The match at Old Trafford settled into a rhythm that could essentially be described as a tactical stalemate, orchestrated entirely by Jose Mourinho.
In the 38th minute, United won a free kick on the left flank. Paul Pogba stood over the ball, surveying the box before lofting a high, curling delivery toward the penalty spot.
Romelu Lukaku wrestled with Simon Kjær, but the Belgian striker, noticeably heavier due to his recent muscle gain, failed to generate his usual vertical leap.
Kjær cleared the danger, and the moment fizzled out.
From then on, Manchester United engaged in a fierce midfield battle, prioritizing defensive shape over attacking flair. They were content to let Sevilla hold the ball in harmless areas, waiting like a coiled spring for a counter-attack that didn't need to be rushed.
Sevilla, wary of the pace of Ling and Rashford, hesitated to commit too many bodies forward.
Compounded by Vincenzo Montella's indecision on the touchline, the Spanish side's efforts were toothless.
"It has gone a bit flat here, hasn't it Gary?" Martin Tyler noted on the commentary. "United got the early goal and have decided that is enough entertainment for one half."
"It is professional, Martin," Gary Neville replied. "Mourinho is thinking about Sunday. He is killing the game."
The referee blew the halftime whistle to a ripple of polite applause.
Aside from the lightning-fast opening goal, the first half had been a masterclass in game management, if not excitement.
Inside the home dressing room, Mourinho kept his speech brief. He didn't need to shout. He praised the discipline and instructed them to stick to the plan: secure the victory at the lowest possible energy cost.
Looming large in his mind was the weekend's fixture.
Liverpool were coming to Old Trafford for the North West Derby.
Jurgen Klopp's side, bolstered by the colossus Virgil van Dijk and the free-scoring Mohamed Salah, were a different beast in the second half of the season.
Mourinho needed his soldiers fresh for that war.
...
In the adjacent dressing room, Montella was trying to rally his troops with impassioned speeches about pride and history, but without tactical solutions, his words rang hollow against the locker doors.
The second half resumed, and the pattern remained unchanged. United absorbed pressure with arrogant ease.
Then, in the 76th minute, the trap was sprung.
Lukaku, using his immense strength, backed into Kjær near the center circle, holding up a long ball before flicking a header out wide to the left.
Rashford was onto it in a flash.
The young Englishman carried the ball to the byline, chopped back onto his right foot, and curled a devious cross that bypassed the entire Sevilla defensive line.
The ball drifted toward the far post.
"It's a great ball!" Tyler shouted. "And look who is there!"
Ling had ghosted in from the right wing, completely unmarked.
He simply opened his foot and cushioned a side-footed volley back across the goal.
The net rippled.
"Ling finishes it! 2-0 on the night, 4-1 on aggregate! That is game, set, and match to Manchester United!"
The section of the stadium housing the tour group from China exploded.
Zhang Wei and his fellow travelers were jumping up and down, their cheers piercing through the roar of the Stretford End.
They had traveled thousands of miles for this moment, and their hero had delivered.
"Clinical," Neville said. "He does absolutely nothing for twenty minutes, then pops up in the six-yard box like a veteran striker. His movement is scary."
The rest of the match was a formality. Sevilla's players moved like zombies, their spirit broken. In stoppage time, Ling nearly added a second, his curled effort grazing the outside of the post, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.
Peep-peep-peep!
The final whistle confirmed it.
Manchester United were in the quarter-finals!
@RedDevil_DNA: "Quarter-finals baby! First time since Moyes! Mourinho is cooking. Bring on anyone! #MUFC"
@TacticalTim: "Boring game after the first goal, but who cares? Professional job. We move to Liverpool on Sunday."
In the post-match press conference, Mourinho was in his element.
He sat back, radiating the kind of confidence that borders on arrogance.
"Manchester United last reached the quarter-finals in 2014," Mourinho began, reminding everyone of the club's recent failures before him.
"Since then, nothing. So, I must praise the lads. They are stronger, more united, and they showed great resilience."
"Mr. Mourinho," a journalist asked, "what are your targets now? The semi-finals?"
Mourinho raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Semi-finals? I do not play for semi-finals. I only fight for the championship."
The room buzzed.
Pens scribbled furiously. It was classic Mourinho box office—creating a narrative of dominance that few other managers could pull off. When asked about his preferred opponent for the next round, he shrugged.
"The draw is random. I don't know. Whoever we face, we will give them hell."
...
While United celebrated, drama was unfolding elsewhere in Europe.
Six hours later, at Wembley Stadium in London, the mood was apocalyptic.
Tottenham Hotspur had crashed out. Despite taking an early lead through Son Heung-min, Spurs had collapsed in the second half against the wily Juventus.
Gonzalo Higuaín and Paulo Dybala scored two goals in three minutes, overturning the tie with ruthless Italian efficiency.
Mauricio Pochettino hurled a water bottle into the turf, screaming "Damn it!" as the final whistle blew.
His team had played the better football, but they lacked the "dark arts" required to win in Europe.
On the other touchline, Massimiliano Allegri simply adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable.
...
@SpursyOfficial: "Lads, it's Tottenham. We fucking bottled it again. How did we lose that? #COYS"
@JuveFan: "Football is played for 90 minutes, not 45. This is the history of the Tottenham."
...
Another two hours later, at the Camp Nou in Barcelona, a different kind of masterclass was taking place.
In the 63rd minute, Lionel Messi received a pass from Ousmane Dembélé. The Argentine genius, sporting a bushy beard that fans called his "Gold Miner" look, danced through the Chelsea defense.
He skipped past Antonio Rüdiger, nut-megged Andreas Christensen, and fired a low shot past Thibaut Courtois.
3-0 Barcelona.
Messi raised both hands to the sky.
It was his 29th goal of the season, and he looked unstoppable!
Under Ernesto Valverde, Barcelona remained unbeaten in the league and were cruising in Europe.
Valverde smiled from the sideline; he was building a machine to rival Guardiola's era!
When the match ended, Chelsea were out and the miracle they were hoping for never came.
Antonio Conte faced the cameras in the tunnel.
The stress of the season, the failed transfers, and the player power struggles finally boiled over.
He didn't hold back.
"The players played with fear," Conte spat, looking like he had torn a handful of hair from his own head.
"They were selfish. And the individual mistakes? Christensen played like shit. You cannot win Champions League games when you defend like children."
It was a bridge-burning interview.
Conte knew the end was near. Rather than wait for the mutiny to consume him, he had decided to light the match himself.
---------
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