As Manchester entered November, the city lived up to its grim reputation.
Temperatures plummeted rapidly, and the weather grew increasingly damp, rainy, and overcast.
The sky was a perpetual sheet of slate grey, hanging low over the industrial landscape.
The tenth round of the Premier League had concluded, and the table was taking shape.
Manchester City led the pack with 28 points after a thrilling 3-2 win over West Bromwich Albion.
Pep Guardiola's machine was humming.
Close behind—breathing down their necks—was Manchester United.
They also sat on 28 points, occupying second place only due to a slightly inferior goal difference.
The two Manchester giants were threatening to turn the league into a two-horse race.
With Tottenham losing their match and dropping to fifth, Chelsea moved up to third after a gritty 1-0 victory over Bournemouth.
Arsenal, meanwhile, secured a 2-1 win over Swansea, returning to their familiar, almost comforting position in the top four (temporarily).
The controversy over Arsène Wenger's tenure had eased slightly, though the "Wenger Out" brigade was never truly silent.
Many fans still believed the Frenchman lacked the capability to win the big one and that a new, renowned manager could do better.
But one must ask: who built Arsenal's foundation? Under Wenger's frugal management, consistently finishing in the top six each year while paying off a stadium was no small feat.
The remaining matches of the round didn't offer much of note.
However, across the ocean, the digital world was buzzing.
To the delight of Chinese fans, Jeremy Ling was named the Premier League Player of the Week for Round 10 by the competition committee.
If he could maintain this form, he'd likely soon be in contention for the prestigious Player of the Month award.
....
November 1st. Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams.
Manchester United faced Benfica in the fourth round of the Champions League group stage.
A win here would all but guarantee qualification to the knockout rounds.
15th Minute into the game United started on the front foot.
Jeremy Ling received the ball on the left flank.
He didn't hesitate. Using his newfound burst of pace, he drove at the Benfica right-back, Douglas.
A drop of the shoulder, a feint to the inside, and he exploded down the line to the byline.
He looked up and whipped a fierce cross into the box, aiming for the towering figure of Romelu Lukaku.
But Lukaku, showing great awareness, didn't head for goal.
He cushioned the ball, nodding it back to the edge of the penalty area.
Waiting there was Zlatan Ibrahimović.
The Swede controlled the dropping ball with effortless precision, killing it dead with his chest.
He deftly evaded two rushing defenders with a subtle drop of the shoulder and unleashed a powerful, low drive into the bottom corner.
1:0!
It was Ibrahimović's first goal since returning from his ACL injury this season.
He didn't run wildly. He took a couple of slow, deliberate steps, then stopped.
He raised his arms horizontally toward the stands, his chest puffed out.
Like a unique lion standing majestically on the savannah, surveying his kingdom, he captivated the entire stadium.
Before Ibrahimović could even bask in the cheers of the Manchester United fans, he realized someone had suddenly appeared behind him, jumping onto his back.
"Zlatan! What a beautiful goal!"
Ibrahimović turned, letting out two domineering laughs.
He pointed a thumb at his own chest.
"I am God! Kid, you still have a lot to learn! That is how you finish!"
"Just you wait," Ling grinned, mimicking Ibrahimović's arrogant tone perfectly. "I'll score a goal today too! Watch me."
The Manchester United players watched Ling banter with Ibrahimović, not particularly surprised by the scene.
To the outside world, Ibrahimović seemed domineering, arrogant, perhaps difficult.
But inside the dressing room, if you shared the same hunger, the same goals, you found him to be an incredibly simple, fun, and fiercely loyal person.
Darren Fletcher: "He's back! The Lion roars at Old Trafford! Zlatan Ibrahimović marks his return to the Champions League with a trademark finish."
Rio Ferdinand: "That's class. Pure class. Look at the knockdown from Lukaku, but the composure from Zlatan... he just knows where the goal is. And look at the spirit in the team. Ling jumping on his back... there's a real mentorship there."
Urged on by the referee, the match resumed.
With Manchester United comfortably in the lead, they played even more relaxed, displaying a completely different demeanor compared to their pragmatic away performances.
This was the "United Way"—strong offensive and aggressive play.
In contrast, Benfica's players were crumbling.
They not only had to bear the pressure of needing points to advance but also endured the harsh, deafening jeers from the Stretford End.
They grew increasingly anxious, their passes going astray.
53rd Minute.
Paul Pogba, who had been sidelined for over two weeks due to a muscle strain, stood on the sidelines.
He watched Ibrahimović's performance, feeling a surge of excitement himself.
He replaced Juan Mata.
Ten minutes later, the Frenchman made his mark.
Receiving the ball 25 yards out, he danced past Pizzi and unleashed a stunning, curling long-range strike that kissed the post on its way in. 2:0!
Although Pogba's personality and off-field antics often drew criticism, his technical skills were undeniable.
The nickname "The Budget Zidane" was a disservice; on his day, he was simply Pogba.
Since his substitution, Manchester United's attacks became noticeably more organized.
Pogba single-handedly handled the playmaking duties, spraying passes left and right, allowing Nemanja Matic to sit back and focus purely on defense.
65th Minute.
Benfica witnessed the full might of Manchester United's transition.
Matic intercepted a lazy pass in their own half and immediately fed Pogba.
Pogba turned and saw the run.
He delivered a precise, laser-guided long ball to the left flank.
Ling was already moving. Facing the onrushing Rúben Dias—the highly-rated young Portuguese defender—Ling didn't slow down.
He recalled the "Bergkamp Module" and his dribbling training.
He cleverly dropped his shoulder, feinting to cut inside.
Dias shifted his weight.
That was all Ling needed. He knocked the ball past the defender and accelerated, leaving him in his wake.
What followed was a classic one-on-one.
Amidst tens of thousands of fans chanting "Shoot!", Ling kept his cool.
He waited for the keeper, Mile Svilar, to commit.
Svilar went low. Ling opened his body and slotted the ball firmly into the far corner.
3:0!
Ling dashed toward the corner flag with a wide smile, leaping and punching the air in celebration.
This was his third Champions League goal, leaving him two short of completing his system task.
Thanks to his brace against Tottenham in the previous match, his league tally had also reached eight goals.
Unfortunately, there were no extended international breaks ahead for additional training blocks.
But Ling didn't dwell on it too much.
The templates and modules he already possessed still had significant room for development.
He could focus on refining his attributes through matches.
Nearby, Rúben Dias wiped sweat from his forehead, wearing a bitter expression.
He looked around Old Trafford.
'The level here... it is different,' he thought. 'The speed, the power. I need to be here'.
He shifted his gaze to Manchester United's number 23, who was currently high-fiving the crowd.
Dias clenched his fists silently.
'I will face you again. And next time, I will win.'
After the match restarted, Mourinho brought on two young players, Scott McTominay and Axel Tuanzebe, beginning a phase of tactical experimentation.
As a result, the intensity dropped.
Benfica gradually seized control of the game, launching fierce attacks and repeatedly threatening United's penalty area.
Just before the final whistle, they finally capitalized on a corner to pull one back.
The goal was scored by none other than Rúben Dias, rising high to power a header home—a consolation prize for a future star.
Soon after, the referee blew the final whistle.
The score remained 3:1.
Manchester United secured a long-awaited fourth consecutive Champions League victory, sitting on 12 points and effectively locking in their spot in the knockout stages.
This left Manchester United fans ecstatic.
Even more joy came from the fact that Ibrahimović and Pogba, having returned from injury, showed no lingering effects.
They were fit, they were firing, and the team looked complete.
This boost in strength gave them the confidence to navigate the upcoming, brutal winter fixture schedule.
.....
While the Manchester United players were changing in the locker room, celebrating the win, Ibrahimović quietly exchanged a few words with Ling.
"Shower quickly," the Swede said. "We have a meeting."
The two disappeared out the back exit, avoiding the press zone.
Half an hour later, they arrived at a discreet, upscale café on Sir Matt Busby Way, usually reserved for private functions.
Inside, sitting at a corner booth, was a man who looked out of place in a sports setting.
He was fat, dressed in a hoodie and jeans that looked expensive but ill-fitting.
It was Mino Raiola. The Super Agent.
"Mino," Ibrahimović declared, plopping down casually opposite him. "I've brought him to you. But listen to me carefully. Ling's decision on who to choose as his agent is entirely his own. I won't be acting as your advocate. If he doesn't like you, he walks."
In truth, Ibrahimović held deep affection for Raiola.
During his own reckless and extravagant youth at Ajax, it was this man who had delivered the blunt wake-up call that saved his career.
Ibra remembered the words clearly: "You think wearing a gold watch and driving a Porsche makes you somebody? In my eyes, you're just a piece of shit. Your stats are garbage. You'll soon fade into mediocrity like other flash-in-the-pan stars, end up penniless, and return to your slums in Rosengård. Unless you sell the car, put on your boots, and work."
That brutal honesty was why he had agreed to bring Ling here.
"Hello, Mr. Raiola," Ling greeted cordially, extending his hand. He kept his face neutral.
"Jeremy! My boy!" Raiola's face crinkled as his eyes narrowed slightly, resembling a plump, intelligent weasel. He shook the hand firmly.
"Your performance today... absolutely brilliant! That touch to beat Dias? Chef's kiss."
Ling maintained a calm smile in response.
"Thank you." He was well aware of the notorious reputation of the man before him.
"The Fat Man." The man Ferguson hated.
The man who moved Pogba for £89 million.
He knew he needed to stay fully alert.
Although having Ibrahimović present reduced the risk of being deceived, it never hurt to be cautious.
Raiola observed the kid.
His heart sank slightly, though his smile didn't waver.
'He's not starstruck', Raiola analyzed. 'He's calm. Calculated.'
He suddenly thought of Mario Balotelli—that kid's thought processes were chaotic and unconventional, but as long as you fed his ego, he was easy to manipulate.
But this kid... this "Ling"... he had the eyes of a businessman.
Or a predator.
"So," Raiola leaned back, clasping his hands over his stomach. "Let's talk about your future. Let's talk about making you the biggest star in the world. Not just in Manchester. Not just in China. The World." He slid a glossy folder across the table.
"I don't do small contracts, Jeremy. I do empires."
Ling looked at the folder, then at Ibrahimović, who was busy stirring his espresso, pretending not to listen.
Ling smiled. "I'm listening, Mr. Raiola. But I have conditions."