfish opportunity."
"This goal may just be icing on the cake," he continued, "but it proves that Ling's ability isn't what the cynics claim. I hope all the fans can be more patient and create a better environment for these young players to grow."
"Congratulations to young Ling on his first assist in a top-five European league! A great start. May his future performances only get better!"
...
Bin City, China
Yan Lanxia listened to the roaring cheers from the TV and the scrolling, praising comments on her phone.
A happy, warm smile spread across her face.
"Chang," she said, nudging her husband. "Convinced yet?"
Changzheng's gaze remained fixed on the screen, watching his son on the replay.
"Convinced," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
...
On the Pitch
Lukaku charged around like a frenzied rhinoceros.
A hat-trick!
'How long has it been?' he thought, his heart pounding.
'One year! Do you know how I've suffered through this year?'
He suddenly remembered the most important thing.
He scurried back, found Ling, and flashed his bright white teeth.
"Beautiful pass, Jemi Ling!" he shouted.
Ling's expression froze for a second before his mouth twitched.
"It's 'Jeremy Ling,' Romelu," he laughed.
"No, no! 'Jemi ling!' I like it!" Lukaku insisted, wrapping him in a sweaty, bone-crushing hug.
"You give me assists like that, I'll call you whatever you want! I'll call you 'Dad'!"
Ling just shook his head, still smiling.
"Then let me teach you another Chinese phrase. Gei jiu you."
"What does that mean?" Lukaku asked, rubbing his shiny head in confusion.
"It means my positioning is excellent," Ling said, grinning. "It means 'give [me the ball], and it's there [in the net].'"
Lukaku's eyes lit up.
He started repeating it, reinforcing the memory.
"Gei... jiu... you! I like it! Gei jiu you! Gei jiu you!"
...
Under the referee's urging, the celebration was cut short.
The match resumed.
On the West Ham bench, Slaven Bilić glanced at Declan Rice, then abandoned the idea of bringing him on.
The match was lost.
No need to have a young player's debut be a 3-0 defeat.
He looked back at United's #23, who had just come on and completely changed the game.
'What a headache.'
Bilić rubbed his temples and urged his team forward one last time.
West Ham, now playing for nothing but pride, swarmed into United's half.
"Regular time has ended. Three minutes of stoppage time," Zhan Jun announced.
"Oh! West Ham advancing... Arnautović chips it... Hernández! A volley!"
"Brilliant! DE GEA!"
The Spanish keeper, at full stretch, managed to claw the ball away with his fingertips.
A fantastic save.
On the sidelines, Mourinho looked extremely displeased, gesturing furiously for his team to tighten up.
Even with a 3-0 lead, he demanded perfection until the final whistle.
As the match neared its end, West Ham launched one last attack.
A low, driven cross came into the box.
Phil Jones stepped up decisively, poking the ball away from Hernández.
It fell to Matic.
The Manchester United fans rose to their feet, sensing what was coming.
Matic shrugged off a defender and swept a long, raking pass out to the left wing.
Zabaleta, exhausted and on a yellow card, didn't press recklessly.
He held his position.
'It's fine,' he thought. 'Let the kid take it himself. He'll slow down the attack, give us time to get back.'
But Ling wasn't a rookie.
He didn't make rookie mistakes.
He took one touch, his head up, and spotted the gap on the opposite side of the field, where Mkhitaryan was sprinting.
Ling shifted his weight and, without hesitation, struck the ball.
Thump!
It was another beautiful, arcing cross-field pass.
Mkhitaryan controlled it perfectly in stride.
With no pressure on him, he curled a precise, early cross into the box.
"Service delivered!" Lukaku roared.
He met the ball like a blazing titan, unleashing a thunderous, unstoppable shot.
Joe Hart's heart sank.
He could only watch helplessly as the ball flew into the net.
Four-nil!
Old Trafford leaped and bounced with joy.
West Ham's fighting spirit vanished. They numbly, blankly, restarted play.
Peep! Peep! Peeeeep!
The referee's whistle signaled the end of the match.
----------
At Old Trafford, joy and sorrow walked hand in hand.
Manchester United fans were over the moon.
It wasn't just the win; it was the statement.
A 4-0 victory, with an attack that looked fast and hungry.
After years of disappointment post-Ferguson, this... this felt like a new beginning.
In contrast, the West Ham fans hung their heads like frostbitten eggplants, listless and dejected.
On the pitch, Lukaku was grinning from ear to ear, the match ball tucked under his arm.
"I've got that phrase down," he said to Ling, his voice booming. "Gei jiu you! Give me a couple more."
"Alright, let me think…" Ling shook his head, a wry smile on his face.
"Try 'Bao Tang'—it means to 'explode' past a defender with pure pace."
Lukaku's eyes lit up.
"Bao Tang! I like it!" He looked at Ling, his expression suddenly serious and grateful.
"On good terms, yes? You help me get the Golden Boot, I'll... I'll teach you... Belgian!"
Before Ling could respond, a large hand clapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't be jealous of his goals, kid," Ibrahimovic declared, his voice full of typical bravado.
"Keep training taekwondo with me, and scoring four in a game will be easy for you."
"Then I'd better step it up!" Ling said, jokingly flexing a bicep.
Ibra feigned disdain, rolling up his own sleeve to reveal a forearm with explosively defined muscle.
As they chatted, Valencia, Matic, and Mata gathered around, all smiling.
"Great performance, kid," Matic said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Way better than I was at your age."
"It's true," Mata chimed in, a grin on his face. "Didn't it take you half a season to get your first assist at Chelsea, Nemanja?"
"Get lost, Juan. You're not much better!"
The atmosphere was friendly, and Ling, despite his internal maturity, couldn't help but feel a simple, warm pleasure.
He responded humbly to each of them.
Then, the group parted. Mourinho was walking toward them.
"It seems," the manager said, his eyes gleaming with a rare, intense satisfaction as he firmly patted Ling's shoulder, "that putting you in was the right choice."
Mourinho was relieved.
He'd been losing hair over the left-wing problem.
None of the existing players met his tactical requirements.
But Ling's performance today... it gave him the solution.
The kid's skills were still raw, but Mourinho had seen this before.
He'd seen players like Drogba and Essien undergo magnificent transformations, forged in the fires of the Premier League.
He believed Ling, with his diligent attitude and clear talent, could do the same.
But young players needed tough love.
His face instantly became serious again.
"However. There are many details you didn't handle properly. Go back tonight, review the game footage carefully, and then come find me for analysis."
He leaned in a fraction. "Remember, if you want to improve, you must fix all those small, insignificant issues."
"Okay, coach," Ling said, his own smile vanishing, replaced by a serious nod. He felt like he was being expertly manipulated, but he had no evidence.
...
The Post-Match Press Conference
"Jose, how would you evaluate the performance today?" a Guardian reporter asked.
"Well," Mourinho said, "I'm very satisfied. Especially the first 40 minutes, we maintained constant pressure. In the second half, they improved, and we lost a little control, but the substitutions allowed us to regain it."
Another hand shot up.
A Sun reporter. "You brought on the young Chinese player, Ling. What did you make of his debut?"
Mourinho's expression immediately hardened.
He didn't want young players exposed to media attention. It was poison.
"Let me answer your question from a different perspective," he said, his voice flat. "In my view, young players are somewhat like melons. Only when you cut them open and taste them can you be 100% sure of their quality."
He scanned the room. "Sometimes, you have a beautiful melon, but the taste is not very good. And other times, you have an ugly melon... but when you open it, it tastes excellent."
The Sun reporter, smelling blood, pounced. "Are you suggesting that Ling's appearance is unattractive?"
Mourinho just stared at him, his face a mask of pure, undisguised contempt.
He completely ignored the low-level, uninteresting question, stood up, and walked straight out of the press conference.
The journalists exchanged looks. Same old Mourinho.
...
Carrington Training Base
The moon was bright. Due to the time difference, Ling knew his parents would be asleep.
He wouldn't call them just yet.
After a quick shower, he pulled out the tablet with the match recording and repeatedly reviewed every second of his 15-minute performance.
Analyzing it from this "god's-eye" perspective, he could clearly see every mistake.
'My attacking position was too deep here,' he wrote in his notebook. 'I should have held my width.'
'My run here was too early. Ibra was right about Rashford, and I did the same thing.'
'This first touch was heavy...'
Good things took time.
As long as he kept summarizing and consciously making corrections, he would grow stronger.
He had to.
He paused the footage, his chest tightening. The pressure was immense.
'This is just one good game,' he thought, his breathing growing rapid.
He thought of the names on the team sheet.
Rashford. Martial. Lingard.
And the constant, swirling rumors of Alexis Sánchez arriving in January.
They were all competing for his spot.
Given his current ability, he was just a rotational substitute.
One small slip, one bad week of training, and he'd be out of the matchday squad entirely.
"System," he said, a new determination in his voice. "Activate."
A glowing panel materialized before him.
'Dribbling: 79.85 (97)'
'Passing: 69.94 (83)'
'Shooting: 70.56 (95)'
'...'
'Module: Matthews' "Shoulder Drop Dribble".
Watching the numbers rise, even by fractions, gave him a profound sense of accomplishment.
It was addictive.
He couldn't wait to head downstairs and start training again.
Suddenly, a cold, mechanical system voice echoed in his mind.
'Ding!'
'Main Quest Activated: Score Your First Professional Goal in the Top Five Leagues!'
'Quest Reward: Golden Treasure Chest!'
Ling stared at the prompt, his mind already working.
'What are the triggers for these quests?' he wondered. 'Are they based on my own goals, or does the system set them based on my progress?'
Lost in thought, Ling finally let the exhaustion of the day take over, and he drifted off to sleep.