The setting sun cast fiery clouds across the sky, painting the horizon in hues of crimson and gold.
Old Trafford appeared even more magnificent under the glow, like a dreamlike hall filled with 70,000 celebrating Manchester United fans.
High in the gantry, Peter Drury leaned into his microphone, his voice trembling with the weight of the occasion.
"The sun sets on the season, but the sun rises on a new empire!"
"The 2017-18 Premier League season has officially concluded!"
"And the champions... are Manchester United!"
"They have become the first Centurion club in the Premier League era! One hundred points! They have set an unprecedented record in the league's history and left a profound mark on European football."
Jim Beglin joined in, his voice filled with admiration. "It is a staggering achievement, Peter. Manchester City demonstrated an unstoppable strength from the very beginning, setting records for away wins and goals scored. They pushed the standard to the stratosphere. But Manchester United? They matched them, and then they surpassed them."
Drury continued, his cadence rising. "Think back to the start of the season—the doubts, the conservative tactics, the whispers of discontent. But they stood firm. They held the top spot through the dark winter months, and they never let go."
"And as for the players..."
Drury took a deep breath.
"The boy from the East has conquered the West! Jeremy Ling has broken the single-season scoring record under the 38-round system with 38 goals! He has claimed the Premier League Golden Boot in his debut season!"
"Long years may change many things, but some things remain unchanged—like the memories of glory. Today, Old Trafford finds tranquility within the noise, and deep emotion within the clamor."
On the pitch, the scenes were chaotic and beautiful.
Richarlison approached Ling to exchange jerseys, but Ling politely declined, gesturing to his chest.
He wanted to keep this jersey—the one he wore as a champion—as a memento forever.
Instead, he gave Richarlison a spare from the kit bag.
Looking at the smiles on his teammates' faces, Ling suddenly recalled a phrase he had once read.
There will always be someone who leaves a deep imprint in your heart.
He felt grateful for heaven's gift, giving him the chance to start over.
Why did he train so hard, seizing every second for practice, review, and study?
Precisely because he had lost before, or rather, never possessed it to begin with.
No matter how many obstacles stood in front, he had charged through without hesitation.
Now, standing under the fading sunset, he spread his arms and looked up at the sky.
A clear and resolute light emerged in his eyes—this was just the beginning.
This was the threshold to becoming a world-class superstar!
...
Not far away, a different emotion was pouring out.
Jesse Lingard knelt powerless on the ground, burying his face in the turf as he wept uncontrollably.
To the outside world, he was Man United's joker, the most optimistic player, always dancing around like a clown.
But that was merely a surface appearance.
His mother's illness had grown increasingly severe, confining her to bed day after day.
His 11-year-old sister and 15-year-old brother were left uncared for, living each day in worry and fear.
He was someone who preferred to handle things alone.
So he could only keep telling himself: "As a man, you must bear this responsibility and appear on the pitch for everyone, because you need money, lots of money. You must mature and become wiser."
Today, the suffocating pressure on his shoulders was finally released.
...
The spring breeze swept over Zlatan Ibrahimović.
He remained as arrogant as ever, standing under the spotlight, chest out.
But his mind drifted back.
He thought of his father, Sefik Ibrahimović, once an ordinary bricklayer who became a warehouse manager drowning in alcohol after a divorce.
Ibrahimović recalled his miserable childhood—the empty refrigerator, the table crowded with beer cans.
There were times when he couldn't find anything to eat, forced to ride his bicycle to his mother's house to beg for food.
She wouldn't embrace her son, instead nagging him: "Do you think our house is made of money? With how much you eat, you'll empty our family savings sooner or later."
Yet she always let him stay.
Then one day, he got caught in the rain during training, suffering severe vomiting and diarrhea.
That man—his father—picked him up and carried him away, roaring at the taxi driver like a lion.
"My son is sick and needs to go to the hospital immediately. Drive faster. Speed, run red lights—do whatever it takes. I'll pay all the fines and handle the police."
Later, that man quit drinking, changing his addiction from alcohol to collecting every match report about his son.
In the eyes of the outside world, Ibrahimović is a football superstar—exceptionally talented, fearless, confident.
Or a villain—selfish, arrogant, rude.
But in reality, he was a real person.
A complex person.
...
"Some reach the pinnacle, while others bid farewell to the stage," Drury noted softly as the camera focused on the captain.
"Michael Carrick, the 37-year-old midfielder, has completed the final match of his career. From the 2008 Champions League squad, only he remained. He witnessed the peak, the decline, and now, the resurrection. He bids farewell with perfection."
Rashford, Mata, Ashley Young, Valencia, Rojo, Bailly, Ling, De Gea, Carrick, Pogba, McTominay—they were all the same.
Each had their own story, their own unique life.
"The players on the field have their own lives, and the spectators off the field have theirs," Beglin philosophized.
"When these lives intersect at this moment, it forms a historical node. Here, we are both the scenery in others' eyes, and others become the scenery in ours."
Jose Mourinho stood by the pitch, his lips moving slightly.
It was already destined—he could only gather flowers from among thorns.
"Finally getting Mourinho, only to encounter an unstoppable Manchester City," Drury mused. "But he found a way. He always finds a way."
Mourinho turned and walked toward the players' tunnel, silently saying to himself, 'What matters is to be filled with persistence for victory and belief.'
'Fortunately, I've achieved that.'
....
Emotions came quickly and left just as fast.
When everyone returned to the locker room, smiles were on every face.
Ibrahimović slammed the table and roared, "Lads, at the start of the season, I said there's no point if we don't win the title!"
"Back then, the journalists mocked me. Now we've proven our efforts weren't in vain—we did it!"
"Do me a favor, celebrate like champions, because now not just Manchester belongs to Man United, all of England belongs to Man United!"
The next second.
OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!
The locker room atmosphere instantly peaked, with the sound of champagne corks popping one after another.
Everyone sang and danced, reveling in the celebration.
Ling quietly signaled to his teammates, hinting that Mourinho was still hiding in the corner, trying to look dignified.
Silently, they gathered, holding shaken champagne bottles.
Though Mourinho keenly noticed their movements and tried to use his authority as head coach to stop them, it was useless at a time like this.
Amid the Man United players' cheers, Ling aimed the champagne at Mourinho and popped the cork with a bang.
The man, sometimes arrogant and unrestrained, sometimes witty and humorous, was instantly drenched and disheveled.
But his face was full of smiles.
Rui Faria, Silvino Louro, and other members of the coaching staff didn't escape either—they were pushed by the Man United players to the center of the locker room to enjoy a champagne bath.
After the chaos, Phil Jones was still boasting to a few young players.
"Back in the day, I was sitting right here, holding the trophy for a photo with Sir Alex Ferguson. You have no idea how much Sir Alex valued me."
"If I remember correctly, Vidic and Ferdinand were the main starters then. You didn't play much, did you?" Marcus Rashford mercilessly exposed him.
Phil Jones's face darkened at the words, and he raised a fist as if to swing, sending Rashford scurrying away in fear.
Nearby, Lingard put an arm around Ling's shoulder. "I promised my sister I'd grant her a wish if we won the title. Guess what she said?"
Ling shook his head.
Lingard's eyes turned deeply resentful. "She wants you to go to her parent-teacher meeting, saying you're way handsomer than me!"
"Your sister has excellent taste!" Ling said with feigned seriousness.
The Man United players burst into hearty laughter.
...
They didn't know how much time had passed until staff came to remind them that the podium was ready, prompting them to hastily shower and change for the final championship celebration.
Ibrahimović pulled out a cigar he had prepared earlier.
Seeing this, Ling also asked for one and took a pair of sunglasses from the locker.
He stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting them for quite some time.
Ten minutes later.
The passionate Manchester United anthem began to play, joined by 70,000 fans singing in unison.
The majestic melody washed over their hearts like a torrential current, stirring deep emotions.
Each note seemed to tell its own story, weaving together into a grand tapestry.
Then, the Manchester United players emerged one by one from the players' tunnel, and Old Trafford erupted in thunderous applause.
Ibrahimović, cigar in mouth, gestured to the crowd, exuding sheer dominance!
Lingard twisted his body, breaking into a robotic dance.
The crowd roared with laughter!
When it was Ling's turn to appear, he intended to blow a cool smoke ring, but accidentally inhaled the smoke too forcefully into his lungs, causing him to double over in a fit of coughing, ruining the moment but endearing him to the crowd even more.
After this brief interlude, the Manchester United players ascended the podium to receive the Premier League trophy.
Once everyone was on stage, FA Chairman Greg Clarke lifted the symbolic Premier League trophy and handed it to Mourinho.
The latter felt its substantial weight in his hands.
Thirteen years had passed since he first lifted the Premier League trophy—back in his debut season coaching Chelsea.
"Congratulations, Jose," Clarke said with a smile.
He then joked, "But that old fellow Alex won 13 Premier League titles. You'll have to step it up!"
Mourinho couldn't help but chuckle and nodded with a grin.
With the rapid development of football and the influx of capital, monopolizing the Premier League title had become increasingly difficult.
He feared it might take a lifetime to catch up to Ferguson, but he had started.
Mourinho passed the trophy to Carrick and quietly moved to the edge of the podium, letting the players have their moment.
"Ready?!" Carrick shouted, gripping the handles.
"READY!!!" came the enthusiastic roar in response.
Every Manchester United player fixed their gaze intently on the trophy, as if the surrounding noise had faded away.
In that moment, they truly realized they had won the Premier League!
An unparalleled sense of fulfillment filled their hearts.
As professional footballers, they knew all too well that effort doesn't always guarantee reward—just look at those in the football world who chase titles but never grasp them.
Yet, after everything they had been through this season, they had learned another truth: giving up ensures failure.
Carrick slowly lowered the trophy, signaling to his teammates.
The Manchester United players bent forward, emitting low, resonant growls.
As the chants grew louder and the frequency increased, reaching a crescendo...
Carrick suddenly raised the Premier League trophy to the heavens, and the Manchester United players threw their arms up in unison!
Their actions ignited Old Trafford!
The 70,000 fans on site cheered wildly, their voices growing hoarse.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Golden and red confetti shot out around the podium, swirling and dancing in the air before gently settling on the players.
Then, the camera pulled back to a wide shot of the Theatre of Dreams.
Streaks of red fireworks soared into the sky, bursting above Old Trafford in dazzlingly brilliant displays.
These fireworks carried away everyone's worries and anxieties, leaving behind joy and hope in their hearts.
Peter Drury's distinctive voice slowly began to speak, reciting the final stanza of the season.
"The lows are forgotten! The failures have become the past! What the people desire now is to celebrate this beautiful conclusion."
"As the twelve-year journey nears its end for Michael Carrick, a group of young lions has taken up the legacy—Rashford, Lingard, Pogba, McTominay, and Ling."
"After today's glorious starting point, let us look forward to that final destination together!"
"Drink it in! They have climbed the mountain, and they have planted the flag!"
"The 2017-18 Premier League Champions!"
"MANCHESTER UNITED!!!"
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