April 17, 2008.
Old Trafford roared with voices. This was the home of Manchester United — a sacred ground in the hearts of its supporters, the legendary Theater of Dreams.
The stands were filled to the brim, a sea of red that pulsed with anticipation. On the pitch, a few players in training kits exchanged short passes as the halftime whistle echoed through the stadium.
On the giant scoreboard, the numbers glowed clearly:
Manchester United 0 – 1 Chelsea
Halftime.
Both teams disappeared into the tunnel while the noise from the crowd rolled through the corridor beneath the stands.
Inside the visiting locker room, a tall man — around 185 centimeters, dressed in a white shirt, black suit trousers, and a neatly knotted tie — stood before a group of young players wearing Chelsea blue.
This man was not Avram Grant, Mourinho's temporary successor for Chelsea's senior side.
He was Gao Bo, and he was coaching Chelsea U18.
Sweat had already soaked the back of his shirt. This was the second leg of the FA Youth Cup Final — Manchester United U18 versus Chelsea U18, at Old Trafford.
"Good work in the first half!" Gao Bo's voice rang across the locker room. "Keep that intensity in the second half! Stay compact — don't let them find gaps through the middle. Force them out wide!"
He turned, drawing quick lines on the tactical board.
"When we win the ball, transition fast. Attack immediately!"
The young Chelsea players nodded in unison, their faces focused but tense.
The situation favored them. A week earlier, Chelsea had beaten Manchester United U18 — a squad boasting future stars like Danny Welbeck and Tom Cleverley — by 1-0 at Cobham through hard pressing and ruthless counterattacks. Now, after another first-half breakaway goal, Chelsea were leading 2-0 on aggregate.
With an away goal in hand, United would need three in the second half to complete a comeback. The tie already looked all but sealed.
"Do not think this is over!" Gao Bo warned, his eyes sharp. "This is their home ground. They will come out strong. Keep your shape, stay disciplined. Do not fear the crosses, but never allow them a clear shot from the middle!"
His voice was steady, yet his expression remained tense.
He knew that youth football was not like the professional game. Young players were volatile — their emotions swayed like the wind. When confidence surged, they could tear through anyone; but once panic set in, the match could fall apart within minutes.
That volatility was exactly why youth matches often produced wild scorelines.
For Gao Bo, this was more than just a game. Leading Chelsea U18 past Tottenham and Manchester City to the final had already strengthened his résumé. But winning the FA Youth Cup — and at Old Trafford — could change his career forever.
And yet, Gao Bo himself was not a simple man.
Just one month earlier, his life had taken a turn beyond reason.
Gao Bo had always been calm, logical, and level-headed — but now he carried the memories of two lifetimes.
The change began right after his college entrance examination.
He was an orphan, found as a baby wrapped in a blue blanket with a note bearing only his name and birth date: August 30, 1981.
Life at the orphanage was harsh, but he was brilliant. Through effort and perseverance, he earned a place at one of China's top high schools and eventually received an admission letter from the University of London.
That was where fate diverged.
In his original timeline, Gao Bo could not afford the tuition or living costs in the UK. He stayed in China, attended a domestic university, and after graduation rose through the ranks of a Fortune 500 company — from a junior employee to a middle manager, then finally a senior executive.
But on the night he celebrated his promotion, May 30, 2018, he got drunk for the first time in his life. When he woke up, he was no longer in 2018.
He was back in 2008, inside the body of another Gao Bo — one who had studied at the University of London, majoring in Sports Management and Football Business at Baker College.
This version of him had received an interest-free scholarship arranged through the education department after the orphanage reported his case, allowing him to study abroad.
He later earned a UEFA A-Level Coaching License — a qualification even some top-flight European coaches had not yet achieved. That certificate opened the door for him to work at a major club like Chelsea.
Now, with both sets of memories perfectly fused, Gao Bo was still himself — only more experienced, more mature, and armed with two lives' worth of knowledge.
It took him a week to accept that he had somehow traveled through time. Once he did, he adapted quickly.
With everything he knew — the football evolution of the next decade, tactical trends, player-development philosophies — becoming a coach was the clearest path forward.
Chelsea U18 was a perfect starting point. If he could win the FA Youth Cup, the door to professional management would open wide.
For the first time in his life, Gao Bo felt completely in his element.
He reviewed his halftime speech in his head — the confidence, the strategy, the tone. Everything had been precise.
Living two lives — one as a young coach and another as a seasoned corporate executive — had molded him into someone calm under pressure and decisive when it mattered most.
Even his assistant, Wrights, could sense it. When Gao Bo had first joined Chelsea, he had seemed a little raw, but his transformation was remarkable. The young Chinese coach now carried himself like a reliable and composed leader.
Just as Gao Bo was about to continue explaining his tactical adjustments for the second half, the locker room door suddenly slammed open.
A man forced his way through the narrow opening and rushed straight up to Gao Bo, stopping only when his fingers nearly jabbed into the coach's face.
"Damn it! Why didn't you let George play this game?!" he shouted furiously. "I'm warning you — I want to see George on the pitch in the second half!"
The man's voice grew louder and sharper. "Do you even know football? When did Chelsea start hiring Asians as coaches—"
He didn't finish the sentence. His words were cut off mid-breath, replaced by a strangled gasp — like a duck being grabbed by the neck.
Because he was being grabbed by the neck.
Gao Bo had lost his patience. He seized the man by the collar and pinned him hard against the wall. The man's heavy body hit the surface with a dull thud, and the excess flesh on his frame rippled like water before settling again.
When the room fell silent, every player stared in stunned disbelief.
"Who is he?!" Gao Bo demanded, his tone sharp with irritation. The locker room was sacred ground for a team, a space for players and staff only. Outsiders had no right to barge in, let alone cause a scene.
"Gao... Gao Bo-kun," whispered team doctor Haruko Sakuragi, stepping closer and speaking softly near his ear, "he's Mr. Ross, one of the club's directors."
Haruko had short, neat hair that brushed the tops of her ears and delicate, youthful features on a round face typical of Japanese women. If one ignored her mature figure beneath her sportswear, she could easily be mistaken for a teenager. In truth, she was twenty-six years old — a master's student in Sports Medicine at the University of London, serving as team doctor for Chelsea U18.
Gao Bo remembered now. Before the match, a Chelsea director had called him and suggested that he give a young player some minutes on the pitch. Gao Bo, of course, had ignored it. He wasn't about to compromise his team's balance because of a backdoor request.
"I see. Thank you, Haruko," Gao Bo said calmly.
"N-no... you're welcome..." she replied, blushing slightly.
For a fleeting second, Gao Bo's eyes drifted downward — but he quickly caught himself. She was his subordinate, and this was neither the time nor place for distraction.
As he turned away, Ross suddenly broke free from Gao Bo's grip. Gasping for air, he shouted in rage, "You're finished! You hear me?! You're finished! Do you even know who I am?!"
But before he could continue, Gao Bo spun around, grabbed him by the collar again, and hauled him toward the door.
Everyone in the locker room froze as Gao Bo, his patience gone, dragged the red-faced director out into the corridor and kicked the door shut behind him with a loud bang.
Breathing heavily from the effort, Gao Bo leaned against the wall. "Who's George?" he asked finally, trying to steady his breath.
"The kid who joined the U18s about a month ago," assistant coach Wrights replied. "He didn't even make the squad for this match."
"Oh, that's fine then," Gao Bo said, nodding. "Even if he were on the list, he wouldn't be playing. No one interferes with my decisions — not from outside, not ever."
He straightened his slightly wrinkled suit jacket, adjusted his tie, and turned back toward his stunned players. A faint smile appeared on his face.
"Alright, everyone," he said evenly. "Like l was saying you did well in the first half. I'm proud of you."
...
May, evening.
London was draped in drizzle, pedestrians moving through the streets like threads in a tapestry.
Old John's Bistro sat quietly on the corner of a side street in East London. On most weekdays, business was slow, but tonight every seat was taken.
It was a special night — the
UEFA Champions League Final, and both finalists were English: Manchester United versus Chelsea.
With the domestic season already over, this was the only major match left to watch before the summer. Fans from both sides had gathered across the city's pubs to drink, argue, and watch history unfold.
In England, it was almost tradition — football and pubs were inseparable. But tonight, the crowd at Old John's Bistro was unusually tense. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, beer foam, and anticipation. The atmosphere, instead of rowdy, felt strangely subdued.
On the pub's small TV, the score read Manchester United 1 – 0 Chelsea, following a Cristiano Ronaldo header in the 26th minute.
Since that goal, the match had settled into a cautious rhythm. Chelsea were controlling possession but struggling to break through United's disciplined defense. For a Champions League final, the pace was unexpectedly conservative.
Yet it wasn't the quiet match that kept the bar silent. It was one man.
At a corner table sat a tall figure dressed in black. His high-collared coat partly hid his face, and his thick black hair framed sharp, calm features. Even seated, his height was apparent — easily over 180 centimeters.
Several empty whiskey bottles stood before him. Every so often, he would lift his glass and drink — not sip — a full measure of the amber liquor as if it were water.
The pub's regulars had stopped watching the TV. Their attention was fixed on the silent man.
"How many bottles is that now?" someone whispered.
"The seventh, I think."
"No, looks more like the eighth."
They watched in disbelief as the man poured another measure, clinked the glass against the bottle, and downed it in one smooth motion. Even the red-faced Englishmen, veterans of countless nights of drinking, stared in quiet awe.
When the bottle hit the table with a dull thud, the man finally turned slightly, and the crowd saw his face clearly for the first time.
His sharp eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and firm jawline gave him an unmistakably disciplined look. The man's expression was calm, but his gaze was so sharp that few could meet it for long.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, someone muttered under his breath, "Wait… isn't that the Chelsea coach?"
Another man leaned forward, squinting. "Yeah… yeah, I've seen his picture. He's that Chinese coach — Gao Bo!"
A drunk at the counter shook his head. "Don't talk nonsense. Chelsea's coach is Avram Grant, and he's in Moscow right now with the team. You think Abramovich would hire a Chinese to manage Chelsea?"
"I'm serious," said a fan in a Chelsea shirt, standing up with flushed cheeks and eyes glassy from alcohol. The number 8 and Lampard were printed on his back. "His name's Gao Bo. He coached Chelsea U18 — led them to the FA Youth Cup title just a few weeks ago!"
The pub fell into a murmur.
Everyone in England knew of Asian footballers like Sun Jihai at Manchester City or Zheng Zhi at Charlton. But an East Asian coach working in a major English club? That was new.
Still, winning the FA Youth Cup was no small achievement. In football, results spoke louder than anything else.
"Hey," another patron said quietly, "I heard he got fired."
"What?"
"Yeah. Sacked not long after they won the Cup."
The fans exchanged glances. Pity flickered across their faces.
"Didn't he just win the title?" one asked.
"I heard Abramovich didn't like him."
"Someone said he clashed with a director."
"That's ridiculous. A coach wins silverware and still loses his job? Chelsea's losing its English spirit."
"I blame the Russian owner," another grumbled. "Ever since he took over, everything's about power."
Someone else nodded. "They say Abramovich's people don't really trust outsiders."
Voices rose with the heat of alcohol. The room grew louder — not angry, but filled with that familiar, slurred passion that came after too many pints.
At the counter, Gao Bo raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
"Bartender."
Another bottle of whiskey was placed before him.
He poured a fresh glass, and in the half-lit bar, the amber liquid caught the reflection of the TV screen — a flash of red and blue moving across the pitch.
The regulars watched in silence, a mix of awe and sympathy in their eyes.
Gao Bo lifted the glass and drank. The whiskey burned faintly down his throat, but to him, it felt like nothing.
Compared to the fiery kick of Chinese baijiu, British whiskey was smooth, almost gentle.
"Hey, Chinese coach! Look at me—what position do you think I could play?"
A chubby man stumbled over to Gao Bo's table, swaying with a drink in hand.
Gao Bo frowned. The moment he looked at the man, a faint light curtain appeared before his eyes—visible only to him.
Explosive Power: 20
Pathetic.
Endurance: 22
Can someone with such stamina even run five minutes?
Line after line of data scrolled across the glowing panel. Even at an amateur level, this man's attributes were hopeless. Apart from his weight, there was hardly anything worth noticing—
Until one number made Gao Bo pause.
Goalkeeping Technique: 55!
He blinked. A goalkeeper?
For an amateur, that was surprisingly decent. If this man weren't so overweight, a few lower-division sides might actually take interest.
"I think with your build, the only position that suits you is goalkeeper," Gao Bo said finally. As he spoke, the light curtain faded from view.
He hadn't yet figured out where this strange interface came from, but instinct told him it was something extraordinary—a tool that allowed him to see a player's attributes directly. For a coach, that was as powerful as having Football Manager running inside his mind.
The only drawback was its limit: once a day. And today he had wasted it on this drunk.
He raised his glass and drank.
"You know that too?" the fat man said, scratching his head.
"Of course," another patron laughed. "Old Kenny, you're so fat you could only be a goalkeeper. You don't even have to run!"
Laughter spread through the pub. Kenny chuckled as well, clearly used to the teasing.
"Then tell me, Coach," he said, pointing toward the TV. "What's next? How's this one going to end?"
"Chelsea's about to equalize," Gao Bo answered calmly, finishing his drink.
The screen showed the clock approaching forty-four minutes. Manchester United still led 1-0.
"Impossible! United won't let that happen."
"Half-time's almost here. Everyone's thinking about the break now."
The regulars debated among themselves. English fans knew their football; none were convinced simply because a professional had spoken.
Kenny grinned, lifting his bottle. "Let's make it interesting. If Chelsea score before the whistle, I'm paying for all your drinks tonight. If not, you cover mine. Deal, Coach?"
A few voices jeered playfully.
"Oi, Kenny, that's robbery!"
"Yeah, bullying him like that!"
Gao Bo smiled faintly. "Then I'll thank you in advance." He raised his glass in a quiet toast.
After all, he already knew how this final would unfold.
On the TV, the match ticked into the forty-fifth minute.
Essien took possession just outside the box and struck a hopeful long shot—more out of frustration than expectation. The ball struck Ferdinand's leg, ricocheted off Vidić's back, and dropped awkwardly in front of goal.
Van der Sar hesitated, caught between diving and clearing. The deflection wrong-footed him completely.
From nowhere, Frank Lampard arrived, meeting the loose ball with his left foot. The shot rolled past the stranded keeper and into the net.
1–1. Chelsea equalized.
Cheers erupted through the pub. Being in London, the crowd leaned blue; most were on their feet shouting, beer sloshing from raised glasses.
A few United supporters sat with their heads in their hands, groaning at the cruel bounce.
But within seconds, every gaze turned back toward Gao Bo.
He had said it—Chelsea are about to score—and they had.
The coincidence was too perfect.
Even Kenny, flushed and laughing, pounded Gao Bo on the shoulder. "Coach Gao Bo, drinks are on me tonight!"
Gao Bo ignored the weighty pat. His eyes were fixed on the television, on Lampard celebrating beneath the Moscow rain.
He knew what would follow.
No goals in the second half. Extra time. Penalties. Terry's slip. Manchester United lifting the Champions League trophy.
Memories from 2018 tangled with the sights and sounds of 2008. Gao Bo gripped his glass tighter, knuckles turning white as the screen flickered in front of him.