Thibaut Courtois stood between the posts, his towering frame usually a source of comfort for Chelsea.
But as he saw Andreas Christensen step up to confront the onrushing Ling, the Belgian goalkeeper felt his heart sink into his stomach.
He didn't dare bet on Christensen making the interception. The Danish defender's body language screamed panic.
As the distance between the attacker and defender closed, the eyes of 75,000 fans at Old Trafford were fixed on Manchester United's Number 7.
Ling didn't slow down.
He charged at Christensen, his upper body swaying rapidly from left to right like a pendulum.
To Christensen, the movement was hypnotic—a blur of red where reality and deception merged into one.
Christensen froze.
Anxiety spread through his limbs like ice water. He couldn't judge which way Ling would go.
The pressure of the moment, the noise of the Stretford End, and the memory of his mistake against Barcelona all crashed down on him at once.
Unable to bear the torture of waiting any longer, Christensen cracked.
He resolutely stuck out a foot—a desperate, lottery-ticket tackle hoping to win a prize that wasn't there.
It was exactly what Ling wanted.
In an instant, Ling's right foot flicked outward.
He didn't just bypass the tackle; he vanished from Christensen's peripheral vision. The Chelsea defender's boot hit nothing but air.
He stumbled, his heart turning ice-cold as he realized he had been humiliated again.
Ling was free.
Ahead of him, the passing lanes were open.
Romelu Lukaku was peeling off his marker in the center. Juan Mata and Jesse Lingard were screaming for the cut-back, their arms raised in anticipation.
But in this area, completely unmarked at the edge of the box?
Ling chose to take it himself!
He inhaled a deep breath of the cold Manchester air, his mind clearing of all noise.
Stride. Plant. Swing.
His non-kicking foot dug fiercely into the turf, anchoring his body as he leaned sideways at a sharp angle.
His right leg folded back like a loaded spring, then whipped through the ball with a sharp, terrifying whistle.
Tens of thousands of fans held their breath.
BOOM!!!
The sound of the impact echoed around the stadium like a cannon shot.
The ball deformed violently under the force of the strike before rocketing toward the goal.
It flew in a straight line, rising like a blazing meteor.
This was the perfect embodiment of aesthetic violence!
Courtois reacted at lightning speed. He launched his massive frame to the left, stretching every sinew in his body.
He got a hand to it.
He felt the overwhelming force of the ball against his glove, a heavy, bruising impact.
But his wrist wasn't strong enough to stop a missile moving at that velocity and his hand was pushed back powerlessly.
SWISH!
The crisp, satisfying sound of the ball hitting the net cut through the air.
Courtois landed heavily and instinctively turned his head.
He saw the ball spinning fiercely against the white netting, tangling in the mesh as if trying to break free and soar into the sky.
A second later, gravity took over.
The ball dropped onto the grass, bounced twice, and lay still.
Courtois felt like the last ten seconds had been a surreal nightmare.
But when he looked through the hexagonal mesh and saw the wall of red shirts behind the goal rising in unison, he knew it was real.
WHOOSH!!!
From a bird's-eye view, Old Trafford appeared to ignite.
The stands trembled under the deafening roar, a release of tension that had built up over thirty minutes of tactical deadlock.
"GOALLLLLL!!!! MANCHESTER UNITED!"
Ling didn't stop moving.
He sprinted dozens of meters toward the corner flag, his face twisted in a mixture of rage and ecstasy.
Dribble. Thunderous shot. Goal.
With each accomplishment, the adrenaline spiked higher. He felt every pore opening, every cell in his body vibrating.
This sensation—this power—was why he played football.
He reached the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand. He stopped, clenched his fists, and punched the air rhythmically.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The crowd roared in rhythm with his punches, a tribal chant acknowledging their new hero.
Other United players rushed over wildly.
Lukaku grabbed Ling in a headlock, screaming into his ear. Mata jumped on his back.
They were a mass of celebrating red bodies.
On the edge of the celebration, Paul Pogba jogged over, clapping his hands.
But deep down, the Frenchman felt a twinge of discomfort.
For someone with Pogba's showman personality, performing before tens of thousands and receiving this kind of adulation was the ultimate drug.
He naturally wished to bask in the same glory as Ling.
'That should be me,' Pogba thought.
'I should be the one driving forward, shooting from distance, hearing my name sung.'
But Mourinho's tactics had him shackled in a defensive pivot, limiting his forward runs.
He wanted to be the Number 10. He wanted the freedom.
Meanwhile, David Luiz wasn't looking at the crowd.
He was shaking his afro wildly, celebrating with a manic grin. Then, he turned toward the Chelsea bench.
He locked eyes with Antonio Conte.
Luiz slowly, deliberately, raised an eyebrow.
You threw me away. Now look.
...
"OH MY WORD! WHAT A HIT!"
Martin Tyler's voice cracked with excitement in the commentary gantry.
"The boy is dynamite! After dismantling Chelsea's key defensive structure, Ling bypassed Christensen with contemptuous ease and unleashed a thunderbolt!"
"Courtois got a hand to it, but he might as well have tried to stop a freight train! The power was absolutely immense!"
"It is the deadlock breaker!" Gary Neville chimed in, his voice filled with admiration.
"We talked about Kante. We said he was doing a job. And he was! For thirty minutes, he was brilliant."
"But that is the difference with world-class players," Neville continued. "They only need one moment. Ling sold Kante the dummy, left him on the floor, and then destroyed Christensen. It is ruthless. It is clinical."
"Look at the replay, Martin. The balance to shift the ball past Christensen... the Dane is terrified of him. He dangled a leg, and Ling punished him."
...
The internet exploded instantly.
@RedDevil_DNA: OH MY GOD! LING HAS JUST BROKEN THE NET! 🚀🚀🚀 #MUNCHE
@CFC_Fan: Christensen... get out of my club. He's absolutely crumbled again.
@TacticalTim: Kante played the perfect game for 34 minutes. Ling ended him in 2 seconds. That is the cruelty of football.
@UnitedStand: THE POWER ON THAT SHOT! Courtois nearly lost his hand! 1-0! GET IN!
@PunditPat: David Luiz staring down Conte is the highlight of the season for me. The revenge arc is real.
...
On the pitch, the Chelsea players were shell-shocked.
"FUCK!"
Thibaut Courtois cursed loudly, pounding the turf with his massive fist to vent his frustration.
The ball had been reachable, which made the failure burn even more.
Andreas Christensen stood with his hands on his knees, staring at the ground.
His stomach churned violently, the familiar wave of nausea washing over him. He wished the ground would swallow him whole.
Further up the pitch, N'Golo Kante stopped in his tracks.
He scratched his head helplessly.
He had given his all.
He had followed instructions perfectly. He had studied the tapes. And yet, he had been beaten.
A flicker of disappointment crossed his mind.
'I let him go.'
But the thought vanished almost instantly.
N'Golo Kante was not a man who stayed down.
At age seven, he was scavenging through trash on the streets of Paris to help his family survive.
At eleven, he buried his father.
At nineteen, he was rejected by academies for being "too small" and was playing in the ninth division.
He had fought for every scrap of food, every contract, every tackle.
Over the years, pursuing his football dream had brought him countless setbacks, but each time, he doubled his efforts to overcome them.
He had won the Premier League with Leicester when nobody believed in them.
He had won it again with Chelsea.
What was getting beaten once?
'It was just another tackle to be won later.'
Kante took a deep breath, regained his composure, and jogged back to the center circle.
His honest, humble face was filled with a terrifying resilience.
'The game is not over,' Kante thought.
'I will get him next time.'