Carrington Training Ground.
Speed.
It is the currency of the modern game.
But in the world of sports science, speed is not a singular concept.
It is divided into explosive speed (acceleration) and average speed (top-end velocity).
Jeremy Ling sat on the edge of the physio table, staring at the data on the tablet.
Since he had increased the proportion of heavy compound strength training, his explosive speed—that first five yards—was now significantly higher than his average speed.
However, for a football winger, explosive speed is generally more important.
It's the difference between beating a man and being tackled.
So, recently, Ling had gradually reduced his endurance training.
The science was clear: excessive endurance training alters muscle fiber types, converting fast-twitch fibers into slow-twitch fibers.
This didn't align with his development requirements.
He needed to be a Ferrari, not a Prius.
Moreover, Ling had discovered something strange.
Something unnatural.
He could withstand heavier loads to rapidly improve his explosive power without the usual side effects.
According to modern scientific principles, heavy loading usually reduces neural reaction speed in the short term, making the body unaccustomed to rapid movements—a phenomenon commonly known in the gym as "dead muscle."
But with the System's assistance, he didn't encounter this problem.
Perhaps this was another hidden benefit brought by the Ronaldo template.
However, this anomaly did cause trouble for Manchester United's medical team.
The head physio, scratching his head, had ordered several additional checks.
"Your lactate threshold is normal, but your recovery... it's like you haven't even lifted," the doctor had muttered.
They couldn't figure out the reason, ultimately attributing it to the "complexity of the human body" and labeling Ling as a "genetic outlier."
.....
As time passed, the calendar flipped.
November 5th.Premier League, Round 12.
The Battle of the Bridge.
West London. South of a magnificent, compact stadium, a small river meandered until it merged into the Thames.
It passed under two bridges on Fulham Road and King's Road, named "Stanbridge" and "Sanford Bridge" respectively.
Over time, linguistic drift led to the stadium being christened Stamford Bridge.
In the streets and alleys around the stadium, the atmosphere was tribal.
Deep blue lion emblems were everywhere.
Graffiti of star players and coaches from various eras adorned the brick walls.
Claudio Ranieri. Roberto Di Matteo. Carlo Ancelotti.
But one face was conspicuously, deliberately missing from the murals.
Soon, a massive group of Chelsea fans in blue shirts marched down the Fulham Road, waving scarves, their voices merging into a roar.
"Blue is the colour, football is the game!"
"We're all together, and winning is our aim!"
"So cheer us on through sun and rain!"
"Cos Chelsea, Chelsea is our name!"
At that moment, a content creator from Chelsea Fan TV, armed with a microphone and a camera crew, walked over to a group of die-hards outside the pub.
"Lads, big game today. Mourinho returns. What are your thoughts?"
The Chelsea fans pointed aggressively to the badges on their chests.
"No thoughts, mate. We'll crush them. We'll crush Mourinho!"
"Just wait, Manchester United! We're gonna pull you down from the table and make you taste the dirt! 3-0 Chelsea!"
"No one takes three points from the Bridge easily!"
The interviewer pressed on while grinning.
"Well, speaking of Mourinho... he won three titles here. What would you like to say to him?" The mood instantly shifted from competitive to venomous.
"If Mourinho respected us, he wouldn't have gone to them! He wouldn't have gone to United!"
"And let's get it straight—Chelsea's success isn't because of Mourinho. It's because of Roman Abramovich! He brought the money, he brought the players! José is history!"
Just then, the sleek, black Manchester United team bus turned the corner, flanked by police escorts.
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
The Chelsea fans surged forward, pressing against the barriers, raising their middle fingers in a collective salute of hatred.
"FUCK OFF, MOURINHO!!!"
"YOU DON'T DESERVE TO RETURN TO STAMFORD BRIDGE!"
"JUDAS! YOU'RE A JUDAS!"
"WE WON THE LEAGUE WITHOUT YOU! GET OUT OF HERE!"
Inside the bus, the sound was muffled but audible.
Thud. Thud.
A few plastic bottles bounced off the reinforced glass.
Jeremy Ling sat near the front, He heard the harsh sounds, the raw vitriol.
He instinctively glanced toward the front of the bus.
José Mourinho sat in the manager's seat, his back swaying slightly with the vehicle's motion.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't look out the window.
He just stared straight ahead, his face was stone cold.
Ling felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
If judged by trophy counts, Mourinho was indisputably Chelsea's greatest-ever manager.
He had built this club's modern identity.
He had dedicated immense effort, sacrifice, and passion to this place.
No matter what shirt he wore now, he shouldn't be insulted like this.
A sudden surge of speechless anger welled up within Ling.
Regardless of Mourinho's prickly personality or his tactical pragmatism, he had always shown Ling the utmost care, trust, and concern.
He had given him the No. 7 shirt.
Knowing that alone was enough for him.
'Judas? No,' Ling thought, gripping his bag. 'He is a winner. And they are afraid'.
Ling didn't consider himself an ungrateful person.
In that moment, watching the stoic back of his manager, he became more determined than ever to win this match.
Not just for the three points.
Not just for the fans.
For him.
'Only victory can silence them. If one win isn't enough, then two. Or three.'
....
Soon, the bus parked in the secure tunnel.
The Manchester United players headed to the locker room to change, the thumping bass of music already starting.
Mourinho, meanwhile, adjusted his tie and made his way to the press conference room with practiced ease.
In the home press room, Antonio Conte was holding court.
The Italian manager answered the reporters' questions with a mix of caution and subtle provocation
. "Manchester United is one of the best teams in the Premier League," Conte said, his English heavily accented but clear.
"And Mourinho is... an outstanding coach. So, this will be a very tough match. We must suffer to win."
"The league has just started. It's too early to talk about defending the title now."
Then, he dropped the bomb.
"However," Conte added with a small smirk playing on his lips, "I will do my best to avoid the situation where Ranieri and Mourinho lost their jobs right after winning the Premier League title. I want to finish the season."
As soon as these words were spoken, the reporters in the room perked up, pens scratching furiously.
This was a direct jab.
A slap in the face.
He was mocking Mourinho's "third-season syndrome" and his chaotic exit from Chelsea.
Conte might have played it off as a general comment on the volatility of the job, but everyone knew the subtext.
....
Meanwhile, in the away conference room.
"Mr. Mourinho," a reporter from The Sun asked, "how does it feel to return to Stamford Bridge again? The reception outside was... hostile."
Mourinho refrained from saying anything inflammatory immediately.
He replied softly, almost sadly.
"I must admit, matches against Chelsea always feel a bit different. I have history here."
"But in the end, I am a professional. I want to win."
"Just like what I did at Inter, and last season... perhaps in four or five years, people will forget I was once Chelsea's manager. They will only remember the trophies."
The reporters' expressions turned disappointed—they hadn't gotten the headline they were hoping for.
"José," another asked, changing tack. "Recently, there have been many young players in the United squad. Ling, Rashford, McTominay. How do you think they've grown compared to the start of the season?"
Mourinho rubbed his chin, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Of course they have grown. Rashford has grown 3 centimeters. McTominay 2 centimeters. And Ling... maybe 2 centimeters as well. The food at Carrington is very good."
"Any other questions?"
The reporters nearly facepalmed.
Literal growth? Really?
They felt like cursing but didn't dare.
They knew full well the man before them could curse them back in six different languages and make them look stupid while doing it.
Suddenly, a reporter checked his phone and looked up.
"José, Antonio Conte just made a comment in the other room. He said he wants to avoid 'doing a Mourinho' and being sacked after winning the title. Do you have a response?"
The room went silent. Mourinho stopped. He looked at the reporter.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
The "Special One" was activated.
"I don't know," Mourinho shrugged, his voice dripping with fake innocence. "I could respond in many ways. But I don't want to talk about Antonio's situation." He paused for effect. "Because I don't want to lose my hair over it."
Boom.
The reporters burst into shocked laughter.
It was a brutal, personal strike.
In the past, Antonio Conte had famously undergone two hair transplant surgeries to save his receding hairline.
It was a sore subject for him.
Mourinho had just turned a professional critique into a personal roast.
The headlines were written before the match even started.
....
Half an hour later. The banter was over. The war began.
Led by the head referee, Anthony Taylor, players from both teams walked onto the pitch.
Stamford Bridge erupted.
The noise was deafening, a wall of sound crashing down on the players.
Martin Tyler: "And here they come! The champions, Chelsea, against the challengers, Manchester United. It's Red versus Blue. It's Conte versus Mourinho. And listen to this atmosphere!"
In the Matthew Harding Stand, a giant TIFO unfurled.
It didn't feature a legend of the past.
It featured the current king: Eden Hazard.
In recent seasons, every transfer window had been filled with rumors of Hazard joining Real Madrid.
Not long ago, Hazard himself admitted in an interview that his childhood dream was to play for Los Blancos.
The banner read: "EDEN - OUR GARDEN. STAY FOREVER."
At the same time, 40,000 Chelsea fans were loudly chanting.
"Eden Hazard, we want you to stay! Don't go to Madrid!"
Jeremy Ling, standing in the lineup next to Marcus Rashford, looked up at the giant image of the Belgian.
He couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself.
'If Hazard doesn't go to Real Madrid,' Ling thought, shaking his head, 'he probably won't win the Champions League. And he probably won't win the Ballon d'Or.'
It was a ruthless thought, but an honest one.
He looked across the line.
Cesar Azpilicueta. N'Golo Kante. Eden Hazard. Alvaro Morata.
This was the reigning Premier League champion.
This was the ultimate test for the new No. 7.
The referee blew the whistle.
The Battle of the Bridge was on!