Amid the surging sea of red that engulfed the streets surrounding Old Trafford, a small group of Chinese tourists appeared rather inconspicuous, yet their enthusiasm matched the most die-hard locals.
Zhang Wei, clad in a crisp new Manchester United home jersey, waved his scarf vigorously above his head.
He hummed along with the thunderous chants echoing from the pub gardens and the fan plazas, blending his voice with the thousands around him.
He didn't know the lyrics—the thick british accents made them hard to decipher—but he didn't need to know the words to understand the feeling.
He could hear the heroic fighting spirit, the defiance, and the history embedded in every note. It was a melody of war and worship.
Zhang Wei unconsciously recalled his recent visit to the Manchester United Museum and the solemn quiet of the Munich Tunnel.
On that snowy afternoon of February 6, 1958, disaster had befallen this club.
The Munich Air Disaster was the darkest moment in their history, a tragedy too painful to recall, yet it remained the bedrock of their identity.
As he stood outside the East Stand, Zhang Wei looked up at the Munich Clock frozen on the exterior wall.
It seemed to tell a story of pain, but also of resurrection. Iron will never die, the Red Devils live forever.
At that moment, surrounded by strangers who felt like brothers, he finally understood why people devoted their lives to football. It wasn't just a game; it was a religion.
"Welcome to the biggest game on the planet," Martin Tyler's voice boomed through the global broadcast feed, setting the scene for millions watching at home.
"Sky Sports statistics tell us that this match is being beamed to 211 countries and regions. We estimate an online audience of over 600 million. It is the North West Derby. It is tribal. It is hatred. It is beautiful."
"The atmosphere is electric, Martin," Gary Neville added, his voice thick with anticipation. "I've played in dozens of these, and the tension never changes. You can feel the hate in the air. Old Trafford is packed to the rafters. They reckon there are 75,000 inside, but it sounds like 100,000. This is the one you cannot lose."
Outside the stadium, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Two massive team buses approached from the end of Sir Matt Busby Way, flanked by police escorts.
The fans roared, slapping the sides of the Manchester United bus as it crawled through the throng.
Inside the vehicle, despite the heavy soundproofing, the noise bled through. It was a low, vibrating hum that shook the floorboards.
Ling sat near the back, feeling his heartbeat accelerate uncontrollably. Playing at home was always special, but this was different.
This was Liverpool.
He loved this feeling—the anticipation of the battle, the vision of the fans celebrating his goals. It gave him an unparalleled sense of achievement that no money could buy.
Scott McTominay sat beside Ling, staring out the window with a mixture of awe and anxiety.
The young Scotsman's expression was full of longing. In high-profile matches like this, few managers would trust a raw academy graduate, especially in the central midfield engine room against a team like Liverpool.
McTominay knew his situation was awkward. With Michael Carrick returning from injury, Mateo Kovacic signed in the winter, and Nemanja Matic and Paul Pogba firmly established as starters, his minutes were limited.
Ling glanced over, reading the younger player's mind. He knew the frustration of waiting for a chance.
"Scott," Ling said softly, breaking the boy's trance. "Next week is the international break. Don't go home. Stay here. Train with me instead."
McTominay turned, surprised. "Train with you?"
"Yes," Ling nodded. Ever since he discovered that his [Three-Dimensional Spatial Awareness] module allowed him to analyze the game differently, he had been intentionally teaching McTominay.
The old saying was true: the best way to master a skill is to teach it.
"We need to work on your body orientation when receiving the ball under pressure."
"That reverse analysis stuff you talked about?" McTominay asked, sitting up straighter. "It's challenging. Trying to guess what the defender is thinking based on his hip position... I still get it wrong."
"It's not guessing," Ling corrected him with a smile. "It's reading. If his hips are open, he can't tackle you instantly. That's your trigger to drive. I'll explain it again on the training pitch. We'll drill it until your legs do it automatically."
"Okay," McTominay breathed out, looking more determined. "I'll be there."
The bus pulled into the tunnel, the darkness swallowing them, and the team fell silent. It was time to switch on.
Thirty minutes later, the war began in the media room. The pre-match press conference was stiflingly hot, packed with journalists hungry for a headline.
The intensity of the North West Derby wasn't confined to the pitch; it started right here with the microphones.
"Mr. Klopp," a reporter from The Guardian raised his hand, "in the last match against United, Liverpool had a possession rate of 73.4%, yet you still lost. Will you employ the same tactics today?"
Jurgen Klopp, wearing his signature cap, adjusted his black-framed glasses and flashed a toothy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I don't easily change my philosophy," he said, his voice booming. "For instance, I would never have Liverpool park the bus at home. We play to dominate."
He leaned into the microphone. "To be honest, Mourinho gives me the impression that he only cares about the result, not the football. It's been the same this year, last year, and the year before. Defensive counter-attacks. It is... efficient. But is it fun?"
The room buzzed.
The reporter pressed, "Are you criticizing Mourinho?"
"This isn't criticism," Klopp spread his hands teasingly. "It is just a statement of fact. Of course, if you insist on interpreting it that way to sell papers, there is nothing I can do."
"Are you confident?" another asked.
"Of course we will win," Klopp said, his tone brimming with absolute certainty. "The last match was an anomaly. United got lucky with a late goal. Luck is a finite resource. Not everything will go their way forever."
Moments later, in a separate room, Jose Mourinho sat with a face like thunder.
"Mr. Mourinho," a reporter from The Sun—known for stirring trouble—spoke up. "Mr. Klopp believes your tactics are outdated. He implied you play boring football and got lucky last time."
Mourinho narrowed his eyes.
He knew these journalists were twisting words, but he wasn't one to back down from a fight.
"In the last match," Mourinho said slowly, enunciating every syllable, "Liverpool had 11 shots on target. They scored one goal. We had three shots. We scored two. Football is about putting the ball in the net, not passing it sideways for ninety minutes."
"As for why Jurgen is talking so much about luck..." Mourinho paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the room.
The reporters leaned in.
Mourinho smirked with a dangerous glint in his eye. "Perhaps he is talking because he is afraid. Since he took over Liverpool, has he won a single match at Old Trafford? No. He talks about philosophy because he cannot talk about trophies."
With that mic-drop moment, Mourinho stood up abruptly and exited through the side door, leaving a chaotic room of scribbling journalists in his wake.
Social media exploded instantly.
@RedArmy99: JOSE FROM THE TOP ROPE! "He talks about philosophy because he cannot talk about trophies." My manager. 🤫 #MUNLIV
@Kloppite: Typical Mourinho. Anti-football. We're going to batter them today. Salah is going to retire Smalling.
@PunditPaul: The mind games are 1-0 to Mourinho already. Klopp sounds rattled.
Down in the home dressing room, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of Deep Heat and nervous energy.
Ling had just finished taping his shin guards when he heard a low muttering from the corner.
"Liverpool, West Brom, Bournemouth, Arsenal, Manchester City, Brighton..."
Romelu Lukaku was tying his boots, reciting the schedule like a mantra.
"Our upcoming league opponents. The only strong teams are Liverpool, Arsenal, and Manchester City. The rest are easy points. We just need to get through today."
Ling froze.
He looked around and noticed a few other teammates nodding.
There was a relaxed air—too relaxed.
It reminded him of the Manchester City players right before United had ended their winning streak.
It wasn't that they shouldn't be confident, but looking past the immediate danger was fatal in the Premier League.
"Easy points?" Ling's voice cut through the room.
He walked over to Lukaku. "Rom, there are no easy points. West Brom are fighting for survival. Brighton are fighting for survival. Those teams are dangerous because they are desperate."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with Pogba and Rashford. "If we lose today, the gap closes. If we lose today, City smell blood. Imagine if we lose the Premier League title by three points... the three points we dropped today because we were thinking about Bournemouth."
"How would you feel then?" Ling asked, his voice low but intense. "I would regret it for the rest of my life."
The room went silent. The smiles vanished. The gravity of the situation settled on them.
"He's right," Ashley Young stood up, clapping his hands together. "One game at a time. Forget next week. Today is a final."
"So I believe seizing today is what matters most," Ling said, wrapping an arm around Lukaku's massive shoulder.
"Let's go out there and make sure we don't have any regrets. We control our destiny."
Lukaku nodded, his eyes hardening. "You're right. Let's kill them."
Losing to Liverpool wouldn't just mean surrendering the dignity of Old Trafford; it would mean opening the door for Manchester City.
They had to slam that door shut.
They had to protect their house!