The trap was sprung.
Trippier's body was twisted into an unnatural shape, his center of gravity completely gone.
He was falling and he knew he was beaten.
But Kieran Trippier wasn't just a defender; he was a street fighter who knew the dark arts well.
As he crumbled, a flash of malice crossed his eyes.
'If I'm going down, you're coming with me.'
Smack!
Just as Ling accelerated past him, Trippier didn't just fall. He forcibly planted his foot downward, studs exposed.
It was a stamp!
His studs crunched directly onto Ling's heel.
A sharp, electric bolt of pain shot up Ling's leg.
It felt like his ankle had been clamped in a vice. His momentum was instantly killed, and he crashed face-first into the turf, tumbling violently.
The ball rolled away.
Trippier stood up, feigning innocence.
But as he walked past the prone Ling, he deliberately stepped over the boy's calf, dragging his boot slightly—a universal gesture of disrespect.
...
"DAMN IT!"
Gary Neville slammed his hand on the desk, forgetting his professionalism entirely.
"That is dirty! That is absolutely filthy!" Gary Neville roared into the microphone, his face flushing red.
"I don't care if they deduct my salary for saying this—Trippier is a disgrace! That wasn't a tackle; that was a malicious stomp!"
"A yellow card? No! That warrants a prison sentence!"
"Why can Tottenham only play by fouling? Why do they always crumble in Europe? It is precisely because of this garbage style of play! They are thugs in white shirts!"
"If you watch closely," Gary Neville added, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, "this isn't an accident. The heel stomp. The follow-through. They do this every week. It's systematic. It's trained."
Tyler patted his partner's shoulder, trying to calm him down, but his own eyes were burning.
That was a very dirty play down there.
...
On the pitch, the reaction was instant and violent.
Romelu Lukaku saw the stomp.
The big Belgian turned, his eyes blazing with fury. He charged at Trippier like a bull seeing red.
"You dirty bastard!" Lukaku roared, shoving Trippier hard in the chest. "Do you realize what you're doing? You could break his leg!"
Trippier staggered back but didn't back down.
He smirked, a nasty, arrogant smirk.
"Fuck off, Romelu," Trippier spat. "This is the Premier League, not a nursery. If the kid can't handle the physicality, he should go back to playing house. Or go back to China."
He looked down at Ling, who was clutching his ankle.
"Get up, you soft prick."
That was the spark.
The Manchester United players swarmed.
Pogba, Matic, Jones—they rushed in. The Tottenham players—Dier, Dele, Vertonghen—surrounded Trippier.
Chest to chest. Forehead to forehead.
"Don't touch him!" Dier screamed.
"Shut your mouth!" Pogba shouted back.
Referee Andre Marriner blew his whistle frantically, diving into the scrum to separate the millionaires acting like pub brawlers.
He dragged Lukaku away and flashed a yellow card in Trippier's face.
Down on the grass, Ling took a deep breath.
The pain was throbbing, a dull ache radiating from his heel.
He tested the joint. Rotate left. Rotate right. It held.
'Thank god.'
If that stomp had been an inch higher... it would have snapped his Achilles tendon.
A cold, suffocating darkness washed over Ling.
For a second, he wasn't at White Hart Lane.
He was back in his past life. He remembered the popping sound of a ligament. The hospital lights. The doctor's pitying face. The end of a dream.
'What difference is there between a foul and murder if it kills your career?'
Rage, pure and molten, surged in his chest. It was suffocating.
He stood up, brushing the dirt off his knees. He looked at Trippier, who was laughing with Dele Alli.
'Respect?' Ling thought bitterly. 'You want me to earn their respect with goals?'
'Bullshit.'
When a man tries to end your livelihood, you don't respond with art.
You don't quote poetry to a rabid dog biting your leg.
This world is full of contradictions. They tell you violence doesn't solve problems. But on a football pitch, in the mud and the blood? Sometimes violence is the only language these people understand.
Ling stared at Trippier's back.
'I'm not going to swallow this.'
On the touchline, Jose Mourinho had gone nuclear.
He charged at the Fourth Official, veins bulging in his neck, pointing a shaking finger at the pitch.
"ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND?!" Mourinho screamed, spit flying. "Is that a yellow card? He tried to break his ankle! That is a red card! That is assault!"
"Mr. Mourinho, return to your technical area," the official warned, wiping his face.
"Fuck your technical area!"
Rui Faria grabbed Mourinho by the belt, physically dragging the manager back before he could get sent to the stands.
Mourinho spun around to face the pitch.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. He didn't care about tactics anymore.
He cared about loyalty.
"HEY!"
He locked eyes with Matic. With Ashley Young. With Pogba.
"Are you just going to watch him get hurt?!" Mourinho roared, his voice cutting through the crowd noise.
"Tackle them! Hit them back!"
"Be bigger bastards than them! Do you understand?! Protect your family!"
The United players heard him.
They looked at Ling as he was limping slightly.
They looked at the smirking Spurs players.
Their expressions hardened. The glint in their eyes changed from competitive to predatory.
Ling wasn't just a teammate anymore.
He was the kid.
The one who worked harder than anyone. The one who cooked for them. If he went down, the title went down.
United were not lambs to be slaughtered.
The order had been given!
The match resumed, but it was no longer a football match. It was a street fight.
38th Minute Eric Dier received the ball.
He shrugged off Lingard and tried to turn.
Before he could move, Nemanja Matic arrived.
The giant Serb didn't play the ball. He slammed his shoulder into Dier's chest, sending the Englishman crashing to the turf.
Whistle. Foul.
Matic didn't even look at the referee. He just stared down at Dier.
'Try it again.'
41st Minute Mousa Dembélé floated a diagonal pass to the left flank. Son Heung-min controlled it beautifully.
He knocked it past Valencia and surged forward, picking up speed.
The next second, his world went upside down.
Ashley Young came flying across the turf like a homing missile.
He left the ground. Two feet. No ball. All man.
CRUNCH.
Young wiped Son out completely.
The South Korean star flew into the air, spinning, before crashing heavily onto the grass.
The home fans winced. The replay on the big screen was brutal.
Referee Marriner sprinted over with yellow card already in his hand.
"Control yourselves!" he shouted at Young. "This is a football pitch, not a boxing ring! Next one is a Red! Do not test me!"
Son lay on the ground, clutching his shin, his face twisted in genuine confusion and pain.
'Why me?' he thought. 'I didn't foul anyone! I'm innocent!'
"Yeah! Have some of that!" The United fans in the away end roared, baying for blood.
"Don't you dare back down!"
"Dirty Manc bastards!" the Spurs fans screamed back.
...
45th Minute - Stoppage Time
The atmosphere was toxic. Every challenge was met with screams.
Phil Jones and Smalling crunched Harry Kane in a sandwich tackle, winning the ball.
Jones hoofed it long toward the left flank.
The ball hung in the night sky.
Ling backpedaled, watching the flight of the ball. He felt a presence behind him.
It was Trippier.
The Spurs defender was glued to him, pressing his chest into Ling's back, taunting him relentlessly.
"Want to fall over again, princess?" Trippier whispered in his ear, his breath hot. "Are all you Chinese boys this soft? You're made of glass."
Ling didn't respond. He planted his feet.
"Honestly," Trippier continued, seeing the ball drop, "your physique is pathetic. The girl I was with last night was stronger than you. Go home."
Trippier loaded up his legs.
He jumped early, slamming his body into Ling's back, adding a subtle shove to ensure Ling couldn't win the header.
But Ling had no intention of winning the header.
He waited for the contact.
As Trippier jumped, leaning his face in close... Ling didn't jump for the ball.
He planted his feet, rotated his core, and swung his left elbow backward with vicious, calculated force.
THUMP.
Bone met bone.
The ball sailed harmlessly over their heads and out of bounds.
But Kieran Trippier didn't land on his feet.
The blow caught him square on the temple.
His eyes rolled back and his body went instantly limp in mid-air.
He collapsed to the turf like a puppet with its strings cut. motionless.
Ling landed softly. He looked down at the fallen defender.
'Who's soft now?'
---------
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