Chapter 273: Guardiola, I Am Your Nemesis!
Li Ang had been eagerly awaiting this season's first clash with Manchester City.
Not just because City was the only team in the Premier League whose strength genuinely rivaled Chelsea's, offering a rare source of pressure and intensity.
But also because their squad now featured more and more of his "old friends."
David Villa. Ivan Rakitić.
Players he had tangled with so many times on La Liga nights.
Reuniting with them in England, even as opponents, brought a strange sense of familiarity and almost a kind of nostalgia.
Of course, during pre-match warmups, Li Ang didn't go out of his way to greet them.
There would be time to catch up later—after the match.
Right now, Chelsea was standing across from the strongest rival they'd face all season.
And at a time like this, personal relationships took a backseat.
There were no handshakes, no reminiscing, no smiles.
These men were highly paid professionals.
They were warriors, and on the pitch, they were enemies.
So when the Etihad erupted into a wave of loud, targeted boos,
Li Ang simply raised his chin and took it all in.
Scanning the crowd, he broke into that familiar, faint smirk the media and fans had come to know so well.
At that moment, tens of thousands of Manchester City fans practically lost their minds.
The boos grew even louder, thunderous—piercing the eardrums of journalists stationed near the pitch.
Last season, Li Ang had only just arrived at Chelsea.
But already, he had become Public Enemy #1 in the eyes of City supporters.
Maybe even more hated than anyone from Manchester United.
After all, United no longer posed much of a threat.
Rooney was past his prime, and the Red Devils were no longer the force they used to be.
But Li Ang?
He was young, dominant, and last season he had personally destroyed City on more than one occasion.
He was decisive in every big clash.
He had forced Guardiola to compromise tactically—just to escape with a draw.
So no wonder these fans couldn't help but boo as he warmed up, radiating confidence.
But Li Ang paid them no mind.
After flashing that smile, he simply went back to warming up with laser focus.
Watching from nearby, Salah looked at Li Ang's composure with awe.
He subconsciously copied Li Ang's calm demeanor, straightening his back, focusing again on his stretches.
Soon, both teams completed their warmups and returned to the tunnel.
The atmosphere inside the Etihad was absolutely electric.
Back in the locker room, Li Ang wiped a towel across the sweat on his forehead and lips.
Then he listened quietly as Mourinho delivered the final tactical notes.
Today, Mourinho was planning to use the most aggressive attacking setup he had ever unleashed against Guardiola.
Truthfully, he wasn't as calm as usual about the outcome.
He was taking a risk.
He wasn't dragging City into one of his famous tactical trenches.
He was gambling.
And if it didn't work? His reputation, carefully built over the years, might take a hit.
But Mourinho didn't care.
Even if Chelsea lost this high-profile Premier League match,
as long as his players showed the results of their training,
then the experience would be worth it.
Of course, he didn't tell his players that part.
Clearing his throat, Mourinho summoned his signature charisma and confidence.
He didn't believe in long-winded speeches before games.
Motivation? That came in training. That came from within.
This final moment?
It belonged to the players.
So after wrapping up the tactical rundown and giving a few words of encouragement,
Mourinho stepped aside and left the room to John Terry and Li Ang.
Terry handled the usual pep talk with his usual leadership.
But this time, Li Ang had something special prepared.
As he stepped into the center of the locker room, many of the younger players looked up at him with anticipation.
He didn't keep them waiting.
Raising a clenched fist to his chest, voice firm and confident, Li Ang began:
"Before the match, a reporter asked me how I viewed today's first showdown with City this season.
I didn't answer him.
Boss told me to stay humble, keep quiet.
Because we were changing tactics.
If we lost, it'd be… embarrassing."
A ripple of laughter swept through the locker room.
Even Mourinho cracked a grin, folding his arms as he watched.
"But the truth is, I wasn't thinking about beating City.
Or defending our dominance in the Premier League.
No, what I wanted to say to that reporter was this:
'This match is the one where we show all of Europe that Chelsea is here to take the honors we should've had long ago!'
Our sights aren't set on just the league.
We're aiming for all of Europe—and the world."
Li Ang's voice rang louder, clearer, echoing through the away locker room at the Etihad.
Every Chelsea player, every coach, was drawn in.
"I've done the unthinkable—maybe even what some of you thought was impossible.
In two seasons, I won every major club trophy with Real Madrid.
I've been a six-time champion. I've helped my team defend the Champions League.
I achieved what even I didn't think I could.
And I learned this:
Every legendary title begins with a dream.
If our only goal is to beat City?
To dominate England?
We'll never become truly great.
So raise your eyes.
Broaden your vision.
This match isn't about proving ourselves to City.
We've already done that.
This match is about declaring our ambition to all of Europe.
It's about showing every team out there that we aren't just dominant—
We're coming for it all.
Some trophies can only be earned by walking a path filled with thorns and obstacles.
And today, I feel fortunate.
Because I—we—have already stepped onto that path."
The moment he finished, the locker room erupted in roars and applause.
Every Chelsea player was fired up.
Tonight, they weren't just facing City.
They were facing Europe.
Even someone as seasoned and battle-hardened as Terry found himself stirred by Li Ang's impassioned locker room speech.
As he watched the young star return to the team huddle amid a chorus of fired-up cheers, he couldn't help but wonder:
"Did this kid rehearse that speech beforehand?"
Of course, Li Ang had prepared in advance. You don't deliver a rousing speech like that off the cuff—not when your whole squad is hanging on your every word.
But he hadn't done it just to hype up his teammates.
Everything he said came straight from the heart.
Exaggerated? Maybe. But truthful, nonetheless.
After all, he didn't leave Real Madrid just to coast.
He came to Chelsea to prove that he had the power to lead a team to the very top of world football.
If he didn't have that ambition, he could've stayed in Madrid, waited for Ronaldo to leave, and stepped into the spotlight as the undisputed No. 1.
Would've been an easy life.
But that wasn't enough.
Li Ang's personal goal for his Chelsea tenure wasn't to surpass the triple crown he'd won at Real Madrid.
He didn't need a second Champions League three-peat to call it a success.
No—one or two league titles, some domestic cups, and at least one European crown to lay the foundation of a Chelsea dynasty?
That would be more than enough.
Still, painting the big picture—setting lofty targets—that was something Mourinho had done masterfully in past seasons.
Li Ang had learned well.
Aim for the stars, land among the legends.
That was the mindset.
So yes, he openly stated that he wanted to bring Chelsea the same level of honor he had earned at Real Madrid.
Bold? Certainly. But when it comes from someone who has already achieved that level, it's inspiring—not delusional.
Especially to Chelsea's younger generation.
Hearing those ambitions come from Li Ang, a proven champion, lit a fire in their hearts.
You want to defend the Champions League? Win six titles in one year?
Then you'd better train harder, fight harder.
Because if you can't even beat City, what right do you have to dream of continental domination?
Li Ang used City as a symbol.
And in doing so, he ignited the dressing room.
Even Mourinho was stunned.
He just stood there, arms folded, watching it all unfold.
And when Terry let out a roar and led the charge out of the dressing room, Mourinho finally blinked.
"Damn… that speech really did buff the whole squad."
Finally, the players emerged onto the pitch alongside the referees to thunderous applause.
Commentators from around the world perked up as they began introducing the starting lineups.
Chelsea lined up in their usual Premier League formation—no surprises.
Up top: Ibrahimović, Hazard, and De Bruyne.
In midfield: Li Ang and Kroos flanking Matić.
Back four: Bertrand, Terry, Thiago Silva, Azpilicueta.
In goal: Čech.
City's starting eleven, under Guardiola, mirrored the same 4-3-3 shape.
Front three: Navas, Agüero, David Silva.
Midfield trio: Fàbregas, Rakitić, Fernandinho.
Defense: Kolarov, Mangala, Kompany, Zabaleta.
And in goal?
Not Joe Hart, but Víctor Valdés, who had just arrived in the closing days of the summer window and immediately won Pep's trust.
Valdés didn't have Hart's reflexes or shot-stopping heroics, but his footwork and distribution fit Pep's system better.
It was clear Guardiola had finally built the team he wanted at City.
They were playing true tiki-taka, and fans were loving it.
After a year of patient buildup, Pep was ready to strike.
Pre-match time flew by. Soon, it was time for kickoff.
Guardiola stood on the sideline, hands in pockets, his expression calm—but his eyes gleaming with confidence.
City took the first touch and immediately tried to seize midfield control with their intricate passing patterns.
But Chelsea were having none of it.
Matching City's 4-3-3 with their own version, they launched into a full-field high press from the very first minute.
City's pressing was elegant and fluid, designed to disorient the opposition and pierce through the center with surgical precision.
Chelsea's pressing?
It was a damn hurricane.
Win the ball. Charge forward. One attack.
Lose it? Press again. Win it back.
The midfield battle instantly turned into a grueling, physical slugfest.
Yes, City's technical quality was on full display.
But against Chelsea's relentless pressing, even their best players started making mistakes.
Usually, City wouldn't panic—just maintain their backline and ride it out.
And even if Hart was prone to the occasional error, he was still a reliable shot-stopper most of the time.
But Li Ang saw that today's keeper wasn't Hart.
It was Valdés.
And he knew—Valdés outside of Barcelona was a different story.
So in the 14th minute, Li Ang made his move.
He pressed high, coordinated with Ibra to force a turnover from Fàbregas, then quickly pinged the ball wide.
De Bruyne, already in position, didn't hesitate—he sent a diagonal ball into City's right channel.
Ibra timed his run perfectly, pulled Fernandinho out of position, and played the ball back across the middle.
And there was Li Ang, arriving late from midfield.
Guardiola's eyes widened.
For a split second, he felt a flash of fear.
Then he relaxed—Valdés was in goal today.
But the next moment?
Boom.
Li Ang unleashed a rocket from just outside the box.
The ball flew with no spin, straight toward the top-right corner.
Valdés dove—got a hand to it!
But…
Butterfingers.
The ball slipped through his palm, clipped the net, and bulged the back of the goal.
"Butterfingers! Oh my god—Valdés couldn't hold onto Li Ang's screamer! It's in! Chelsea take the lead!"
As the ball slammed into the net, Li Ang turned toward the broadcast camera, tongue out, face alight with joy.
Then he sprinted toward the touchline and slid across the grass, arms spread wide.
Same stadium. Same shot.
Different keeper, same result.
And as he celebrated, his face seemed to say:
"Guardiola, I'm your breaking point."
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