The referee blew the whistle for halftime, ending the chaotic brawl on the pitch.
He intercepted Mourinho and Pochettino in the tunnel, pointing a stern finger at both managers.
"Control your players," the official warned, his face flushed. "If I see one more incident like that in the second half, I start showing red cards. I don't care who they are."
Mourinho nodded dismissively, pushing past him. He didn't care about the referee. He had a war to win.
Inside the Manchester United dressing room, the atmosphere was electric.
The adrenaline from the fight was still pumping through their veins.
"Well done, lads!" Mourinho roared, pacing the center of the room. "You showed me unity. You showed me balls! If they touch one of you, you hurt them back. That is the United way!"
"What about the consequences?" Mourinho sneered. "Fuck it! I'll take the heat. You just play."
He deliberately ignored Ling's elbow on Trippier. In Mourinho's eyes, that wasn't a foul; it was justice.
He took a deep breath, his expression shifting from praise to something darker, colder.
"But listen to me. We haven't won yet. 2-0 is nothing."
Mourinho wasn't a coach who played by the spirit of the game.
He was a predator.
Usually, he was the one bullying the opposition. Now that he had his boot on Tottenham's throat, he wasn't going to ease off.
He wanted to crush their ass!
"I want you to put the ball in their net again and again," Mourinho hissed, staring into the eyes of his forwards. "Grind their dignity into the dirt. This is their final season at White Hart Lane? Good. Let's leave them with a scar they will never forget. Let's make this the most humiliating night in the history of this stadium!"
"Make those who hurt us, mock us, and insult us understand the consequences!"
"Is two goals enough?" Mourinho shouted, slamming his fist onto the tactics board.
"NO!" The players roared back.
"Since 2003, we have owned this ground. Today is no exception!"
Mourinho grabbed a marker pen. "Tactically, we kill them now. Increase the tempo. Press them until they suffocate. And shoot on sight."
He turned to Ling.
"Ling. You have unlimited shooting rights. If you see the goal, you fire. Bury them."
...
The mood in the Tottenham locker room was the polar opposite.
"How are you feeling, Kieran?" Pochettino asked, kneeling beside his right-back.
Trippier was sitting with an ice pack on his head, his eyes unfocused. "Hiss... my head is spinning, boss. I feel like I've been hit by a bus."
Pochettino sighed, rubbing his temples.
He looked at Harry Kane, who was breathing heavily, exhausted from chasing shadows for 45 minutes.
The manager faced a brutal choice.
Pride or survival?
The schedule was a nightmare. Liverpool, Arsenal, Juventus in the Champions League. His squad was thin. If he kept Kane and Trippier out there in a physical war they were already losing, he risked losing them for the season.
"Okay," Pochettino said softly. "Rose, you're on for Kieran. Llorente, you replace Harry."
The room went deadly silent.
Subbing off your top scorer and your right-back at halftime? It was a white flag.
It was a surrender.
"We stick to the shape," Pochettino continued, avoiding the eyes of his players. "Stabilize the defense. Be careful. Do not get injured."
The Spurs players stared at the floor. They hated it. They wanted to fight. But the manager had given them an excuse to quit.
In football, a team's pedigree is revealed in moments like this.
In the infamous "Battle of the Bridge" two years ago, Tottenham lost the title to Leicester, but they went down swinging.
They collected nine yellow cards. They fought Chelsea for every inch. It was ugly, but it was passionate.
This? This was pathetic.
Giving up halfway through a Derby because of "the schedule" was the definition of small-club mentality.
...
Fifteen minutes passed and The teams re-emerged.
"Welcome back to White Hart Lane," Martin Tyler said on commentary. "United lead 2-0. The first half ended in a brawl, but the second half begins with a surprise. Pochettino has taken off Harry Kane. He's waving the white flag, Gary."
"It's shocking," Neville muttered. "He's saving them for Juventus. The fans won't like that."
Peep!
The whistle blew.
Tottenham tried to keep the ball. Son Heung-min passed back to Jan Vertonghen. They looked terrified to move forward.
United didn't hesitate.
They pressed en masse, ignoring the space behind them. They knew Kane wasn't there to punish them.
Vertonghen, panicked by Lingard's pressure, hoofed a long ball. Phil Jones headed it clear with ease.
Paul Pogba controlled it on his chest. He held off Dembele, spun, and launched a heat-seeking diagonal pass to the left flank.
The ball dropped out of the night sky.
Danny Rose, fresh off the bench, sprinted to intercept.
He was aggressive, determined to make an impact where Trippier had failed.
But Danny Rose is 5'8" (174cm). Ling is 6'0" (184cm).
And Ling was moving at full tilt.
Ling trapped the ball with his left foot. He saw Rose coming. He didn't try to go around him.
He dropped his shoulder and drove straight through him.
THUD.
The pitch-side microphones picked up the sickening sound of flesh on flesh. It was the purest form of physical dominance.
Rose bounced off Ling like a child running into a brick wall.
He stumbled backward, legs flailing, before crashing awkwardly onto the wet grass.
"That is unreasonable!" Neville laughed in disbelief. "He's just bullied him! It's men against boys out there!"
Ling didn't even break stride. He left Rose in the mud and drove diagonally toward the penalty box.
Davinson Sánchez, the £42 million record signing, rushed out to meet him.
Sánchez was desperate.
He needed to stop this kid to save his reputation!
Sánchez committed. He swept a thick leg across the turf, trying to block the lane.
Mistake.
Ling saw the commitment.
Decelerate.Flick.Shift.
Three movements executed in a split second. A La Croqueta at high speed.
Ling felt his own knees creak under the torque.
As McTominay had said once: When you unleash the beast, you have to pay the price in blood.
Ling ghosted past Sánchez. He was open.
Thirty yards out. Unlimited shooting rights.
He adjusted his stride. He wrapped his right foot around the ball.
BANG!
He didn't aim for the bottom corner this time. He went for power and whip.
The ball screamed into the air, tracing a violent, exaggerated arc. It spun viciously, dipping and swerving away from the goalkeeper.
Hugo Lloris leaped. He stretched every sinew in his body.
It was futile.
The ball flew over his fingertips and exploded into the top corner of the net.
Ripppp!
0-3 Manchester United!
White Hart Lane fell silent, save for the away corner.
The United fans were delirious.
They waved their fists, screaming, mocking the Spurs fans who were already heading for the exits.
"What a hit!" Tyler screamed. "Absolute brilliance! He has silenced North London!"
On the pitch, there was no dance.
No smile.
Ling stood over the ball as it bounced back out of the net. He looked at the shattered Tottenham defenders.
He looked at Lloris, who was on his knees, head in his hands.
Ling didn't celebrate. He picked the ball up.
He turned to Lukaku and Pogba.
"Get back," he barked, pointing to the center circle. "We go again."
Lukaku grinned, what a terrifying sight that was!
He grabbed the ball from Ling and ran back to the halfway line.
3-0 wasn't enough.
They wanted to burn the stadium down!
---------
Read 30 chapters ahead and support me on patreon.
patreon (.)com/Newbietranslator