"Mata's interception is brilliant! He's read the pass perfectly!" Martin Tyler's voice pierced the cold air.
"United have swarmed them high up the pitch! This is the moment to kill the game!"
"Can they seize it?" Gary Neville shouted, leaning over the gantry railing.
Juan Mata looked up.
He knew his limitations; he wasn't going to outrun the desperate City defense on his own.
He needed a runner. He needed speed.
"Juan! Here!" A desperate, guttural shout cut through the freezing wind.
It was Ling.
The moment the ball turned over, Ling had already ignited his engine.
David Silva, weary after 84 minutes of high-intensity football, tried to track him.
But at 31 years old, his legs couldn't match the explosive power of the 18-year-old.
The gap widened instantly.
A sudden, primal fear gripped Silva. He knew what was coming.
Mata didn't hesitate. He slid a perfectly weighted pass into the space.
The ball was perfectly placed and Ling didn't break stride.
He knew exactly what this moment meant.
Both teams were level on points at the top of the table.
Both teams were unbeaten.
This wasn't just a goal; this was for the title.
The Manchester United team didn't just watch; they sprang into action.
Zlatan Ibrahimović drifted wide, pulling Otamendi out of position.
Rashford made a curved run to the back post, dragging Kyle Walker with him. Mata continued his run into the half-space.
They were like sparks of a flame, burning themselves out to create space for one man.
Ling felt the ball at his feet. It wasn't just close; it felt tethered to his boot by an invisible elastic band.
The snow whipped against his face, his jersey flapping wildly in the wind like a battle flag.
He was a blazing red streak cutting through the white curtain of snow.
Sprint.Sprint.
He reached the edge of the penalty area.
Ling decelerated abruptly.
'Right foot step-over.' He dropped his center of gravity. 'Left foot step-over.'
A violent, dramatic shift of weight.
To Delph, it looked like a tank was charging at him, yet somehow drifting like a sports car.
The cognitive dissonance was paralyzing. He didn't know whether to stick or twist.
"Don't retreat!" Otamendi roared from the center, terrified.
Delph panicked. He instinctively stuck out a foot to tackle.
'Fatal mistake.'
Ling had been waiting for that shift in balance. He tapped the ball past Delph's outstretched leg.
One.
On the sidelines, Guardiola buried his face in his hands. He couldn't watch.
Ling burst past Delph.
Now only Nicolas Otamendi stood between him and the goal.
The Argentine center-back stepped up, desperate to block the shot.
He knew Ling was right-footed. He positioned his body to block the far post curl.
Ling saw the adjustment. He dipped his shoulder as if to shoot across goal.
Otamendi flinched.
Ling dragged the ball back inside onto his left foot.
Two.
He had broken the line. He was face-to-face with Ederson.
This time, there was no feint.
Ling planted his right foot and swung his left boot through the center of the ball.
Thump!
The ball skimmed across the wet turf like a skipping stone, slicing through the snowflakes.
Ederson dove, his fingers stretching, but the shot was too precise.
It kissed the wet grass and nestled into the bottom corner!
"GOAL FOR MANCHESTER UNITED!"
Score: 2-1
Old Trafford detonated. The sound was deafening, a mixture of relief and ecstasy.
Fans in the Stretford End were tearing their shirts off, ignoring the sub-zero temperatures.
Ling sprinted toward the southwest stand.
He didn't dance this time.
He leaped onto the advertising hoarding, raising his arms high to the sky, embracing the falling snow and the roaring crowd.
Teammates swarmed him. Zlatan, Pogba, Rashford—they instinctively stayed off the hoarding, letting the young star have his moment.
He had earned it.
Zlatan smiled.
The kid he had been practicing martial arts with just four months ago had grown up.
He was a man now!
High in the VIP box, Sir Alex Ferguson stood up, clapping slowly with a broad smile.
"Brilliant," Ferguson murmured to the legends beside him. "See that? That is a Manchester United Number 7. He steps up when it matters."
Next to him, Ling Changzheng gasped sharply.
He had celebrated too exuberantly, throwing his arms up, and pulled a muscle in his back.
"Ouch!" He winced, rubbing his lower back, but quickly resumed waving his other arm vigorously.
"Worth it! Worth it!"
Yan Lanxia remained quiet, watching silently, tears of pride welling in her eyes.
She didn't need to shout; her son's performance spoke for itself.
On the City bench, Guardiola slumped.
His eyes were vacant.
It reminded him of the old days—the battles with Mourinho in Spain.
The tactical wars.
Today, his old rival had drawn blood. 20 games unbeaten... ended.
Mourinho, meanwhile, was punching the air, a triumphant grin plastered on his face.
He had done it.
He had proved that his pragmatism could defeat Pep's idealism.
He remembered his slide at the Camp Nou with Inter. He remembered the 5-0 defeat with Real Madrid.
But today? Today he was the King of Manchester!
...
Twitter (X) Trending: #MUNMCI #TitleRace
@RedDevil_DNA:THE UNBEATEN RUN CONTINUES! 21 GAMES! WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE! 🔴🔴
@TacticalTim:Delph got sent back to Leeds with that step-over. Ling sent Otamendi for a hot dog. That is World Class.
@CityZen:We were level on points. We were both unbeaten. And we threw it away. I feel sick. 🤢
@PunditPat:Mourinho masterclass. He waited 84 minutes for that one moment. The title race has just swung to the Red side.
@UnitedStand:Ling is the difference. Without him, this ends 1-1. Give him the keys to the city.
It wasn't just Manchester celebrating.
In Bin Chen, China—the "City of Football"—it was the middle of the night, but the streets were alive.
In the local late-night food stalls, patrons had stopped eating.
They were glued to the projection screens, skewers of barbecue forgotten in their hands.
When the ball hit the net, the stalls erupted. Strangers toasted strangers, clinking beer glasses.
"He did it! Our boy did it!"
"Top of the Premier League! And he scored the winner!"
It was a scene repeated in living rooms and dormitories across the country.
The connection was real.
...
Back at Old Trafford, the match wasn't over.
"City are throwing everything forward," Martin Tyler noted. "But wait... Mourinho is making a change."
The fourth official held up the board. Marcus Rashford OFF, Ander Herrera ON.
"He's shutting up shop," Neville said. "Herrera is coming on to kick anything that moves. Mourinho is going to strangle this game."
The City fans booed loudly. "Boring, boring United!" they chanted.
"Is that the only way you can play?!" a fan screamed from the away end.
United fans responded with jeers and hand gestures.
Plastic bottles flew between the sections as tensions boiled over in the stands. Riot police moved in to separate the groups.
On the pitch, United were cynical.
It was the "Dark Arts" at their finest.
Every time City tried to build momentum, a United player would commit a "tactical foul."
A tug of the shirt here, a trip there. It was ugly, but effective.
David Silva, desperate and frustrated, received the ball on the wing.
He tried to shake off his marker, but Ling was there again.
Ling slid in.
He took the ball cleanly, but his trailing leg swept Silva to the ground.
Silva exploded.
He jumped up and shoved Ling. "You touched the man first! Its a damn foul!"
"I got the ball!" Ling shouted back, standing his ground. "Open your eyes!"
Suddenly, Leroy Sane ran over and shoved Ling hard in the chest.
Ling's eyes blazed.
He stepped forward, pressing his forehead against Sane's, ready to fight.
Then, a shadow loomed over them.
Zlatan Ibrahimović charged into the fray. Everyone thought the veteran was coming to play peacemaker.
Instead, Zlatan grabbed Sane by the throat and shoved him backward like a ragdoll.
"Back off!" Zlatan roared.
The pitch descended into chaos. Substitutes rushed from the bench. Mourinho and Guardiola ran onto the field to separate their players.
It was pure Derby fury.
After a few minutes, order was restored. Sane, looking shaken and like a frightened quail, retreated to his position.
Zlatan slung a heavy arm around Ling's shoulder as they walked away.
"That City number 19?" Zlatan said loudly, grinning so the City players could hear. "I could take three of him by myself. Remember, kid—always settle scores on the spot. Never wait."
Ling mimicked Zlatan's arrogance, chest out.
"I reckon I could handle two of him."
"Hahaha!" The United players burst into laughter, the tension breaking instantly.
Beep-beep-beep!
The referee blew the final whistle.
Manchester United 2 - 1 Manchester City
The 20-game unbeaten run extended to 21.
City's run was broken.
And for the first time in the season, Manchester United stood alone at the summit of the Premier League.
---------
When Zlatan comes to your house, you are the guest.