The Next Day.Manchester United HQ - Mayfair, London.
The commercial department's conference room was packed to capacity.
The air conditioning was humming, struggling to cool the heated excitement of men in expensive suits.
Most of those present were corporate representatives from China, who had traveled thousands of miles seeking cooperation opportunities.
They wanted everything: LED advertising boards around Old Trafford, image rights, regional partnerships, and the holy grail—sponsorship placements on the training kit.
Manchester United's commercial team was famously known as the "Cristiano Ronaldo of Sponsorship Acquisition."
Even during the lean years post-Ferguson, when the football on the pitch was dire, they still managed to secure deals for official noodle partners, official tractor partners, and official paint partners.
They were a machine.
Recently, they had signed a 10-year, £750 million deal with Adidas.
But now, they had a new asset.
A golden goose.
"Boss," a junior assistant whispered, handing over a thick file folder to Richard Arnold, the Managing Director.
"Our jersey sales in the Greater China region have increased by 27% year-on-year in the last month alone. Since Ling took the Number 7 shirt? It's up 400%."
Richard Arnold, often nicknamed "Two Virtues" by the Chinese fanbase, looked at the impressive reports with satisfaction.
His eyes practically turned into pound signs.
"Incredible," he muttered. "The 'Ling Effect' is real."
He turned to his team. "Add goal bonuses and honor clauses for Ling in the next quarter's projections. If he wins Young Player of the Year, we need to be ready to monetize it instantly. Get the contracts ready."
"Understood, Boss!"
...
Meanwhile, 200 miles north, the atmosphere was less corporate and more culinary
Due to Harry Kane experiencing a bout of "food poisoning" (diarrhea and vomiting) after dining out recently, Tottenham had lacked their key striker and dropped points against Watford.
Paranoid as ever, José Mourinho had issued a decree: All Manchester United players must eat breakfast and lunch at the canteen.
No exceptions.
"Ling, you were right," Scott McTominay sighed, poking at his plate with a fork. "Ever since we joined the first team, the food has been getting... healthier. Which means worse. I think the club should change nutritionists. Where is the flavor?"
On his plate lay a piece of boiled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and brown rice.
It looked as dry as the Sahara.
"I think it's quite good, actually." Ling didn't complain.
He stuffed two large pieces of chicken into his mouth, chewing vigorously.
He noticed his appetite had significantly increased lately.
He speculated it was because he needed substantial energy to maintain his "Rapid Improvement Phase."
"Ling," Marcus Rashford sat down opposite them, looking thoughtful. "Do you think you have a chance to win this season's Golden Boot award?"
Ling swallowed his chicken. "It's not that simple, Marcus. Currently, Mo Salah leads with 18 goals. Harry Kane is right there. Aguero is Aguero."
Ling shook his head. "I'm on 13 now. It's close. But winning it in my debut season? That would be a miracle."
He would strive for it, of course.
But he wouldn't become obsessed. He was a winger, not a target man.
"By the way," Ling shifted the topic, sensing Rashford's unease. "You made the Golden Boy award 25-player shortlist, right? Confident about winning it?"
Rashford sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"That Kylian Mbappé guy... he is really impressive. Last season he helped Monaco reach the Champions League semifinals, and now he's tearing it up at PSG. All his stats are better than mine."
Since Ling's emergence, Rashford had lost his guaranteed starting spot on the left.
He was rotating on the right or coming off the bench.
"How can I compete with Mbappé for the Golden Boy if I'm not playing 90 minutes every week?"
However, Ling noticed a fire in Rashford's eyes.
This situation had motivated him.
He was training harder, staying late, refining his finishing.
Competition was breeding excellence.
"Speaking of PSG," McTominay chimed in, his mouth full of broccoli. "If they lose to Bayern in the final group game, they'll advance as group runners-up. We might face them in the Round of 16."
"Who would you prefer?" Ling asked.
"Shakhtar Donetsk or Porto," Rashford answered without hesitation. "Easy passage to the quarters."
McTominay pondered for a moment before suddenly speaking up with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"But... if Real Madrid, Juventus, and Bayern all finish second in their groups... wouldn't that mean we have a high probability of drawing one of them?"
As soon as these words were uttered, the entire cafeteria fell silent.
The clinking of cutlery stopped.
Paul Pogba stopped dancing. Zlatan stopped chewing.
All the Manchester United players turned to look at McTominay with death stares.
"Scott..." Ling whispered. "Shut up."
McTominay shivered, realized he had just jinxed the entire draw, closed his mouth, and buried his head in his flavorless meal.
...
After lunch. Ling arrived at the base's photography studio.
He had a commercial commitment.
"Ling! Hello! I'm Xu Yongjun, the marketing director of Xiaodao Electric Bicycle!"
A middle-aged man in a slightly ill-fitting suit hurried over and enthusiastically shook his hand, pumping it up and down.
"It is an honor! Ever since you were promoted, I haven't missed a single match—I've even developed panda eyes from staying up late! You are the pride of China!"
"Ling, don't worry, today's shoot is very simple. Quick in, quick out. If we delay your training, we'd be nothing short of criminals against the state!"
Like an ardent fan meeting their idol, Xu Yongjun spoke over a dozen sentences in just ten seconds, leaving Ling no chance to interject.
He could only keep nodding with a polite smile.
Xiaodao Electric Bicycle.
It wasn't Nike or Adidas, but money was money.
The two soon arrived at the shooting location.
The setup was indeed simple—just a sleek (for an e-bike) electric scooter, a green screen, and a starting line tape.
Xu Yongjun continued chattering. "Ling, the concept is speed. In a moment, stand right here. As soon as you hear the whistle, start running at full speed."
"Full speed?" Ling asked, confused. "Against the bike?"
"Yes! Our electric bicycle is very fast—it will definitely cross the finish line at the same time as you. To show that Xiaodao is as fast as a Premier League star!"
Xu Yongjun confidently patted his chest.
Originally, the script had the bike winning.
But Jorge Mendes had firmly rejected that idea.
'My client does not lose a footrace to a scooter.'
No amount of money could change his mind. It would damage the brand.
So, they had compromised on a simultaneous finish.
A draw.
Ten minutes later.
Beep!
With the sound of the director's whistle. Ling shot out like an arrow from a bow.
He covered the twenty meters in a blink of an eye.
By the time he crossed the finish line and stopped, he turned around.
The electric bicycle... was still coming.
It arrived two full seconds later. It was the story of the tortoise and the hare, but the hare didn't sleep.
The on-site crew stood in awkward silence.
Xu Yongjun's throat kept moving as he swallowed.
When he watched matches on TV, the speed looked impressive. But in person? It was terrifying.
"Uh..." Xu wiped sweat from his forehead. "Ling... please... slow down a bit? Just a little? Twenty meters is too short—the 48V20A battery doesn't have enough time to accelerate." He mentally noted to bring a higher-spec model next time.
After three takes (where Ling practically jogged), the advertisement was completed.
Ling looked at the notification on his phone.
The balance in his bank account had increased significantly.
He felt good. But he also felt the weight.
Why are Chinese companies seeking me out? The answer was obvious.
By accepting these endorsements, he was shouldering the expectations of a nation.
He couldn't just be a player; he had to be an icon.
'This is getting complicated'.
....
December 6th.Manchester United vs. CSKA Moscow. Old Trafford.
The sixth round of the Champions League group stage officially began.
CSKA Moscow came out with a desperate attitude.
They needed to win at Old Trafford and hope Basel lost to have any chance of advancing.
Mourinho, with one eye on the upcoming Manchester Derby, fielded a heavily rotated lineup.
Ling started on the bench.
Just before the end of the first half, CSKA Moscow capitalized on a rare defensive lapse.
A cut-back, a deflection, and the ball hit the back of the net. 0-1.
However, news filtered through from Portugal. Benfica, having no hope of advancing, had collapsed.
They were losing 2-0 to Basel. CSKA's dream was dying.
After the second half began, the CSKA players' heads dropped.
Their do-or-die momentum vanished as the reality of the Europa League set in.
Mourinho signaled his players to finish it.
In the 64th minute. Paul Pogba, playing with freedom, delivered a beautiful, curling cross from the left wing.
Scott McTominay surged into the box.
He outjumped the Russian defense and buried a header into the bottom corner.
1-1!
McTominay roared, pointing at the canteen in the distance as if to say, That was for the chicken breast!
Two minutes later. Juan Mata made a clever run into the right inside channel.
He flicked a ball over the top. Axel Tuanzebe, the young defender, found himself in the box.
He followed up with a striker's instinct, tapping home a one-touch finish.
2-1!
The match ultimately ended 2-1.
Manchester United topped the group with 15 points.
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