The Champions League group stage concluded, and the landscape of European football was set in stone.
The qualification spots were finalized, and for Manchester United fans, the list of potential opponents in the Round of 16 was enough to cause insomnia.
Group Winners (Pot 1): Manchester United, PSG, Roma, Barcelona, Liverpool, Manchester City, Beşiktaş, Tottenham.
Runners-up (Pot 2): Basel, Bayern Munich, Chelsea, Juventus, Sevilla, Shakhtar Donetsk, Porto, Real Madrid.
The irony was palpable.
Tottenham Hotspur had been invincible, defeating Dortmund and crushing Real Madrid 3-1 to top their group.
This excited South Korean fans to no end, fueling speculation that Son Heung-min might conquer Europe before Ling.
But for United, winning the group felt like a punishment.
Due to UEFA rules preventing teams from facing clubs from their own association (Chelsea) or their own group (Basel), the pool of opponents was small and terrifying.
Scott McTominay's "jinx" in the cafeteria was half-proven.
United had a roughly 50% chance of drawing one of the three titans: Bayern Munich, Juventus, or Real Madrid.
Online comments exploded across global forums:
[User: Red_Army]: "This is a joke. We win the group and we get Real Madrid?!"
[User: Madridista]: "We finished second on purpose. Zidane is playing 4D chess. We want United."
[User: Stats_Dave]: "Actually, the math says we have the highest probability of drawing Sevilla. But knowing our luck..."
[User: Mou_The_Special_One]: "Mourinho: 'Sorry, I've never lost a Champions League final. I don't know the feeling.' The man is ready."
....
December 14th. Premier League, Round 17.
Manchester United vs. Bournemouth.
Old Trafford was packed, the winter air biting.
The fans were there not just for three points, but for history.
United were currently on unbeaten streak at home.
They were just three games away from equaling the legendary top-five league record set by Juventus (43 matches).
Fortress Old Trafford was rebuilding its walls.
However, Eddie Howe's Bournemouth had come to spoil the party.
Having failed to win in their last four matches, they parked the bus.
They didn't just park it; they took the wheels off.
With Paul Pogba suspended, United lacked the creative spark to pick the lock.
Meanwhile, Ling found himself in a new kind of prison.
Two defenders, Adam Smith and Simon Francis, positioned themselves in a staggered formation on the left flank.
They pinned him down, shadowing his every move.
This was the "Sophomore Slump" strategy. Analysts had figured out Ling's heat map.
'Stop the cut-inside, stop the player.'
'If they are looking at me,' he thought, 'they aren't looking at Romelu'.
He began to drift.
He dragged Adam Smith inside, then sprinted wide. He swapped positions with Lingard.
He created chaos not with the ball, but with his gravity.
68th Minute. The deadlock remained.
The crowd was getting restless. Ling dropped deep into the left-back position to receive the ball.
Bournemouth's defensive block shifted toward him like a tide.
Nemanja Matić saw the shift. He ignored Ling.
Instead, he switched play rapidly to the right wing with a laser-guided pass.
Juan Mata controlled it.
The Bournemouth left side was empty because the defense was tilted toward Ling.
"Just pass it!" Lukaku screamed from the box.
Mata delivered a whipped, low cross.
Romelu Lukaku, playing on the shoulder of the last defender, made a horizontal run to the near post.
He met the ball and smashed it into the roof of the net with his right foot.
1-0!
Whoosh!!!
Old Trafford exhaled. The fans rose to their feet. The deadlock was broken.
As the team celebrated, Ling jogged past Adam Smith, the Bournemouth defender who had been kicking him all afternoon.
"See?" Ling spread his hands, grinning. "I'm not the danger. Marking me is useless. You left the big guy open."
Smith curled his lip, spitting on the turf. "Arsenal believed your nonsense and you scored a hat trick. Koscielny's market value dropped by millions because of you. I'm not falling for it."
"Our coach is the best at parking the bus," Ling winked. "You guys are just amateurs."
...
The match ended 1-0.
Ugly, pragmatic, and victorious.
In the locker room, the mood was light.
"Ling, what were you talking about with that guy?" Lukaku asked, unlacing his boots.
"I told him you are the team's core," Ling joked. "I said they should focus on defending you. Who knew they wouldn't believe me?"
"Hehe," Lukaku grinned, patting his stat sheet. "Well, I've scored more goals than you again. Order is restored."
"Get lost!" Ling laughed, throwing a sock at him.
In the corner, Zlatan Ibrahimović stood up, his jersey draped over his shoulders like a cape, revealing his tattooed torso.
"We are going to break Juventus' record," he declared, his voice booming. "We keep the glory here."
It was personal for Zlatan.
He had left Juventus in 2006 during the Calciopoli scandal.
The fans there called him a mercenary.
'Let them talk, 'Zlatan thought. 'I am still winning.'
...
The Next Day.Nyon, Switzerland. UEFA Headquarters.
The air in Nyon was crisp and clean, smelling of money and pine trees.
Beyond the security barriers, hundreds of fervent fans and journalists crowded the entrance, their breath misting in the cold air.
They were waiting for the royalty of football.
A sleek black Mercedes business vehicle pulled to a stop.
The door opened and Two figures emerged.
One was a middle-aged man with a full head of silver-grey hair, wearing a sharp Italian suit.
José Mourinho.
The other was a young man with jet-black hair, looking sharp but slightly out of place in a club blazer.
Jeremy Ling.
The fans felt a twinge of disappointment—these weren't Messi or Ronaldo—but they still offered enthusiastic applause.
Mourinho was a legend, and Ling was the breakout star of the season.
"Ling," Mourinho said quietly as they walked the red carpet. "Don't be too reserved. Chin up. You'll be coming here often from now on."
Since Ibrahimović had last-minute commercial commitments, Mourinho had decided to bring Ling as the player representative.
It was a statement: This is the future of Manchester United.
Ling nodded. "Yes, Boss."
Truth be told, he wasn't particularly nervous.
He had played in front of 75,000 people. A few guys in suits didn't scare him.
Suddenly, a deafening roar of cheers erupted from behind them.
It was a sound different from the polite applause they had received.
It was the sound of hysteria.