The Next Day.Cobham Training Centre, Surrey.
The morning mist clung to the pristine, manicured pitches of Chelsea's training ground.
It was quiet, but inside the main office, the air was thick with tension.
Roman Abramovich, the elusive billionaire owner, had descended from his ivory tower.
"We absolutely cannot lose the next match, Antonio. I do not want to see José's smug face grinning at me from the touchline." Abramovich spoke for a full ten minutes, his voice low but laced with a cold, steel-like pressure.
He clearly emphasized the importance of the Chelsea vs. Manchester United match—or rather, his personal obsession with José Mourinho.
As he spoke, Abramovich's eyes drifted to the window.
He couldn't help but reminisce about their sweet, turbulent times together.
He remembered 2005. How Mourinho had swaggered into London, declaring himself the "Special One," and delivered Chelsea their first league title in fifty years.
It had brought Abramovich unbridled joy.
But the cracks had appeared soon after.
When Abramovich handed over youth training management rights to Frank Arnesen, a rift emerged.
Then, the oligarch ignored Mourinho's vehement opposition and signed his personal favorite, Andriy Shevchenko, for a record fee, forcing the striker into a system that didn't suit him.
Mourinho's response back then had been resolute, a public declaration of war: "If Abramovich forces me to use a player i never want, I will leave Chelsea."
Although that specific battle ended with Abramovich backing down, the resentment festered.
It led to their first divorce in 2007.
Years later, they reconciled.
They found common ground on Financial Fair Play and youth development.
Mourinho returned, the "Happy One," and delivered another title.
But the third season... the fractured dressing room, the "betrayal" by the players, the hovering above the relegation zone... it was a nightmare.
Now, Abramovich simply couldn't bear the thought of losing to his creation.
Moreover, his recent, high-profile divorce proceedings had not only created a liquidity crisis for his personal finances but had left him deeply agitated.
He needed a dopamine hit. He needed a victory to restore his equilibrium.
"Boss, I understand," Antonio Conte nodded, his face a mask of professional stoicism. "I'll do everything to secure the win."
Conte let the owner's words go in one ear and out the other.
He barely registered the emotional baggage.
He had his own problems.
The Italian manager held no absolute confidence.
The summer transfer window had been a disaster.
The board had sold Nemanja Matić—his midfield anchor, his general—to Manchester United.
To a direct rival.
It was an act of self-sabotage that still kept Conte awake at night.
He had spent €66 million on Álvaro Morata, who was fragile, while the warrior Diego Costa sat in exile in Brazil, refusing to return.
Compounding this, since Chelsea's title win last season, Conte's revolutionary 3-4-3 system had been thoroughly dissected.
Nearly every Premier League coach now possessed a copy of "How to Beat Chelsea."
Press the wing-backs, overload the midfield, isolate the striker.
Consequently, their performances had grown increasingly disjointed.
A 3-0 loss to Roma in the Champions League just days ago had set alarm bells ringing.
Conte knew the score.
Abramovich cared little for excuses. Having dismissed over a dozen managers, Conte knew that without improved results, he'd likely be another statistic by season's end.
He looked out at the training pitch.
N'Golo Kanté was running freely.
The Frenchman had returned from injury. Conte breathed a sigh of relief.
'With Kanté, anything is possible'
Tactics were the answer.
Though critics claimed he was a "one-trick pony," he had mastered the variations of the back three.
3-4-3, 3-5-2, 3-6-1. He would find a way to strangle United.
.....
Meanwhile, two hundred miles north at the Carrington Training Ground, José Mourinho was pondering the same challenge.
He sat in his office, the lights dimmed, watching replays of Chelsea's loss to Roma.
He understood Chelsea.
He built the DNA of that club.
He knew the players intimately—Hazard, Willian, Azpilicueta. He knew their habits, their fears, and their triggers.
The issue was execution.
Though both Paul Pogba and Marouane Fellaini had returned to training, defeating Chelsea at Stamford Bridge remained a formidable task.
The "Bridge" was hostile territory now.
The fans who once worshipped him now called him "Judas."
The approach had to be pragmatic: create transition opportunities through compact low-block defending, then capitalize efficiently on counterattacks using the pace of Ling and Rashford.
As for neutralizing Conte's 3-4-3? The Premier League had already provided the textbook solution, and Mourinho was ready to use it.
Mirror the formation.
He would match them up.
3-4-3 against 3-4-3. Or perhaps a 3-4-1-2. It was a trade-off strategy.
Man-for-man. Systemic suppression.
If his players won their individual duels, United would win the game.
Mourinho was no stubborn traditionalist—despite what the media said.
He continuously evolved his methods, refusing to cling to the 4-2-3-1 if the situation demanded something else.
Knock, knock, knock!
The sharp sound broke his concentration.
Mourinho's thoughts returned to the present.
He paused the video, looked up, and saw Jeremy Ling standing outside the door, a folder in his hand.
"Come in," Mourinho said, a genuine warmth entering his voice. "Have you finished the post-match analysis assignment I gave you?"
"Yes, Boss." Ling walked in, placing the folder on the desk. "In the recent match between Chelsea and Roma, I noticed something. Their defensive line... specifically the space between the wing-back and the outside center-back... it's poorly organized during rapid retreats.We can exploit that channel for quick counterattacks."
"Go on," Mourinho leaned back, intrigued.
"Roma's second goal," Ling continued, gesturing to the screen. "Dzeko pulled the center-back out. El Shaarawy ran into the gap. If Romelu can occupy Luiz, and I make the diagonal run from the left inside..."
"Very good."
After listening, a flicker of surprise passed through Mourinho's eyes.
He realized that compared to Ling's explosive technical improvements, his progress in tactical understanding was becoming even more significant.
It was rare for an 18-year-old winger to see the game like a manager.
This wasn't something one could deduce just by casually watching footage; it required a certain innate footballing IQ.
"However," Mourinho stood up, picking up the laser pointer, "some of your understanding is slightly incorrect. Roma focuses on blocking the passing lanes, not the ball carrier. And here..." He clicked the video.
"Look at Kolarov. He doesn't just run; he creates a diversion. When you cut inside, I need Ashley Young to overlap, not to get the ball, but to take Moses away from you."
Mourinho spent the next twenty minutes explaining the intricacies of the "Mirror System."
Suddenly, he felt a pang of nostalgia.
He recalled his time at Chelsea when he had taught young players like Robben and Joe Cole in a similar manner.
He had built them into champions, only to end up alienated and forced out.
Did he regret it? At the time, the disappointment was crushing.
But looking back now, perhaps his departure was inevitable.
He wanted absolute authority; Chelsea was a political shark tank.
But here, with this kid... it felt pure again.
Ling looked at the visibly aged Mourinho before him.
The gray hair, the deep lines around the eyes.
He understood how important this match was for the man.
It wasn't just three points. It was personal.
Judging from previous encounters, the abuse Mourinho received at the Bridge was vile.
'Why join Chelsea's arch-rivals? Why park the bus? Why act so arrogant?'
Ling could understand Mourinho.
When you give everything to a club and they turn on you, you don't offer the other cheek.
You fight back.
Even someone as mild-mannered as Carlo Ancelotti would likely have snapped.
"Boss," Ling said quietly as he gathered his papers. "We'll win. For us. And for you."
Mourinho looked up, startled.
He smiled, a small, tight smile. "Just play your game, menino. Leave the fighting to me."
....
Half an hour later.
The daily tactics session ended, and Ling returned to his dormitory.
He didn't rest. He had questions.
He opened his laptop, continuing to bury himself in research, watching clips of Cesar Azpilicueta, his likely opponent.
'Azpilicueta. Strong. disciplined. Doesn't dive in. How do I beat him?'
Over the following days, Ling strictly adhered to his training plan.
The Manchester rain lashed down, but he was out there, running sprints, practicing the "Bergkamp Touch," refining his finishing.
His body felt different.
Lighter, yet more powerful.
The "Rapid Growth Phase" granted by the system was in full effect.
[Dribbling: 87.47 (+0.4) -> Potential: 97]
[Passing: 78.25 (+0.2) -> Potential: 83]
[Shooting: 81.12 (+0.3) -> Potential: 95]
[Pace: 83.96 (+0.5) -> Potential: 94]
[Physicality: 70.10 (+0.5)]
Thanks to the system allowing him to maintain a "rapid growth phase" for extended periods, his speed attribute had improved the most.
He was becoming a blur.
'Azpilicueta might be disciplined, But can he catch a Ferrari?'
....
As the weekend approached, the English media machine went into overdrive.
Sky Sports News: "It's the return of the Special One. Sunday. Stamford Bridge. Chelsea vs Manchester United."
"Can Conte save his job? Can Mourinho haunt his old club? And will the new Number 7, Jeremy Ling, pass his biggest test yet?"
Twitter Trends:
#CHEMUN
#MourinhoReturns
#LingVsHazard
Paul Merson: "I'm going for Chelsea. I just think at home, they have to win. United will park the bus, we know that. But if Hazard turns up, Jones and Smalling are in trouble. 1-0 Chelsea."
Gary Neville: "I disagree. I think United have the counter-attacking threat now. With Ling and Rashford, they have pace that Chelsea's back three will hate. I'm going 2-1 United."
The stage was set.
The oligarch was watching. The managers were plotting. And the number 7 was ready to run.
---------
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