Meanwhile, the Chinese football fan community exploded.
They had waited far too long for this.
The assist wasn't just an assist; it was a release of years of pent-up frustration.
It symbolized that, finally, a Chinese player was once again taking up the legacy on football's biggest stage.
Major sports media, of course, published their reports, many with clickbait headlines:
'Terrifying Mourinho's Second Season Arrives, Aiming for the Premier League Title!'
'Manchester United 4-0 West Ham, Our Youngster Makes Debut and Provides Key Assist!'
'The Final Piece of the Title Puzzle: A Real Winger Has Arrived!'
Fortunately, most of the actual fans on platforms like Hupu and Tieba remained objective, cutting through the media hype.
[Those media outlets are disgusting. Isn't this just setting him up for a fall?]
[I just hope Ling doesn't get arrogant. He needs to keep his head down and train.]
[I watched his interview, he seems pretty level-headed. I doubt he'll let it get to him.]
[We should still give credit! That Shoulder Drop on Zabaleta was smooth as silk!]
[Come on. Zabaleta was on a yellow and hesitant. Ling definitely wouldn't have gotten past him otherwise.]
[Just answer the question: did he get past him or not? Yes, he did. Stop making excuses.]
[I think he did great. A solid 7/10 performance. This was his *debut*. Let him improve step by step!]
[Exactly! United's next three are Swansea, Leicester, and Stoke. All mid-table team. He'll definitely get more time.]
[Plus the Champions League! I hope we get a good draw.]
[Wait, how do we have CL? We finished sixth.]
[We won the Europa League, remember? Get with the program!]
The fans discussed it passionately all night.
....
The Next Morning
While the forums were still buzzing, Ling was already out of bed, moving through his recovery training in the thin morning mist.
He was well aware of his own capabilities.
Without the system, his natural talent alone would never have been enough to secure a starting position.
Now that he had this opportunity, he had to work.
While jogging, he replayed the 15 minutes in his head, reinforcing the details he'd failed to execute properly.
His only real regret? The assist bonus in his contract was paid out annually, not per match.
He could have used the extra cash now.
Thump, thump, thump...
He maintained his steady pace.
In a corner of the training ground he hadn't noticed, a tall figure had been standing for a long time, just watching him.
An hour later, Ling returned to the training ground for the team session and found his teammates already in place, their motivation clearly boosted by the 4-0 win.
Since it was a recovery day, the intensity was low, focusing on stretching and light ball work.
Mourinho stood expressionlessly on the sidelines, while Carlos Lalin, the fitness coach who had followed him from Madrid, led the warm-ups.
"Your flexibility is terrible," a deep voice rumbled beside him.
Ling looked up.
Ibrahimovic was frowning at him.
"From now on, you come to the gym half an hour earlier every morning. I'm going to give you special training."
"Okay," Ling said, momentarily stunned.
'Why is Ibra being so good to me?' he wondered.
He knew Zlatan looked after the younger players, but this felt different.
He couldn't figure it out, so he just shrugged.
'Maybe I'm just likable?'
Ibrahimovic nodded, feeling satisfied.
He had arrived early this morning and had seen that solitary figure running drills in the mist.
It reminded him... of himself.
The same solitude. The same hunger.
When he was a kid, playing with the Yugoslavs, Turks, and Somalis, the only way to avoid being looked down upon was to become stronger than all of them.
He saw that same drive in Ling.
Besides, Ibra thought, a rare, almost unnoticeable smile touching his lips, a player who plays like Ronaldo can't be allowed to remain so weak.
...
The morning session ended quickly.
"Ling, come with me," Mourinho called out.
He waved the other players off and turned toward the office building.
Ling quickly packed his gear and jogged after him, his heart pounding.
He suddenly felt like he was being called in for a surprise test by a teacher.
"Have you reviewed yesterday's match?" Mourinho asked, not even looking up as Ling entered.
He opened his laptop, switched to the match footage, and slid it across the desk.
"Tell me your thoughts."
"First," Ling said, his voice steady as he pointed to the screen, "my first touch here was too slow. It was safe, but it disrupted the rhythm of the counter-attack."
He then proceeded to give a detailed, critical analysis of his own 15-minute performance, pointing out every positional error, late run, and technical flaw he'd found the night before.
As Mourinho listened, his eyes grew increasingly bright.
'This is it', he thought, almost in disbelief. 'The ideal player.'
Not in terms of raw skill, but in this.
This crystal-clear self-awareness.
This lack of ego.
A player who could see his own weaknesses was a player who could progress at the fastest possible pace.
Given time, Mourinho had no doubt Ling could establish himself.
When Ling finished, Mourinho tapped the table with his fingers, lost in thought.
His usual "tough love" approach would be ineffective here; the kid was already tougher on himself than Mourinho could ever be.
"Well," Mourinho finally said, a serious tone in his voice. "You're right. Now, let me discuss this with you from a tactical perspective."
"Currently, the team's main tactic revolves around the center forward. What we need is a winger who can either break through to the byline or deliver accurate crosses from wide areas."
He paused, letting the words hang. "You are doing quite well in the former aspect..."
The implication was clear.
'You can dribble, but you can't cross.'
Ling's expression turned serious. "I understand, Coach."
He was already thinking.
'Who has the best crossing ability on the team? Valencia? Mata? Carrick? I'll ask them for advice.'
"By the way," Mourinho added, "I will try to give you as much playing time as possible in the upcoming matches. Feel free to ask me anytime if you have questions. Don't be reserved."
A faint smile appeared on Mourinho's face. It was always so much easier talking with intelligent people.
'Unlike some... others... I've been forced to manage.'