In the blink of an eye, Trent Alexander-Arnold entered the final third.
Feigning a cross, he chopped the ball inside with his left foot, bypassing a flat-footed Nemanja Matic. He looked up and drilled a pass into the feet of Roberto Firmino.
"Firmino!" Martin Tyler shouted. "The playmaking number nine! His link-up play is world-class!"
"Beautiful ball!" Gary Neville conceded grudgingly.
The ball left Firmino's foot in an instant. With a no-look flick, he rolled it precisely into the right channel of the penalty area.
It was exactly where Manchester United's defense had cracked.
Chris Smalling scrambled to cover the gap, his long legs pumping.
But a figure in white abruptly appeared on the screen.
Liverpool's Number 11.
Mohamed Salah exploded with terrifying speed. He shook off the "aging" Ashley Young, whose legs finally betrayed him after sixty minutes of heroic defending.
Salah glided past Smalling as if the defender were a training cone.
The Egyptian King, quiet for much of the match, finally roared.
He let the ball run across his body and unleashed a powerful left-footed strike.
Thump.
David De Gea dove quickly but it was futile.
The shot was hit with too much venom and thhe ball slipped under his arm and slammed into the net.
2-2!
Trailing, equalizing, trailing, equalizing! This was the North West Derby!
The scoreboard end erupted.
Three thousand Liverpool fans surged wildly toward the barriers, their bodies pressing against the fencing, roaring themselves hoarse as if trying to tear the roof off Old Trafford.
Salah, feeding off the chaotic energy, sprinted to the corner flag.
He screamed, his face was full of intensity, and viciously kicked the corner flag, snapping it back on its spring.
Behind him, Liverpool players rushed over in a frenzy, creating a huddle of white shirts.
Every face was etched with overwhelming excitement. Scoring an equalizer away at Old Trafford after conceding twice was a monumental feat.
But they had done it.
There is a never-say-die spirit called "Liverpool." Some might ask, what use is football heritage? It is intangible, invisible. But once that culture takes root, it creates an inertia of its own. It may not directly decide the xG or the pass completion stats, but at crucial moments, it unleashes a power that defies logic.
...
"YES! JUST LIKE THAT!"
Driven by pure adrenaline, Jurgen Klopp sprinted madly along the touchline, punching the air.
Suddenly, his face twisted in agony.
He grabbed his hamstring.
"Ah crap!"
A cramp. The intensity of the celebration had been too much for the middle-aged German. He hobbled back to the dugout, wincing, and collapsed onto the seat.
While none of the players were injured yet, the manager was the first to receive the physio's attention.
"Goddamn it!"
A few meters away, Jose Mourinho stomped furiously on the turf. He kicked a water bottle, sending it spinning into the advertising hoardings.
Consecutively conceding equalizers was poison. It would leave the players feeling helpless, severely damaging the team's fragile morale. He knew what was coming. Liverpool would smell blood. They would launch an even fiercer onslaught.
If United couldn't withstand it, they would crumble.
"Win it back!" Mourinho roared, pointing a shaking finger toward the pitch. "When they attack, you kill them! Get the ball back at any cost!"
His voice was drowned out by the roar of the Liverpool fans, but Antonio Valencia understood the message.
The United captain gathered his players in the center circle.
His face was grim, his eyes burning.
"Look at your feet!" Valencia shouted, grabbing Pogba by the shirt. "This is Old Trafford! Do you understand? This is our house! No matter how many goals they score, we do not have the right to give up! We fight!"
The United fans in the stands sensed the danger.
They rose as one, as the 12th man!
"GLORY, GLORY, MAN UNITED!"
"AS THE REDS GO MARCHING ON, ON, ON!"
The anthem rolled down from the Stretford End like a tidal wave. It stirred a resonance deep within the souls of the players.
Ling looked up at the surging red tide. He felt his heart pound violently against his ribs. He sensed something new within himself.
It was resolve!
"If they can equalize, we can take the lead once more!" Ling roared, surprised by the ferocity of his own voice.
"No matter how many they score, we score more!"
"Kill them!" Romelu Lukaku echoed, his chest heaving. "Lets fucking kill those guys!"
...
The match resumed, and football was forgotten. It became a brawl.
Collisions. Pressing. Fouls.
It was a physical war.
The nerves of both sets of players were stretched taut, ready to snap at any moment. It all came down to who would crack first.
The midfield turned into a bloody meat grinder. Referee Craig Pawson, realizing he had lost control, began brandishing cards like confetti. In less than ten minutes, four yellow cards were issued—Chamberlain, Pogba, Valencia, and Milner.
Yet, this did little to diffuse the tension.
If anything, the violence escalated.
81st Minute
James Milner, the veteran warrior, forcefully shoved Juan Mata aside to regain possession. Ignoring the Spaniard's protests, Milner launched a long ball over the top of Manchester United's tired defensive line.
Sadio Mané and Antonio Valencia engaged in a fierce sprinting duel. Mané, younger and faster, accelerated, overtaking the United captain.
As Mané prepared to unleash a volley, Valencia threw his body into a desperate lunge. It was reckless, brave, and necessary.
"Brilliant!" Gary Neville shouted. "A gritty, acrobatic clearance! That is the spirit of a Manchester United captain! He puts his body on the line!"
The ball soared high into the air, landing near the halfway line.
"Pass the damn ball to Ling!" Mourinho screamed, pointing frantically toward the left channel.
"Arnold! Mark him! Do not let him turn!" Klopp hobbled urgently toward the touchline, ignoring his cramping leg.
On the pitch, the chaos continued.
Milner charged forward like a starved tiger, aiming to crush Juan Mata before he could control the clearance. He wanted to kill the counter-attack before it was born.
Mata knew he was physically outmatched. If he took a touch, Milner would bury him.
So, the Spaniard didn't control it.
He swung his foot, striking the ball mid-air with a first-time volley.
Thump.
The dull thud echoed like a battle cry. The ball completed an aerial relay, arcing high toward the left flank.
"The landing spot is poor!" Jamie Carragher noted, panic creeping into his voice. "It's too deep! Arnold can press him immediately! Why is he just standing there?!"
Trent Alexander-Arnold stood five yards off Ling. He was wary. He had been humiliated twice already by Ling's close control. He resolved to hold his ground, terrified of diving in and being beaten by a feint.
Meanwhile, Ling was sprinting sideways at full speed.
He couldn't track the ball's trajectory clearly against the floodlights. The trap was exponentially more difficult.
He had to rely on instinct!
Ling gently raised his right thigh.
The ball hit his thigh and died instantly. It transitioned from furious motion to utter stillness in a millisecond.
Arnold held his breath.
'Don't fall for the feint. Watch his hips.'
But there were no feints.
Ling prodded the ball forward with his right foot. A heavy touch, a kick and rush.
Splitting the defender and the ball.
Then, in an explosive burst of energy, Ling unleashed his full speed.
Like thunder from a clear sky.
He swept past Alexander-Arnold like a gust of wind.
The sideline advertisements blurred into streaks of LED light.
Arnold's vision blurred.
He felt like cursing aloud. He had braced himself for intricate skills, for the "Elastic," for the chop. Instead, Ling had chosen to bulldoze through with pure, unadulterated speed.
Was that even fair?
"He's gone!" Martin Tyler screamed. "Liverpool's right flank is breached again! Highway 66 is wide open!"
Three seconds later.
Ling collected his own pass, sharp as a honed blade, driving straight into Liverpool's vulnerable core!