The Emirates Stadium, 8th Minute.
The match resumed, but the dynamic had shifted tectonically.
Manchester United weren't just playing; they were hunting.
The players chased relentlessly, their pressing fierce and coordinated.
Each tackle felt like a life-or-death struggle, a battle for every inch of North London turf.
Arsenal, usually so composed in possession, immediately fell into disarray. They lacked the ability to play out from the back under such intense pressure.
Their defense and attack were disconnected, rendering them powerless to counter.
Alexis Sánchez and Mesut Özil were forced to drop deep, abandoning their attacking posts to help build a defensive structure that was crumbling by the second.
Only Alexandre Lacazette remained up front, struggling alone against three United center-backs.
Although he was a talented French striker, he was not Thierry Henry.
He lacked the blistering pace to stretch the defense or the dribbling to beat three men.
He was a pivot, a finisher, but today, he was an island.
8th Minute.
After a series of nervous, scrappy passes, the ball landed at the feet of Granit Xhaka deep in the Arsenal half.
Jesse Lingard, tireless and annoying, quickly closed in to press.
Jeremy Ling and Romelu Lukaku moved in sync, cutting off the passing lanes to the wings.
Xhaka, panicked, had no choice but to pass backward toward Shkodran Mustafi.
But Lingard didn't stop.
He followed the ball, harrying Mustafi, forcing a heavy touch.
He regained possession with sheer persistence and immediately laid it off to Lukaku in the center circle.
By now, Arsenal's defensive line was in complete disarray.
Mustafi was out of position. Monreal was wide. Koscielny was isolated.
There was a vast, empty no-man's-land in the center of the pitch.
"Pass it and it's done!!!" Ling raised his hand, shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice cutting through the crowd noise.
Simultaneously, he made a quick, decisive diagonal run behind Aaron Ramsey, ghosting into the space between the midfield and defense.
Hearing the shout, Lukaku perked up.
He saw the run.
With a delicate touch of his left foot—surprising for a man of his size—he pushed the ball forward, delivering a precise through pass that split the Arsenal defense wide open.
Ling's mind was as calm as ice.
He lifted his head quickly to assess the situation.
Laurent Koscielny was the closest defender, charging from the left.
He was the captain, the most threatening defender Arsenal had.
'If I get past him... it's just Cech.'
Koscielny was no pushover.
After several seasons of refinement in the Premier League, he had developed into a top-tier center-back with excellent anticipation and timing.
He knew he couldn't let Ling turn.
So, he chose to take the initiative.
He threw himself into a fierce, sliding tackle, aiming to win the ball before Ling could settle.
The timing and distance were impeccable. It should have been a clean tackle.
It seemed as if Ling had already planned his next move before the ball even arrived.
He didn't trap it. He didn't shield it. His right foot abruptly flicked upward.
He chipped the rolling ball gently into the air.
The touch was soft, deliberate, and devastatingly beautiful.
It was the Dennis Bergkamp Flick.
Immediately after flicking the ball over the sliding Koscielny's legs, Ling leaped into the air, hurdling the defender.
Koscielny instinctively looked up from the grass, his eyes wide.
He was unable to believe what he was seeing.
He felt utterly at a loss.
'How could he possibly have read my intentions?'
The entire Arsenal team would pay the price for his reckless commitment.
Petr Cech didn't freeze.
The veteran goalkeeper quickly rushed out of his goal, diving toward the bouncing ball without hesitation, trying to smother the danger.
But he was old. He was 35.
Time had eroded his former brilliance, his explosive speed off the line.
In that split second, the difference between the rising star and the fading legend was stark.
After landing, Ling seamlessly transitioned.
He didn't shoot immediately. He dropped his shoulder, feinting to go left.
Cech bought it.
He committed his weight. Ling tapped the ball to the right, leaving Cech grasping at thin air, before calmly slotting the ball into the empty net.
0-1!!!
Martin Tyler: "It's Ling... oh, the flick! That is cheeky! That is magnificent! He's over Koscielny... he's round Cech... and he rolls it in! MANCHESTER UNITED LEAD!"
Gary Neville: (Laughing in disbelief) "That is absolutely scandalous! To do that at the Emirates? That little dink over the tackle? That is Dennis Bergkamp! He has just 'Bergkamp-ed' Arsenal! What a start for United!"
The Emirates Stadium fell silent for half a second, stunned by the audacity of the goal.
Then, the away corner erupted into thunderous cheers.
Manchester United fans tore off their scarves and waved them excitedly.
"Ling has done it again—he beat cech out of all goalkeepers!"
"I bet the bookies would shut down betting the moment they see him one-on-one! He never misses!"
"Absolutely brilliant, our new Number 7!"
Meanwhile, Arsenal fans fell into a depressed silence.
They had come into the match with high hopes.
A win would narrow the gap.
But this goal had come far too quickly, shattering their confidence.
And once again, a thought that had surfaced countless times before resurfaced:
'Is it time?'
Some extreme fans pulled out banners they had prepared in advance from their pockets.
"WENGER OUT!"
After scoring, Ling first leaped high into the air, punching the sky.
Then he sprinted toward the touchline, extending his hands toward the technical area.
"Well done!" Mourinho, beaming, enthusiastically high-fived him, praising him without restraint.
Even someone as demanding as José considered this goal to be sheer perfection—brimming with the imaginative creativity he usually stifled.
"Coach, I feel in great form today!" Ling shouted over the noise. "Keep it up! Aim for two more! Kill them!"
Not far away, Arsène Wenger watched the harmonious pair of mentor and disciple.
His heart ached faintly. He thought of Cesc Fàbregas. That boy had been just as exceptional.
Just as full of vigor.
The youngest goalscorer in Arsenal history, the leader of the team.
Together, they had created beautiful football. But then... the betrayal.
A sudden image flashed through Wenger's mind.
In a dimly lit office, Fàbregas hung his head, pleading with his mentor to approve his transfer to Barcelona.
'Seeing the hope on my player face... perhaps out of reluctance or disappointment, I signed the paper'.
And then Cesc went to Chelsea.
To him.
Suddenly, everything around Wenger seemed to blur.
The noise faded.
He felt only the biting cold wind. He instinctively reached up to zip his long, padded jacket.
He pulled the zipper. It stuck. He pulled again.
It wouldn't move.
After several failed, fumbling attempts, captured mercilessly by the TV cameras, he gave up.
He silently returned to the coach's bench, defeated by his coat and his rival.
....
The screen was soon flooded with a blizzard of comments.
@RedDevil_7: "100% one-on-one scoring rate—who else can do that? The kid is ice cold!"
@Gunner_Fan_TV: "Sigh. The camera just panned to the sidelines. Young Ling and Mourinho were celebrating like father and son, while the Professor next to them looked utterly dejected. It hurts."
@Football_Historian: "The Professor must be thinking of Fabregas! It's the same energy."
@Chelsea_Blue: "Let me share a little secret: After Fabregas joined Chelsea, he never contacted Wenger again. Not even a text. And he said 'I love Mourinho more.' Brutal."
@Wenger_Out_Brigade: "The Professor forgot to zip up his pants again—it's so uncomfortable to watch. He can speak six languages but can't figure out a zipper. It's time to go, Arsène."
@Spurs_Official_Fan: "Some things in life are inevitable: death, taxes, Arsenal collapsing in winter, and Wenger's unzipped fly. 😂"
...
Back on the pitch.
The Arsenal players exchanged uneasy glances.
Petr Cech, the veteran, stepped up to rally his teammates, clapping his gloves together.
"Come on! Heads up! We go again!"
Alexis Sánchez, meanwhile, cast a deep, appraising glance at Ling.
He thought it might be time to switch teams once his contract expired.
Manchester United had reached out to him during the summer transfer window.
He wanted to win.
'If I go there', Sánchez thought, watching Ling jog back to the center circle, 'I have to be better than him. I have to be the Number 7.'
But for now, the game restarted.
Arsenal tried to respond.
They pushed forward, desperate to equalize.
But United were ready.
They dropped into a compact shape, waiting to spring the trap again.
The Nightmare Theatre had come to London.
---------
Read 30 chapters ahead and support me on patreon.
patreon (.)com/Newbietranslator