Chapter 274: Your Blade Is Sharp, But So Is Mine
Among all the legendary goalkeepers of his era, Víctor Valdés may have ranked just behind Casillas, Buffon, and Čech in terms of trophies won.
But while he stood at the heart of the iconic Barcelona dynasty, fans and media alike never stopped questioning his true level.
Because of his status at Barça, and the overwhelming success of the club during its golden era, Valdés was always held to unforgiving standards.
When it came to pure shot-stopping, he couldn't compare to the likes of Casillas, Buffon, or Čech.
But he also wasn't some average keeper.
Let's be real—if Valdés really had been as poor as many detractors claimed,
no amount of tactical suitability could've kept him as Barça's number one for ten years straight.
Li Ang had faced Valdés multiple times during his La Liga days.
Back in 2011–12 and the following season, he considered Valdés to be solidly world-class in reflexes and saves.
The true turning point in Valdés' career came with last season's ACL tear, which ruled him out for the entire campaign.
At his age, a serious injury like that is more than a physical blow—it's a career death sentence for any peak-level athlete.
In Li Ang's memory, once Valdés left Barcelona, he never again played like a top-tier keeper.
So tonight, when the shooting opportunity came, Li Ang didn't hesitate.
His trademark long-range shot was all about power and speed, not finesse.
He didn't aim for the perfect angle.
He just wanted a clean, blistering strike to test the keeper's reflexes.
Someone like De Gea, or even Joe Hart on a focused day, might've handled it.
But for a post-injury Valdés?
It was a nightmare scenario.
His mind reacted—but his body couldn't follow.
Li Ang didn't know whether Guardiola would later regret his choice to start Valdés over Hart.
Maybe he would eventually realize that even if Valdés was a better distributor,
Hart's shot-stopping was the real safeguard City needed against Chelsea.
But Li Ang hoped that realization wouldn't come too soon.
After all, "you always want to squeeze the softest fruit first."
He'd done his part.
But the others were still sharpening their blades.
On the touchline, Guardiola instinctively raised his hands to his face.
He didn't even glance at the scoreboard.
The goal had rattled him.
But he still didn't think Valdés was the core problem.
"Secure possession! Secure it!" he shouted.
"Pinch the flanks inward! We need control in midfield!
Don't let them operate in our half—push the game up the pitch!"
Classic Pep.
One of the pillars of his tactical philosophy was to use ball control to limit defensive risk.
If you dominate possession in midfield—or even better, in the opponent's half—your own defense naturally becomes safer.
In simple terms: Pep blamed the goal on a lack of control, not a bad keeper.
Nearby, Fàbregas let out a long breath as Li Ang jogged past him after the celebration.
He clenched his jaw, eyes firm with resolve.
"Just matching Li Ang on a technical level isn't enough," he admitted inwardly.
"Even if I win the ball off him, it's still tough to break through his cover…"
"Maybe it's time I stopped playing so safely."
His thoughts raced back to every time they'd faced off over the past few seasons.
Rakitić, his new midfield partner, had no idea Fàbregas was having a personal revelation.
Rakitić was different.
He wasn't a polished academy prince from a top club.
He had climbed the hard way from the bottom.
He had no intention of losing this duel.
He had his own rules for survival—especially in a match like this.
But before Rakitić could even make his move...
Fàbregas struck first.
The moment the ball came near, he charged into Li Ang, delivering a sharp tactical foul.
No, he couldn't match Li Ang's physical strength.
But in football, defending players have plenty of tools.
A well-placed foul is always an option.
And in a stadium with home-field advantage, the whistle tends to favor the hosts.
Fàbregas got away without even a warning.
The City crowd was momentarily stunned.
Since Guardiola took charge, City had always been the less physical side when facing Chelsea.
Against Li Ang in particular, City's midfielders—be it Fàbregas, David Silva, Yaya Touré, or Fernandinho—never had the upper hand.
But now?
Fàbregas was getting stuck in, and Li Ang was the one who got the whistle when he retaliated.
City fans could feel the momentum shift.
Mourinho, on the other hand, frowned.
He hadn't expected this kind of referee bias today.
It wasn't corruption—it was just classic home advantage.
If this match were at Stamford Bridge,
Chelsea would be the ones bulldozing City in the duels.
Sighing and rubbing his temples, Mourinho walked to the touchline.
A defensive approach might now be safer…
But the thought passed in an instant.
This wasn't the time to back down.
This season was about tactical evolution.
This match was a test—a crucible.
If they didn't take risks now, when would they?
Cowardice wasn't Mourinho's weakness.
But indecision?
That, he feared more than anything.
A decision made must be executed to the end.
If the players were pushing forward,
the coaches had to lead by example.
"Boss wants us to keep pressing! Keep fighting for possession—no backing down!"
Li Ang saw Mourinho's signal and immediately turned to his teammates, fist clenched in the air, voice booming with resolve.
Yes, it was risky.
Playing Guardiola's team in an open, attacking war always was.
But this was the battlefield Chelsea had chosen.
And Li Ang?
He would not yield.
At this moment, the Chelsea players had made their choice—to trust their manager and their teammates!
No risk, no reward.
And this was precisely the kind of fierce battle Chelsea needed to further declare their presence on the European stage.
For those wearing the royal blue of Chelsea, there was only one thing to do:
Just like the legends before them—fight to the very last second.
Chelsea's tactical approach surprised many commentators.
In the past, whether at Chelsea or Real Madrid, Mourinho had used this kind of early-pressing, fast-start offensive strategy more than once.
But almost always, once his team scored the opening goal, they would immediately retreat into a compact, defensive shape.
Not today.
After going 1–0 up, Chelsea continued with their full-pitch high press.
This was pure aggression—but also dangerous.
It left plenty of space in behind for Manchester City's lethal counterattack.
Guardiola didn't know what Mourinho was plotting with this approach.
But he knew—this was City's chance.
City's players were under immense pressure.
But pressure or not, they had to hold the line.
Fàbregas shelved his pride and threw everything he had into disrupting Li Ang.
Every trick, every tackle. He gave it all.
Li Ang was a little surprised, but not frustrated.
Compared to the dirty tricks he'd endured earlier in his career, Fàbregas' tactics were relatively clean.
And since Li Ang wasn't shouldering the team's creative duties at the moment, being tangled up in off-ball movement with Fàbregas didn't really affect Chelsea's flow.
What did concern him was whether Terry and Matić—who frequently dropped deep—could handle City's dangerous counters.
In terms of counterattacking speed, City had it in spades.
Navas. Agüero. Even Silva—quick and precise.
Add Fàbregas and Rakitić's long-range passing, and this team was a counterattacking monster.
Their only flaw?
They lacked a proper aerial focal point in the final third.
Just as Li Ang was processing this threat, David Silva dropped deep to collect the ball.
He drew in Kroos and Hazard with a little feint, then tapped the ball sideways to a waiting Fàbregas.
One glance from Fàbregas—and Li Ang's heart sank.
Something wasn't right.
He turned to sprint back—but it was already too late.
Fàbregas had launched a pinpoint diagonal ball over Chelsea's left flank to a surging Jesús Navas.
Agüero? He was the decoy this time.
He dragged Matić with him, creating just enough space for Navas to burn down the touchline.
Terry tried to close the gap, but Navas gave him no chance—he went full throttle, storming toward the byline.
Azpilicueta gave chase with all he had, but he wasn't going to catch Navas at top speed.
For Chelsea, the silver lining was that Agüero and Silva were still well-marked in the middle.
But Navas didn't send in a standard cross.
He pulled the ball back sharply—a low cutback to the top of the box.
Fàbregas had stopped his run. His job was done.
Now, it was Rakitić's moment.
He stepped into the ball, took one touch, and curled a stunning shot toward Čech's top-right corner.
It was eerily similar to Li Ang's earlier goal—but this time, the emphasis was on accuracy and finesse, not power.
Čech, though aging, had seen it coming.
He made an early read, dived full stretch, and somehow—just barely—got his fingertips to it.
The ball clipped the junction of the crossbar and post, then bounced back into open play!
Thiago Silva, always alert, cleared it without hesitation.
Bertrand scooped up the rebound on the flank—and then came the roar from midfield.
"Ryan, launch it!"
Li Ang had just arrived at Chelsea's defensive third, but he was already spinning and sprinting upfield.
Bertrand took one look, gauged the distance, and sent a perfect diagonal ball up the pitch.
Rakitić barely had time to process his missed chance before turning to chase.
Fàbregas was already sprinting back, trying to reach the landing zone.
Li Ang scanned the field, spotted his teammates' runs, then squared up against two City midfielders: Fernandinho and Fàbregas.
He used his body to shield the ball, then chested down Bertrand's long pass.
And instead of spinning to create something himself…
He calmly laid the ball back to the oncoming Kroos.
This wasn't about heroics.
It was about trust.
Kroos met his eyes.
Nothing was said—but everything was understood.
One touch forward, then a fast, flat long ball—into the heart of City's defense.
Not to Hazard. Not to De Bruyne.
To Ibrahimović.
A curling, over-the-top ball that dropped right in front of the Swede's run.
Ibra rose slightly, chested it down, and without hesitation—smashed a volley into the net.
Valdés didn't even move.
2–0. Chelsea. 31st minute.
On the sideline, Mourinho exploded from his seat, arms wide, screaming with joy.
Yes, Guardiola was still the best offensive tactician in the world.
Yes, Mourinho had always trailed him in that department.
But today?
Mourinho was learning.
Improving.
And striking back.
After today, maybe—just maybe—he could look Guardiola in the eye and say:
"Your blade is sharp—but mine is no less so."
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