The ball was dropping and Ling was watching it.
Time, once again, seemed to fracture into slow motion.
He had made the run, sixty yards of lung-bursting effort, and now the rebound was falling perfectly into the vacuum of space left by Tottenham's shifted defense.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Hugo Lloris scrambling to his feet.
He saw Jan Vertonghen throwing his body in the way.
But his mind was elsewhere.
It was back in the Carrington gym. It was back in the early mornings with Zlatan Ibrahimović, practicing the unorthodox, the impossible.
It was the Taekwondo kick.
He didn't try to control it. He didn't try to bring it down.
That was what a normal player would do.
"Is he going to shoot directly?"
"Isn't the difficulty a bit too high? Better to stabilize—" The commentary cut off abruptly.
On the pitch, Ling's black hair fluttered.
He shifted his entire body weight onto his left foot, pivoting on the ball of his foot like a dancer.
Then, he whipped his right leg up and around at hip height.
It wasn't a football kick.
It was a martial arts strike!
A side kick.
Like a god descending from heaven to strike down a mortal.
Bang!
An explosive crack echoed through the stadium, louder than any sound before it.
The ball deformed violently upon impact.
It didn't spin. It didn't curve. It just flew.
It hurtled toward the goal with unstoppable, violent momentum.
Hugo Lloris, the world-class keeper, clenched his teeth and threw himself across the goal for another desperate save.
He got a touch. His gloves made contact.
But before he could relish the moment, an overwhelming force transmitted through his hands, jarring his wrists, forcing them to recoil.
The power was simply too much.
The deflected ball smashed into the roof of the net, bouncing several times with angry energy before finally settling.
2-0!
Tens of thousands of fans stared in stunned silence for a heartbeat, their minds replaying the fleeting yet earth-shattering shot, tracing the faint, white trajectory still hanging in the damp Manchester air.
Then, Old Trafford erupted. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a primal roar.
Every shout seemed to burn through the atmosphere. Amid the chaos, cries of "OH MY GOD!" and "JESUS!" pierced through the celebration.
Martin Tyler: "AND LING!! OH!!! OH MY WORD! WHAT HAVE WE JUST SEEN?!"
"HE HAS ABSOLUTELY THUNDERED IT HOME! A VOLLEY OF IMPOSSIBLE TECHNIQUE!"
Gary Neville: (Laughing in disbelief) "That is ridiculous! That is absolutely ridiculous! He's just Kung-Fu kicked it into the top corner! Lloris got a hand to it and it nearly took his hand off! I have played at this stadium for twenty years, and I have never seen a technique like that!"
Martin Tyler: "It's shades of Di Canio... it's shades of Zlatan himself! And look at the reaction! Old Trafford has gone berserk!"
After scoring, Ling's mind went blank for a moment.
The adrenaline washed away all thought.
When he regained his senses, he realized he had not only scored the most beautiful goal of his career but achieved a brace in the biggest match of the season.
What was even more thrilling was the thought that tens of millions of fans—in England, in China, all over the world—were watching this live.
He couldn't remain calm.
Excitement surged through his chest like a breached dam.
He sprinted forty yards and slid to his knees in a perfect celebration right in front of the managers.
The Manchester United players exchanged glances, seeing the shock on each other's faces, then roared and rushed over to embrace him.
"Ling! How did you do that?!" Rashford screamed.
"I can't believe my eyes!"
"You lucky bastard!"
Hearing this, Ling grinned, wiped the sweat from his face, and shouted back, "Luck is part of skill!"
But he knew.
There was indeed a significant element of luck—and a significant element of the System—in that goal.
Ibrahimović pushed through the crowded players.
He grabbed Ling by the scruff of the neck and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, beaming like a proud father.
"Well?" he asked domineeringly, pointing a finger at Ling's chest. "I told you to train with me every day. I taught you the way of the lion. And now it paid off, didn't it?"
"Hehe, definitely, Zlatan!" Ling admitted without hesitation.
Then he poked the bear. "But speaking of which... do you think this goal would make it into your top ten career goals?"
Ibrahimović paused. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"Top ten? Maybe number ten. Don't push it."
Meanwhile, David De Gea stood alone in front of his goal, rinsing his mouth with water, wondering if he could have saved it.
The answer was a resounding "no."
Nearby, the Tottenham players looked stunned, shell-shocked.
Son Heung-min opened and closed his mouth several times but couldn't utter a single word.
'Wasn't this wonder goal a bit too unfair?'
Hugo Lloris lay on the turf, staring at the sky.
He had thought he was about to pull off two brilliant saves in a row, only to end up as the backdrop for a Puskás contender.
He knew that from now on, whenever fans mentioned this goal, his name would inevitably come up, forever etched into the annals of YouTube compilations.
The sidelines erupted into celebration.
Rui Faria leaped to his feet, grabbing Mourinho.
"Boss! Boss, did you see that?!"
"That shot was magnificent! Some players might never manage one like it in their entire careers! That technique!"
Mourinho, usually so composed, was laughing.
"My eye for talent is still as sharp as ever! In such a short time, Ling is already delivering. He's only going to get better."
Faria seized the moment. "Exactly! I knew this kid had it. I've been keeping a close eye on him, sacrificing my holidays!"
"You got paid overtime, didn't you?" Mourinho shot back with a laugh. "If you're not happy, maybe I'll assign Lalin to the job next time."
Carlos Lalin, the fitness coach, nodded eagerly, but Faria quickly interjected.
"No, no! Lalin is just a fitness guy. He doesn't know the tactics. Leave the kid to me!"
Meanwhile, the Tottenham bench had fallen into a depressed silence.
Mauricio Pochettino felt as if the football gods were against him.
He had adjusted the tactics. He had stabilized the game. And then... this.
A moment of individual brilliance that no tactic could account for.
What struck him hardest was the realization of the gap in quality.
Not in the starting XI, but in the moments that mattered.
He understood Arsène Wenger's predicament firsthand. He had painstakingly patched together a brilliant, cohesive lineup, only to be defeated by the sheer financial and individual power of Guardiola and Mourinho.
Nevertheless, he quickly composed himself.
He stood by the touchline, clapping his hands, urging his players on.
There are still 20 minutes left. We are Tottenham. We fight.
....
Meanwhile, in the LeTV live broadcast room... Zhan Jun's throat kept bobbing as he swallowed dryly. It took him a while to resume his commentary.
"A SPECTACULAR, WORLD-CLASS GOAL!"
"Both in terms of visual appeal and difficulty, it's absolutely top-tier! I believe this goal deserves to win this year's Puskás Award!"
Noticing numerous comments popping up about "luck," Zhan Jun recalled a line from ancient poetry.
"'A man may have ambitions soaring to the heavens, but without fortune, he cannot achieve them.' This means even if someone has sky-high aspirations, they cannot succeed without a bit of luck. I think this fits Ling perfectly."
Zhang Lu, the calm analyst, unclenched his fist and added, "The preceding line is, 'A horse may be capable of traveling a thousand miles, but without a rider, it cannot go on its own.'"
"If one relies solely on luck without hard work, it's equally futile."
"Does everyone remember our exclusive interview? Ling's training schedule is planned down to the minute. He practices these volleys. That's why he's earned this goal."
If the earlier dribble was thrilling, this audacious long-range strike was pure madness.
The screen was flooded with comments.
[TOO UNBELIEVABLE!]
[Sigh, look at Zlatan. There stands the 36-year-old Lion, gazing with deep affection, seeing his 22-year-old self in Ling's eyes. The torch is passed.]
[Ling is just explosively handsome—I've got material for my dreams tonight! 😍]
[I saw that training plan—Ling is brutally strict with himself! He deserves every bit of this!]
[And can you believe it? He still has to do homework after matches?!]
[How dare you call him 'Little Ling'? Everyone, address him as KING LING!]