Mourinho's implication was clear: Barcelona is no longer a match for Manchester United.
The journalists sat up straighter, sensing a headline.
Mourinho was declaring that a match between the two giants would be a one-sided affair—a formality.
It was classic psychological warfare, the "Special One" at his arrogant best.
Meanwhile, in the away conference room...
Pep Guardiola was the picture of calm.
"I believe this defeat will leave a deep impression on my players," Guardiola said, his voice steady.
"The winning streak affected our mentality. We got comfortable. This loss corrects that. In the long run, this is a good thing."
He took a sip of water. "Finally, congratulations to Manchester United and congratulations to Jose."
When the reporters inevitably probed about the old Barcelona feud—the bitterness of 2008—Guardiola simply shook his head.
He refused to engage them.
That was an unpleasant memory, buried in the past.
...
Two hours later.
Ling checked his phone.
His teammates were flooding the group chat with invitations to nightclubs and private parties to celebrate the victory.
He politely declined them all. He had something much more important to do.
It was New Year's Day.
Although he was thousands of miles from home, traditions could not be forgotten.
In fact, the main reason Yan Lanxia and Ling Changzheng had traveled to England wasn't just to watch football—it was to properly celebrate the holiday with their son.
They had missed too many family gatherings over the years.
Ling picked up his parents from the hotel and drove straight to a large supermarket near the Carrington training base.
He grabbed a cart and went into full shopping mode.
Pork belly, glutinous rice flour for rice cakes, scallions...
Surprisingly, the British supermarket was well-stocked with international goods.
He even found jars of chinese chili crisp and Thirteen Spices powder.
Laden with bags, the three of them drove to a familiar spot: a "Sha County Snacks" restaurant run by a Chinese expat.
Ling had originally planned to book a fancy restaurant, but he had a sudden inspiration.
He asked the owner, Mr. Zhang Zhongbing, if he could borrow the kitchen to cook a family meal.
Zhang Zhongbing agreed happily. "For the hero of Manchester? Anything! No charge!"
If not for Ling's firm insistence on paying for the ingredients and utilities, the owner wouldn't have taken a penny.
The family quickly fell into a rhythm.
Yan Lanxia took charge of kneading the dough for dumplings.
Ling Changzheng grabbed a cleaver to chop the meat filling.
And Ling?
"Mom, Dad, watch this," Ling said with a grin, tying on an apron. "Stir-fried Yellow Beef, Bincheng Cold Noodles, Braised Whole Prawns... none of them are a problem for me."
He handled the wok with practiced ease, the flames licking up the sides.
Yan Lanxia opened her mouth to stop him—since when does a professional footballer cook like a chef?—but she saw Ling Changzheng shoot her a look.
She swallowed her words.
The truth was, it didn't matter how he knew. What mattered was the warmth in the room.
Amid the clattering of pots and the sizzling of oil, the aroma of home-cooked food filled the small restaurant.
Yan Lanxia looked at the lavish spread on the table.
"Son," she said, surprised. "Your cooking skills are much better than your father's."
Ling Changzheng didn't refute it as he was too busy eyeing the beef.
"Mom, I lived alone for a long time," Ling lied smoothly. "I got tired of cafeteria food, so I taught myself."
He paused as a wave of emotion hitting him.
It was a lie, of course.
In his previous life, before his rebirth, he had spent years cooking for himself in obscure apartments, struggling to make ends meet.
Those hardships had forged the skills he was showing off now.
"Mom, Dad, let's have a drink today."
Ling changed the subject, pulling a bottle from a bag.
He had given himself the night off—no tactical analysis, no dietary restrictions.
Just family.
"Is that... Maotai?" Ling Changzheng's eyes widened.
His throat bobbed as he looked at the iconic white bottle.
Back home, to support Ling's football training, the family had lived frugally.
Forget premium Maotai; Ling Changzheng usually drank a cheap, harsh liquor for the common people.
"I bought it at the duty-free shop at the airport," Ling explained, pouring a small cup for his father.
"It's cheaper than back home."
"Happy New Year!"
The three of them raised their glasses.
Outside the window, Manchester was still alive with the sound of car horns and distant fireworks from celebrating United fans.
But inside, the room was filled with the quiet, rich warmth of family bonds.
Ling looked at the smiles on his parents' faces. In that moment, the fatigue of the 90-minute battle against City vanished.
'This,' he thought. 'This is why I play.'
"Son, will you come home for the Spring Festival?" Yan Lanxia asked, placing a peeled prawn into Ling's bowl.
"We have a match that day," Ling said through a mouthful of food.
"It's fine," Ling Changzheng interrupted. "The match is the priority. Your mom and I will boil some dumplings at home. We'll celebrate early."
Yan Lanxia looked slightly disappointed but nodded.
Ling stood up to head to the kitchen. "I'll go boil the dumplings now. Oh, and the owner, Mr. Zhang, asked if I could sign a jersey for him to hang on the wall. Like the one you have."
Watching his son's busy figure, Ling Changzheng felt a surge of gratification.
"By the way," Yan Lanxia said, brightening up. "I told my class back home that I'd give a signed jersey to the top three students who improved their English."
"What happened?" Ling Changzheng asked, playing the straight man.
"It was a miracle! Those mischievous boys who never study? They started sitting quietly during breaks, memorizing vocabulary. The class average went up by thirty points in two months! They even said if they could play a match with Ling, they'd guarantee another thirty points!"
She beamed with pride.
Her son wasn't just a star; he was an inspiration!
Soon, Ling returned with three steaming bowls of dumplings.
Between bites, Yan Lanxia spoke up. "Son, I read the news... the Chinese Super League is developing quite well. There's a lot of money there now. If you ever feel too tired here—"
"Stop," Ling Changzheng interrupted, unusually stern.
He took on the role of the head of the household.
"What do you know about it?"
He turned to Ling, his eyes serious. "Son, listen to me. If you can stay in Europe, do not come back. The environment back home... it's not the same. Your mom and I can't help you with football, so you have to rely on yourself."
He took a sip of the Maotai. "You have achieved something incredible here. You must persevere, no matter how hard it gets. Don't take the easy road."
Yan Lanxia stayed silent. She knew her husband was right.
"I don't find it hard, Dad," Ling said, picking up a pork-and-scallion dumpling.
The familiar taste exploded in his mouth. "Turning my passion into my career? It's a blessing."
He smiled, feeling a bit sentimental.
Compared to the bleak, hopeless future of his previous life, this pressure, this fatigue, this challenge... it was paradise.
...
Happy times are always short-lived.
Late that night, the "family feast" came to an end.
Ling called a club driver to take his parents back to their hotel, ensuring they were safe.
Then, he walked back to the Carrington training base alone.
The night breeze was biting cold, but it felt good against his flushed skin.
He had drunk about 250ml of liquor, and he needed the walk to sober up.
Although he had promised himself a night off from football, his mind drifted back to the match.
'We won,' he thought, kicking a pebble across the pavement.
'But it was close.'
Without a doubt, Manchester United had struggled.
If not for the heavy snow disrupting City's passing rhythm... if not for that one moment of magic... the result could have been very different.
He looked up at the moon hanging over Manchester.
The unbeaten run continued, but the hard work was only just beginning.
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Maotai = chinese expensive alcohol.