The adrenaline was finally fading, replaced by a deep, satisfied exhaustion.
While his teammates headed into the Manchester night to celebrate—some to high-end clubs, others home to their families—Ling slipped quietly back to his room at the training ground.
He stood by the sink, carefully washing the mud and grass stains off the match ball.
The referee had handed it to him after the final whistle, signed by all his teammates.
He placed it on the shelf, right in the center, next to his Player of the Month trophy.
Four goals.A Poker.
During the match, he had been in a flow state, moving on instinct.
But now, in the quiet of his room, the magnitude of the achievement hit him.
How many players go their entire careers without scoring four goals in a single Premier League game? And he had done it in his debut season, at White Hart Lane.
"Not bad," Ling whispered to the empty room, a small smile playing on his lips.
However, he forced himself to stay grounded.
He knew the reality.
After the 11-second opener and the 3-0 lead, Tottenham had psychologically collapsed.
They had stopped tracking runs, stopped pressing, and essentially gave up. It was a massacre, but it was against a corpse.
He considered watching the replay to boost his ego, but decided against it.
"Focus on the next challenge," he told himself.
He pulled up his laptop and began searching for footage of Sevilla.
Although they weren't currently challenging for the La Liga title, their European pedigree was terrifying.
They were the Kings of the Europa League, having won it three times in a row.
They were a team that knew how to navigate knockout football.
They were gritty, technical, and dangerous.
After studying Sevilla's defensive shape for an hour, Ling stretched his back and opened the System Interface.
It was time for the lottery.
[MISSION COMPLETE: Score 20 Premier League Goals.]
[REWARD: Golden Module Treasure Chest.]
Ling rubbed his hands together. "Come on. Give me something good. A physical boost? Shooting accuracy?"
He tapped the screen.
With a crisp unlocking sound, the chest shattered into countless glowing golden particles.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: Rivellino's "Cow Tail" Module (Elastico).]
[Note: This is a Technique Enhancement Module. It improves agility and ball control during the specific execution of the move.]
Ling blinked. "The Cow Tail?"
He felt a slight twinge of disappointment. "My luck isn't great today. Another single-skill module."
He already practiced the "Elastico"—the flip-flap move—regularly.
With his Ronaldo (R9) template, his execution was already rapid.
However, United rarely played slow, positional attacks where he needed to stand a defender up and trick them.
They played fast-break football.
When people think of the Elastico, they think of Ronaldinho.
The way he would snake the ball one way and snap it back the other, leaving defenders with twisted ankles.
But the system said Rivellino.
Puzzled, Ling grabbed his phone and searched the name.
Roberto Rivellino.
His eyes widened as he read the history.
Rivellino wasn't just a player; he was the "Atomic Kick."
He was the greatest left-winger in Brazilian history before the modern era. He was a key member of the legendary 1970 World Cup winning team—the greatest team of all time—playing alongside Pele, Jairzinho, and Tostao.
And he was the inventor of the Elastico.
In the 1970s, he used it to humiliate defenders. Ronaldinho had idolized him and copied the move.
"Okay," Ling nodded, his respect growing. "So I got the original source code."
If he could master Rivellino's control with Ronaldo's explosive speed... maybe this wasn't a bad reward after all.
...
Late that night, the results of Matchday 25 were finalized.
The headlines were brutal.
Arsenal 1 - 3 Swansea City
The Gunners didn't just lose; they imploded.
Against a Swansea side fighting relegation, Arsenal looked like sleepwalkers. The crisp passing of December was gone, replaced by apathy and defensive errors.
The atmosphere at the Emirates Stadium turned toxic.
A massive banner was unfurled in the North Bank: "ARSENE, THANK YOU FOR THE MEMORIES, BUT IT IS TIME TO SAY GOODBYE."
Tabloids like The Sun reported that the Arsenal board had secretly begun compiling a shortlist of replacements.
Wenger, looking aged and weary in his post-match interview, tried to hold the line.
"I do not wish to comment on the rumors," Wenger said softly. "I love Arsenal. I will give my all for her until the last day. The players are united."
But the fans weren't buying it and the toxicity was bleeding onto the pitch.
Chelsea 0 - 3 Bournemouth
If Arsenal were in crisis, Chelsea were in meltdown. At Stamford Bridge, the champions were torn apart by Bournemouth.
Antonio Conte stood on the touchline, looking like a man awaiting the guillotine.
His title defense was mathematically over.
Now, even Top Four was at risk.
The Chelsea fans, ruthless as ever, began chanting a familiar name.
"Jose Mourinho! Jose Mourinho!"
They saw what was happening at Old Trafford—the grit, the winning mentality—and they wanted it back.
Manchester City 3 - 0 West Brom
Pep Guardiola's machine kept rolling.
They brushed West Brom aside without breaking a sweat, ensuring the gap to United remained at just three points. They were lurking, waiting for a slip.
But the story of the weekend—the story of the season—was in North London.
Tottenham 0 - 7 Manchester United.
It was a scoreline that looked like a typo.
Fans across the world stared at their apps in disbelief.
Tottenham were 3rd in the league.
They had beaten Real Madrid. And they had just been desecrated in their own home.
It was the final match at the historic White Hart Lane before its demolition. It was supposed to be a celebration.
Instead, United had turned it into a funeral pyre.
Twitter (X) / Reddit r/soccer
@Gooner4Life:Hey Spurs fans, you okay? Just checking in. 7-0? Is that a football score or a rugby score? 😂 #SevenUp
@UnitedStand:It hurts, doesn't it? But it's also so satisfying. Why did Trippier have to provoke Ling? He poked the bear, and the bear ate him.
@TacticalTim:The elbow from Ling was pure street justice. And then he scores four? That is the coldest performance I have ever seen.
@SpursOfficial:Deleting this app. See you next season.
@CityZen:Pochettino is to blame. Subbing Kane at halftime was waving the white flag. You can lose, but you can't quit.
@NeutralFan:Spurs have always been "Spursy," but this is a new low. They completely lost their heads. The sore loser attitude with the fouls was embarrassing.
@RedDevil:Seven Heaven! That stadium is cursed now. Burn it down.
While the UK media raved, the South Korean media went deadly silent.
The narrative was supposed to be Son Heung-min vs. Ling—the Battle for Asian Supremacy.
But the numbers were damning.
In two meetings this season, Manchester United had outscored Tottenham 10-0.
Ling had scored 6 goals in those two games.
Son Heung-min had scored 0.
Nearly a third of Ling's total goal tally had come at Tottenham's expense.
He wasn't just beating them, he was farming them.
On South Korean forums, the mood turned dark. The nationalistic pride that usually protected Son began to crack.
"Why didn't Son fight back?"
"Ling was fighting for his teammates. Son was invisible."
"10-0 aggregate score. This isn't a rivalry. It's bullying."
"Maybe Ling really is the new King of Asia."
For Son Heung-min who's checking his phone that night, the silence was louder than any criticism.
He knew he had fallen behind. And he knew the only way to catch up was to stop looking at Ling and start looking at himself.