"It's over!" Peter's voice rose above the roar of Madrid. "Manchester United have defended the Champions League! Once again, the Red Devils stand at the summit of Europe!"
Jim took a breath before speaking, as if even he needed a second to process it.
"They had to suffer at the end, Peter. City dragged themselves back into it, they threw everything forward, and for a few minutes it felt like another miracle might be forming. But United had Jeremy Ling, and in the dying moments, he finished the final in the most outrageous way imaginable."
"A goal, an assist, and then a strike from beyond halfway that will be replayed for years," Peter continued. "Seventy-one point three metres. In a Champions League final. There are moments that belong to a match, and there are moments that belong to history. That was history."
Jim added, "He ends the campaign as the Champions League top scorer with fifteen goals. Messi follows with twelve, Lewandowski with eight, Cristiano Ronaldo with six. That tells you the level he has reached this season."
"And what a season it has been," Peter said. "From seventh in the Premier League to champions by a single point. Victories over Manchester City and Liverpool. The League Cup, the FA Cup, the Premier League, and now the Champions League. Add the European trophies and the global crown, and Manchester United have produced one of the most complete seasons English football has ever seen."
Jim nodded. "There were moments when it looked impossible, especially after that home defeat to Liverpool in Europe. Most people thought their Champions League run was finished. Ling didn't. United didn't. They went to Anfield and changed the record books."
Peter's voice softened slightly. "The chapter of the 2018-19 season closes here in Madrid. Manchester United have conquered it all, and Jeremy Ling has placed himself at the very centre of the football world."
The camera returned to the pitch.
On one side, joy had burst into the open.
On the other, sorrow lay heavy and silent.
Victory and defeat had never looked more different.
The Manchester City players were scattered across the turf, staring up at the glaring stadium lights. But in their eyes, that brightness held no warmth.
They had given everything, chased every ball, forced one final surge of belief in stoppage time, and still ended with nothing.
Two Premier League clashes.
The League Cup final.
The FA Cup final.
The Champions League final.
Five matches, each one tied to a trophy or the fate of a season.
And Manchester City had lost them all.
The thought was unbearable.
If they had won just one of those matches, would their season have ended with silverware instead of emptiness?
John Stones cried the hardest.
Back then, Manchester United had also invited him.
But he had believed Manchester City's future looked brighter, so he rejected United and chose the blue half of Manchester.
Who could have imagined he had missed the wave?
There was a saying: when the wind rises, even pigs can fly.
Of course, he was not saying Maguire was a pig.
Forget it.
He did think Maguire was a bit of a fool sometimes, always shaking his big head and looking as if he had wandered into events by accident.
But that was exactly what hurt most.
That big fool was now a septuple winner.
A septuple winner.
A septuple winner.
The phrase repeated in Stones's mind until the tears would not stop.
If he had chosen Manchester United back then, could he have become a septuple winner too?
Plenty of players went their entire careers without winning a single major trophy.
Never mind something as absurd, rare, and difficult as a seven-trophy season.
De Bruyne was not doing much better.
He did not cry.
He simply sat there in silence, face closed off, emotions buried deep inside the way they had often been during his Chelsea days.
The others lowered their heads into the grass. Some sobbed quietly. Some said nothing at all.
Because raising their heads meant facing reality.
And reality was cruel.
In stark contrast, the Manchester United players had completely lost themselves in celebration.
"We are the champions! We are the champions again! We are always the champions!"
Maguire shook his head, danced in place, and swayed his body like a man who had forgotten the existence of shame.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that joining Manchester United had been the best decision of his life.
Choose the right road, and you avoid countless detours.
He had not only avoided detours. He had stepped straight onto a wide, smooth highway paved with trophies.
Maguire's grin stretched almost from ear to ear.
"I feel like something's missing," De Gea suddenly said, holding the match ball and tossing it between his hands.
"The match felt too easy. I barely had to do anything."
"You had it easy. We were exhausted you bastard!"
Ling could not help snapping back.
After saying that, he pulled down the side of his shorts to show the bruises blooming across his legs.
Did they really think Manchester City were pushovers?
If the front line had not applied enough pressure, United's defence, missing Kanté, might not have survived City's attacks.
The raw matchup was still there.
Maguire and David Luiz were not exactly specialists at defending small, quick, agile attackers.
If City had been allowed to break through freely, Maguire would probably be cursing right now.
Maybe the trophy would even have Manchester City's name waiting to be engraved on it.
With the cheers from the stands pouring around him, Ling walked toward the technical area and gave Mourinho a firm hug.
"Boss, thank you for promoting me to the first team back then."
His voice was sincere.
Mourinho had guided him, taught him, protected him, challenged him, and trusted him.
Calling him a mentor was no exaggeration.
Ling felt genuinely fortunate.
"It was all the result of your own hard work," Mourinho said, patting his back firmly. "And I'm glad I was your coach."
For a moment, Mourinho remembered the first time he had seen Ling.
Back then, he had vaguely seen a younger version of himself.
The same hunger for challenges.
The same refusal to be satisfied.
In that sense, they were similar.
"The future belongs to you now," Mourinho said with quiet emotion.
Looking at Mourinho's graying hair and the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, Ling suddenly remembered that classic quote from MacArthur.
Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.
From the proud, unruly "Special One" to the older, calmer, more weathered Mourinho in front of him, the passion had never disappeared.
But even Mourinho could not resist time forever.
"Boss, your future is still long," Ling said with a smile. "There are definitely a few more trophies waiting for you."
They had only reached this point.
Parting was still far away.
After that, Ling walked toward the lower stands and waved upward.
Ling Changzheng and Yan Lanxia waved back at him.
"Son, you did very well," Yan Lanxia said, holding Maria's arm. "But you're getting older now too. You should start thinking about your personal life."
Ling blinked.
Yan Lanxia continued naturally, "Why don't you two get engaged during the summer break? There are no matches then."
Since she spoke in Chinese, Maria was confused at first.
But once Yan Lanxia explained it to her, Maria could not help looking at Ling, her eyes filled with quiet anticipation.
"I don't have a problem with it," Ling said with a shrug.
Football was still his main focus, but that did not mean he had to abandon ordinary life completely.
And after spending more time with Maria, he had come to feel that she really was wonderful.
She did not rely on Guardiola's influence. She had her own pride and wanted to build her own career.
Speaking of Guardiola... what was he doing?
He was eavesdropping!
When he heard that Ling and Maria were discussing an engagement, he froze on the spot as if struck by lightning.
Engaged?
Only now did Guardiola realise that his precious little girl would soon no longer belong only to him.
The trophy was gone.
Now his daughter was going too!
What did he even have left?
Guardiola suddenly felt as if life had turned gray, with not a single thread of hope remaining.
He slumped powerlessly into the coach's seat.
"Damn Manchester United."
For some reason, that thought gave him a sudden burst of energy.
Guardiola gritted his teeth.
He would launch the fiercest counterattack against fate!
...
A little while later, Ling led his teammates around the pitch to thank the fans, then returned to the dressing room to change into the special jerseys prepared in advance for the Champions League winners.
"What are you all planning to say in the interviews later?" Ashley Young asked casually.
"Well," Maguire began, thinking hard, "thank the team, thank my teammates, thank the fans, thank my family, thank..."
After he finished, the dressing room fell silent.
Clearly, the man had prepared nothing.
"Ling, are you basically guaranteed the Ballon d'Or this season?" De Gea asked, smoothly changing the subject.
"Pretty much," Ling said with a nod.
A seven-trophy season.
Premier League Golden Boot.
Champions League Golden Boot.
If he still did not win the Ballon d'Or after all that, then the only possible explanation would be Messi winning the Copa América and shaking the entire vote.
"I'm jealous," Maguire said, wiping imaginary drool from the corner of his mouth. "In Manchester United history, there are only four Ballon d'Or winners: Denis Law in 1964, Bobby Charlton in 1966, George Best in 1968, and Cristiano Ronaldo in 2008. Now there's going to be one more."
Scott McTominay looked at him curiously.
"How do you remember that so clearly?"
"Well..."
Maguire hesitated for a long time before explaining awkwardly, "When I first joined Manchester United, I thought I might become the fifth, so I memorised the first four."
The Manchester United players: "..."
'You really dared to dream big, Harry.'
Then again, what player had never fantasised about winning the Ballon d'Or?
There was nothing wrong with having dreams.
But if they analysed it seriously, Maguire's chances were very, very slim.
The last defender to win the Ballon d'Or had been Cannavaro.
At the time, Ronaldinho had underperformed at the World Cup, and Zidane had knocked himself out of the race by headbutting Materazzi in the final.
Even then, the top three — Cannavaro, Buffon, and Henry — had been close.
Cannavaro ultimately gained an extra boost from his transfer to Real Madrid.
Figo's Ballon d'Or win in 2000 had a similar flavour.
"I don't think we'll see a defender win the Ballon d'Or again in the next ten years, Harry," De Gea said.
"You should focus on making the Champions League Team of the Season first."
"I think I've got a chance this year!"
Maguire immediately perked up and began calculating.
"Look at the defenders from other teams. Their numbers aren't that great, except Van Dijk..."
His voice faded.
How could he forget Van Dijk?
That was another bug!
Maguire's face became mournful.
"Then I'll wait a few more years until he gets old."
"If you want to win the Ballon d'Or," De Gea kindly reminded him, "you don't just have to wait for Van Dijk to get old. More importantly, you have to wait for Ling to get old."
The Manchester United players all turned to look at Ling, then sighed in unison.
The Duck was right.
Ling was only twenty years old this year, yet he had already achieved something like this.
What would the future look like?
Even if he did not improve year after year and simply maintained his current level, the Messi-Ronaldo era might gradually come to an end, only to be replaced by an era of one-man dominance.
"Ling, why don't you retire early?" Mahrez teased. "Coaching wouldn't be bad either."
"Which team would I coach?" Ling asked with interest. "There aren't that many suitable ones right now."
"Any team," McTominay said, already laughing. "Then when they can't beat the opponent, the commentator starts screaming, 'What's this? The head coach is warming up!'"
The whole room burst into laughter.
"Alright, get changed and let's go," Ling said, waving his hand. Then he looked at Maguire. "Harry, be careful today. If you drop the Champions League trophy, Manchester United fans may actually throw Molotov cocktails at you."
Soon, the United players lined up in the tunnel.
...
Outside, the Wanda Metropolitano was still drowning in red smoke. Through the haze, Manchester United fans could be seen waving their flags frantically.
The pinnacle of Europe.
Manchester United had finally made up for old regrets and successfully defended the Champions League title!
Every United supporter had the right to feel proud.
Whoosh!
The Champions League anthem began to play again, grand and stirring.
One by one, the Manchester United players walked out of the tunnel, received their medals from UEFA officials, and stepped onto the massive podium.
Finally, under the gaze of countless people, beneath the dazzling fireworks bursting across the Madrid sky, and accompanied by the swelling music, Ling stood at the centre as captain.
He gripped the handles of the Champions League trophy.
Then he lifted it high.
"We are the champions!"
The stadium exploded.
The cheers were deafening, rolling through the Wanda Metropolitano like a wave that refused to break.
"As the reds go marching on, on, on!"
"We're the champions of the world!"
"And we're the greatest football team!"
"As the reds go marching on, on, on!"
"Glory, Glory, Man United!"
Tens of thousands of voices sang together, the Manchester United anthem rising into the night and spreading as if it could reach every corner of the world.
Red confetti rained down over the players.
Ling kept shaking the trophy, its heavy weight reminding him again and again that this was real.
This was not a dream.
From the youth team, to the first-team bench, to the starting eleven, to the captaincy, to this moment—how much had he sacrificed that others would never see?
Reviewing every match immediately after it ended, forcing himself to remember and correct mistakes while the memories were still fresh.
Training almost every day of the year without interruption, the kind of discipline even many professionals could not endure.
He still remembered the original reason he had chosen football.
It had not been about how many honours he could win, or how many trophies he could lift.
It had simply been about making his family's life a little better.
And now, material worries could no longer trouble him.
Looking out at the sea of red in the stands, pride surged through his chest.
He wanted to build his own dynasty at Manchester United.
He wanted his own statue outside Old Trafford.
He wanted to leave the boldest stroke in the club's history.
"At this moment," Peter said softly, letting the sound of the celebration breathe beneath his words, "there will be countless Manchester United fans back home in Manchester singing into the night."
Jim added, "And there will be City fans on the other side of the city wondering how this season slipped away from them. That's football. Joy and heartbreak, separated by the final whistle."
"Tonight," Peter continued, "hundreds of millions around the world have shared in one of those rare sporting moments that feels larger than the match itself. For Manchester United, it is glory. For Manchester City, it is farewell with wounds that will take time to heal."
Jim said, "And for Jeremy Ling, it may be the night that confirms what many already believed. The Ballon d'Or is waiting."
Peter gave the final words as the red confetti continued to fall.
"Congratulations to Manchester United, champions of Europe once more. The red empire marches on."