Ling still remembered when he had first joined Manchester United's academy.
Back then, full of confidence, he had once told McTominay, "One day, I'll be the first Asian player to win the Ballon d'Or."
As he grew older, he realized just how difficult that dream truly was.
Fortunately, he had a cheat.
After everyone had stepped onto the podium, the FA chairman lifted the trophy and handed it to Mourinho.
Mourinho looked at his disciple, then passed it on.
For a brief moment, it felt less like a trophy presentation and more like a torch being handed from one generation to the next.
Ling gripped the heavy silver cup with both hands, drew in a deep breath, and slowly lowered it first.
Then he roared.
"Champions!"
He thrust the trophy high above his head.
Every Manchester United player, fan, and staff member raised their arms at the same time.
Boom, boom, boom!
Fireworks shot into the sky. Red and white confetti tumbled through the air.
The familiar United songs rolled around Wembley, fragments of old chants and FA Cup traditions blending with the club anthem until the entire stadium seemed to be singing as one.
Ling looked ahead through the falling confetti.
The Red Devils' flag was flying high.
The voices were proud.
And this, was their red generation!
...
After the trophy ceremony, the Manchester United players and their families began the usual photo session, taking pictures with medals, children, partners, parents, and anyone else lucky enough to get near the pitch.
Ling, meanwhile, was pulled aside by official media for a post-match interview.
"You've just won the FA Cup. What would you like to say?"
Ling gave the kind of answer expected from a captain in front of cameras.
"First of all, I want to thank my teammates. Everyone performed incredibly today. Without any one of them, we wouldn't be standing here as champions."
He paused briefly.
"Secondly, the coach deserves huge credit. He told us Manchester United has the best players and the best coaches in the world, and that there was no reason for us to lose."
Then his expression softened slightly.
"And finally, I want to thank the fans. The Red Devils' supporters were unbelievable today. I heard them from the first minute to the last."
It was a polished, official answer.
The reporter pressed further.
"You still have one final match left this season. Do you believe you can beat Manchester City again?"
"I think Manchester City should be the ones worrying about that," Ling replied. "We've faced them four times this season, and we've won all four."
Then, imitating Mourinho's famous confidence, he raised one finger toward the camera.
After a beat, he gave it a small shake and smiled.
"Do they really think they can avoid losing to us?"
There was no denying it — Ling had captured at least eighty percent of Mourinho's old "Special One" arrogance.
The reporter was stunned for a moment before asking the final question.
"Do you think this season's Ballon d'Or—"
"Will be mine."
Since he had already decided to be bold, Ling saw no reason to stop halfway.
Beside him, Lukaku watched with open envy.
That was it.
That was exactly how the Belgian striker saw himself in his own head.
He had already accepted Inter Milan's offer, and now the rest depended on the two clubs.
One thing was certain: he would be leaving.
He had heard Inter's current forward line included a player named Lautaro.
For some strange reason, whenever Lukaku looked at the man's photo, he felt a sense of unfamiliar familiarity, as if they had known each other for a long time.
He even had the sudden urge to celebrate with him using a finger-gun gesture.
But wouldn't that be a betrayal of Ling?
Lukaku scratched his head, briefly troubled by the thought, then quickly pushed it aside.
'I'm going to recreate Ling's miracle at Inter and take them back to the top of Italian football.'
He quietly cheered himself on.
After the interviews ended, Ling was about to look for Maria, only to discover that Guardiola had already taken her away, leaving behind only a text message.
"My future father-in-law is so petty."
Ling sighed helplessly.
Unfortunately, neither his father nor his mother had come to Wembley, so he had no family members there to celebrate with.
With no better target available, he turned his attention to his teammates' children.
Mahrez's son was dribbling toward the goal, clearly wanting to score one on behalf of his injured father.
Ling slid in and tackled him.
The little boy hit the grass and immediately burst into tears.
Seeing this, Ling quickly took off his shirt and handed it over, lowering his voice like he was passing on a priceless secret.
"This thing can be exchanged for fifty thousand lollipops. Whatever you do, don't let your dad take it."
The boy stopped crying at once.
He clutched the shirt tightly against his chest and refused to let go.
Mahrez could only shake his head in helpless amusement.
Then, after a moment, he suddenly realized something.
Ling was not that much older than a kid himself.
Nearby, Maguire had his daughter sitting on his shoulders while he carried the FA Cup trophy in both hands, running back and forth as if turning himself into a human roller coaster.
Every Manchester United player was drowning in the joy of victory.
And every one of them believed the same thing.
This was not the end.
They would win even more together!
...
There were still eleven full days before the Champions League final, and after the strain of Wembley, Mourinho was unusually generous.
He gave the team a day off.
Compared with Manchester, London always felt louder, brighter, and more restless. You could tell from the ticket prices alone.
So, on the night of their FA Cup triumph, the Manchester United players did not rush back home.
Instead, they found a bar in London and decided to celebrate properly, letting the tension of the final bleed away with music, alcohol, and laughter.
The decision had been made at the last minute, so they had no time to book out the whole venue.
As fate would have it, they ran straight into the Manchester City players.
De Bruyne and a few others were clearly still carrying the weight of defeat and had also come out to unwind.
After a brief exchange of polite greetings, the two groups went their separate ways inside the bar.
On the pitch, they were enemies.
Off it, there was no need to make things uglier than they already were.
Maguire tilted his head back and drained a bottle of beer in one long pull. A second later, he let out a deep, satisfied burp.
"Ah, that hits the spot!" he sighed, looking almost moved. "The boss has been forcing me to lose weight lately. I haven't had a proper wheat drink in almost a month. Today, I'm finally allowed to live again."
After saying that, Big Head Maguire found Ling and clinked his bottle heavily against his glass.
"Ling, you know something? Back then, I was so outstanding that both Manchester City and Manchester United wanted me."
Ling raised an eyebrow.
Maguire did not wait for him to respond.
He leaned closer, already speaking with the sincerity of a drunk man who believed he was revealing a historical secret.
"But United only needed one line to convince me. They said, 'As a defender, who would you rather have in front of you? Sterling, who can send the ball into orbit from six yards, or the super striker who scored a hat-trick in a Champions League final?'"
He thumped his chest.
"You know, it was always my dream to play for Manchester United. After I watched that Champions League final on TV, I knew I had to become your teammate."
"..."
Whether Maguire's tolerance was truly that low or whether the emotion of the final had simply gone straight to his head, after only a few beers, he had already started talking nonsense with complete seriousness.
"In last season's match against Leicester, I could already tell you were a talented centre-back," Ling said, patting Maguire's big head with a solemn expression.
"Definitely on the same wavelength as David."
He winked at De Gea.
The Duck looked quite pleased with himself and pursed his lips.
"Romero came crying to me earlier," De Gea said. "He said Harry ruined his clean-sheet bonuses more than once. Not just one game either. He almost didn't have enough money left to buy milk for his daughter."
The Manchester United players burst into laughter at the dark humour.
Watching his teammates celebrate with their families, Ling could not help sighing inwardly.
Once again, he silently cursed his future father-in-law.
Guardiola really had taken Maria away too quickly!
"Ling, congratulations on winning the FA Cup."
Ling was busy doodling little stick-figure versions of Guardiola on a napkin when he suddenly heard someone call his name.
He looked up.
Wow.
A girl who looked about sixty percent like Maguire stood in front of him!
Ling did not mean to judge people by their appearance, but he had to admit one thing: the Maguire family genes were unbelievably consistent.
How did a son and daughter manage to look that similar?
"This is my sister, Daisy," Maguire introduced, giving Ling a wink and a nudge that was far too obvious. "She's a huge fan of yours. She's wanted to meet you for ages."
Ling ignored Maguire's expression and extended his hand with a relaxed smile.
"Nice to meet you. Harry must be a great brother. He talks about you and your family in the dressing room all the time."
Daisy gently shook his hand, her eyes bright with the excitement of a fan meeting her idol.
Ling did not think too much of it and simply chatted with her for a while.
He never judged people by looks.
Otherwise, with Wan-Bissaka's face, Ling would never have become friends with him in the first place. (wtf lmao)
Under the influence of alcohol, everyone slowly became more talkative.
They discussed the Champions League final, plans for next season, random stories from training, and all the usual nonsense that came out when footballers finally had permission to relax.
Before long, someone pulled out dice and started a game.
"Three sixes!"
"Four sixes!"
"Five sixes!"
"Open!"
"..."
The Manchester United players were fully enjoying themselves.
Ling was not particularly interested in the game, so he drifted toward the side with a few of the veterans, including Valencia and Ashley Young, chatting about Manchester United's past while rock music thumped through the bar.
"That..." Ling asked, eyes full of genuine curiosity. "Did you really eat bird shit?"
For a moment, Ashley Young's already dark face seemed to darken by another three shades.
Ling had never been close enough to ask him before, and later, he had simply forgotten about it.
Now that Young was leaving, this might be his last chance.
Young gave a self-mocking laugh.
"Strictly speaking, it wasn't bird poop. It was pigeon droppings. And..."
Young looked as if he wanted to defend himself further, but unfortunately, the high-definition footage from that match had been far too clear.
It showed not only the droppings landing on him, but also the tragic moment when he swallowed them while speaking.
There was no saving that case!