As the dust settled on the 2-0 victory over Tottenham, the media landscape in South Korea erupted into a defensive frenzy.
The headlines were, to put it mildly, creative.
"CONSPIRACY! The Referee and His Manchester United Bias!"
"The Astonishing, Undeserved Luck of the Chinese Player!"
"Although Tottenham Lost, Son Heung-min Didn't Lose - 5 Successful Dribbles vs Ling's 3!"
Korean fans, stung by the defeat and the collapse of their pre-match confidence, flooded the internet with excuses.
Accusations of "match-fixing" and "biased refereeing" were rampant—convenient shields for a bruised ego.
[We strongly demand the FA investigate The Referee! He gave every 50/50 to United!]
[And that Chinese kid only scored two goals because of pure luck. A rebound and a deflection! Yet he dares act so arrogantly?]
[Even if he won the match, he can't compare to Son Heung-min. Son is a proven star. Ling is a flash in the pan. How pathetic that he's never even scored a hat trick in his career!]
[Have to admit Tottenham had terrible luck - 16 shots with 11 on target, yet all saved by De Gea. If the goalkeepers were swapped, we win 5-2 easily.]
Piling excuse upon excuse, they found the defeat somewhat easier to swallow, retreating into a comfortable persecution complex.
However, some Chinese fans who bypassed the firewall responded to the Korean taunts with just one phrase that never failed to infuriate them.
"Tottenham lost the match. Ling scored twice. L"
....
Meanwhile, the Chinese fan communities celebrated as if it were New Year.
Before the match, they had anticipated at best a draw.
Given Ling's recent emergence, few expected him to outperform an established star like Son Heung-min so comprehensively.
But after witnessing the game—one display of individual brilliance with the "Pendulum Dribble," one god-like volley—every moment seemed permanently etched in their memories.
Though it was late at night in Beijing, the excitement remained palpable.
Discussions exploded across forums, Weibo, and Douyin.
Post-match, China even saw an influx of "30-year Manchester United veterans" and converts from other club fanbases.
[How dare they accuse others of 'biased refereeing'? Tottenham were hacking Ling all game! Lamela should have been sent off!]
[At Ling's current rate, he might surpass Son Heung-min in a single season and claim the Asian scoring record! The King has arrived!]
[What an exhilarating match to watch! Mourinho's tactics were perfect. He predicted every one of Pochettino's moves.]
[Taking a look at Manchester United's upcoming fixtures, it really is tough. Chelsea next week... that's the real test.]
[Did you forget about Arsenal?]
[Haha, Arsenal doesn't count as a strong team! We want the big boys!]
.....
While the fans fought online, Ling was experiencing a different kind of battle: social awkwardness.
It was Saturday night in Manchester.
Since the team had achieved a 10-match unbeaten streak and this was the last match of October, Mourinho had given them a rare Sunday off.
So, Paul Pogba (who was injured but never missed a party) organized a team bonding session at The Ivy, a high-end bar in the Spinningfields district.
It was billed as Ling's belated "welcome ceremony."
Ling had no reason to refuse.
His teammates had taken good care of him, and he didn't want to be the antisocial rookie.
Moreover, the daily grind of training-dorm-match was monotonous.
He needed to relax.
But when he entered the reserved VIP booth, he realized he stood out.
Badly.
Pogba was wearing a T-shirt covered in golden baroque patterns, ripped designer jeans, and green fluorescent glasses (indoors, at night).
He looked like a cool, eccentric billionaire.
Jesse Lingard was in a full tracksuit that probably cost more than Ling's car.
Rashford was rocking a sleek, designer bomber jacket.
And Ling? Ling was wearing a grey club-issue hoodie and a pair of plain blue jeans he'd bought at the Trafford Centre three months ago.
"Ling, mate... no offense," Lingard said, looking him up and down with a mixture of horror and pity.
He pulled Ling to sit beside him. "But who goes to The Ivy dressed like they're going to a maths exam?"
"It's comfortable," Ling shrugged.
"Comfortable?!" Lingard gasped. "Looks like I need to give you a lesson. Rule number one: Drip is forever. Tomorrow, we go shopping. Selfridges. My treat. You can't be scoring Puskás goals looking like a librarian."
As the atmosphere grew livelier, drinks flowing (mostly non-alcoholic for the serious pros, cocktails for the injured ones), everyone started chatting.
"Sigh," Scott McTominay said, swirling his orange juice. "When will I ever be able to shoot like Ling? That volley... I tried it in the garden and nearly broke my fence."
The Manchester United players exchanged glances and burst out laughing.
"See? Getting impatient again, Scott!"
"Come on!" Rashford raised his glass, his voice cutting through the music. "Let's celebrate Ling's brace today! The King of the China!"
After clinking glasses with his teammates, Ling stood up, feeling a surge of gratitude.
"Tonight's drinks are on me!" he declared boldly.
Fortunately, his salary had recently increased significantly with the new contract and the Beckham endorsement.
Otherwise, with his previous £1,500-a-week youth wage, a night at The Ivy would have bankrupted him.
"Whoa!!"
"Generous! Big papa Ling!"
The booth erupted in cheers.
Michael Carrick, the club captain, sat in the corner, nursing a beer.
Watching the energetic young players, he suddenly recalled his old teammates.
Back then, they too celebrated here.
He remembered when Rooney got drunk and... well, best not to think about that.
He smiled.
'The spirit is good. The team is together.'
A while later, a few younger players signaled for another round of shots.
But they noticed Zlatan Ibrahimović sitting silently in the corner, his eyes scanning the room like a lion watching a herd of gazelles.
They quickly put their hands down.
Although they felt they hadn't had enough fun, they knew they couldn't overindulge.
Not with Zlatan watching.
And not with Mourinho finding out everything.
As for Ling, he stopped after one drink.
He still had to review the match analysis when he got back.
He needed a clear head.
....
Around 10:30 PM, the group left the bar.
A few of the senior players quietly headed off for a "second round" elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the "Kindergarten"—Rashford, McTominay, and Ling—were personally escorted into a taxi by Ibrahimović.
"Go home. Sleep. Grow," Zlatan commanded, shutting the door.
Although the gathering wasn't a wild party, the bonds among the Manchester United players grew stronger.
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