Post-match press conference.
The press conference room buzzed with the aftermath of the derby.
Jose Mourinho sat at the podium, a smug satisfaction radiating from him like heat.
"Our playing style isn't attractive enough?" Mourinho smirked, leaning into the microphone. "I don't care. We won anyway. Three points are beautiful, no?"
He was responding directly to Jurgen Klopp's pre-match jabs about "anti-football."
"Mr. Mourinho," a reporter from The Guardian raised his hand. "A tricky question for you. Which Liverpool team do you think is stronger - the current one under Klopp, or the previous generation?"
The room went quiet, It was a loaded question.
Few managers had faced both eras with such intensity.
Mourinho paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Honestly, it is difficult to answer. They are very different animals. But if I must compare..."
He spread his hands, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"The previous team won the Champions Leagues. This current team hasn't won any trophies yet. So, I think I must respect the champions."
"If I said the current Liverpool is stronger," Mourinho continued, delivering the punchline, "then Rafa Benitez, Steven Gerrard, and Jamie Carragher would definitely think I'm being disrespectful. And I love Jamie too much to upset him today, especially after he wore our shirt so beautifully."
Laughter rippled through the room.
In the adjacent conference room, Jurgen Klopp was gracious in defeat, though his jaw was set tight.
"The Manchester United players performed better in the critical moments," Klopp admitted, refusing to make excuses. "They deserved to win this match."
"I admit I underestimated Ling," Klopp continued, shaking his head slightly. "His breakthroughs on the wing disrupted my entire tactical setup. I tried to press him, but he broke the press. So, I will learn from this. Next time, we will have a plan for him."
"Liverpool will keep improving," he finished, forcing a smile. "I look forward to our meeting next season. We will be ready."
Klopp didn't retaliate or mock back.
Losing the match was bad enough; losing his composure would be a victory for Mourinho.
...
Lincoln Square, Manchester.
The van pulled up to the curb. Ling stepped out, pulling his hood up against the chill. Although he was in central Manchester, compared to the bustling crowds on Deansgate, this square felt like a sanctuary of peace.
His gaze fell upon a restaurant about fifty meters ahead. From the outside, it looked unassuming, almost plain. The exterior decoration was modest, resembling a traditional bathhouse more than a high-end eatery.
But the red signboard displayed three familiar Chinese characters.
"Outer Heaven"
This restaurant was a legend in Manchester. It wasn't famous for its Michelin stars, but for its clientele.
The owner, Wen Shiling, had been friends with Sir Alex Ferguson since they were young men.
Ferguson had personally promoted "Outer Heaven," dragging players, managers, and agents there for decades.
Louis van Gaal, Pep Guardiola, Wayne Rooney, Jaap Stam, Paul Pogba—they had all eaten here.
Mario Balotelli was obsessed with the place; even after moving to Liverpool, he would order "cross-city" delivery, paying exorbitant fees just for the dim sum.
Rumor had it that Rooney's weight issues were partly due to his addiction to Uncle Wen's crispy duck.
Ling walked in, the bell chiming above the door. The smell of ginger, garlic, and sesame oil enveloped him like a warm hug.
"Uncle Wen!" Ling called out in Mandarin.
Wen Shiling, a busy middle-aged man with kind eyes, looked up from the counter.
He was momentarily stunned.
Very few people in Manchester called him by his Chinese name—only a handful of players like Sun Jihai and Dong Fangzhuo had done so in the past.
"Little Ling?" Wen turned around, a wide smile breaking across his face. "Didn't you just come by a few days ago? What? Craving the dumplings again?"
"Came to eat with Sir Alex and David," Ling said, taking a tray of tea from Wen's hands to help him.
"Didn't they tell you?"
Wen Shiling had come to the UK from Hong Kong forty years ago as a student.
He loved football more than business, which is how he bonded with Ferguson.
When Chinese players arrived in the Premier League, he became their unofficial guardian, helping them settle in a strange land.
Naturally, Ling was no exception.
"Oh, Alex mentioned it," Wen nodded, wiping his hands on his apron.
He looked Ling up and down.
"You've grown taller again and broader."
Wen recalled when Ling first arrived in Manchester six years ago. He was a skinny kid, barely reaching Wen's chest, lost and lonely.
Back then, Wen had looked out for him purely out of solidarity. He never expected the boy to become a star.
He had thought reaching the level of Sun Jihai would be a miracle.
But Ling? He was wearing the Number 7 shirt. He was scoring winners against Liverpool.
He was a damn superstar!
"I watched the match today," Wen said, his voice thick with emotion. "You played really well. You didn't let us down."
"Let us down?" Ling laughed, wrapping an arm around the older man's shoulder. "More like made us proud, right Uncle Wen?"
"Haha, true enough," Wen chuckled, patting Ling's back.
Wen remembered the teenage Ling—arrogant, prickly, difficult.
But something had changed recently. It was as if he had become a different person overnight—humble, focused, easygoing.
Wen chalked it up to maturity, unaware of the "rebirth."
"Go ahead and take the private table in the corner," Wen said, pointing to the back. "Alex hates being disturbed."
Outer Heaven might look plain outside, but the interior was lavish, with dark wood paneling and silk tapestries.
With only 15 tables, reservations were gold dust. Of course, Ling never needed one.
While waiting for Ferguson and Beckham, Ling pulled out his phone.
He scrolled through the scores from Matchday 32.
Everton 1 - 3 Manchester City, Sterling, Jesus, Sane.
City were frighteningly consistent.
Guardiola had made it clear: they were ready for the derby. If United lost to City, even winning all their remaining matches wouldn't be enough—they'd lose the league title on goal difference.
That would mean leaving their fate in others' hands.
Neither Mourinho nor Ling accepted passivity.
They had to win.
Chelsea 1 - 2 Tottenham Harry Kane (2).
Kane was relentless. His brace kept him neck-and-neck with Ling and Salah in the Golden Boot race.
Tottenham weren't playing well, but Kane dragged them to victory.
Conte's dismissal at Chelsea seemed inevitable now.
Arsenal 3 - 0 Stoke City Aubameyang (2), Lacazette.
Henrikh Mkhitaryan provided two assists. He was thriving at Arsenal, finally free of Mourinho's shackles.
But then, Ling saw the headline.
It was a statement on Arsenal.com.
"Stan Kroenke: Arsène Wenger is a manager of the highest caliber, and we are immensely grateful to him. Through his understanding of football, he has redefined Arsenal and English football."
And then, the bombshell.
"Arsène Wenger will leave the club at the end of the season, concluding his 22-year tenure."
The news was sweeping across the internet like a wildfire.
Fans were refreshing the page, thinking it was a hack. Wenger Out had been a meme for years, but now that it was happening, it felt surreal.
Ling stared at the screen.
He knew it was true.
Twenty-two years.
Three Premier League titles.
Seven FA Cups.
The Invincibles.
Wenger wasn't just a manager; he was the architect of modern English football.
He changed diets, training, scouting.
He built the Emirates Stadium.
He was Arsenal. (Bet people who watch football since 2000 think Arsenal is name after arsene wenger lol)
Although Ling wasn't a Gooner, he felt a profound sense of loss.
It was the end of an era.
The Premier League without Wenger on the touchline, struggling with his zipper, looked like a strange, empty place.
"He's really going," Ling whispered.