At the King Power Stadium, the final, piercing whistle of the referee seemed to cut through the cooling air.
The fading glow of the sunset had dyed the entire sky a deep, bruised crimson, an almost laughably poetic symbol for Leicester City's decline.
From the corner of the ground housing the away supporters, a triumphant, unified roar filled the vacuum left by the whistle.
"Glory, glory, Man United!" "Glory, glory, Man United!" "As the Reds go marching on, on, on!"
Manchester United fans, who had started the season with the creeping dread of the previous year still hanging over them, were now utterly lost in the celebration of this splendid, controlled victory.
This wasn't just a win; it was a statement.
Meanwhile, across the other three stands, the home fans in blue offered a scattering of applause.
The dejection was palpable, but it was quickly replaced by a resigned, loyal encouragement for their players.
They were once a champions, and champions' fans knew how to lose.
They would not turn their backs in the hard times, having seen the highest of highs.
On the pitch, the Leicester City players lined up in a weary row, applauding those admirable fans in return.
Among them, Danny Simpson stared blankly at the turf, his mind replaying every feint, every shoulder drop, every time the black-haired new kid had ghosted past him.
He was deeply, profoundly frustrated
. To put it dramatically—and it didn't feel dramatic to him right now—it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he was individually dismantled.
Taken apart, piece by piece, in front of 30,000 people.
Had his abilities declined so fast? Or was this kid just that good?
Jamie Vardy, his face a mask of exhaustion, gazed at his teammate and sighed silently.
As a veteran of this club, he had been the engine of the miracle, the man who had accompanied the team from the Championship to the pinnacle of English football.
But now, he could clearly feel that the never-say-die spirit, the sheer, bloody-minded force of will that had won them the league, was diminishing.
It was being professionally managed out of them.
'Miracles' he mused, are called miracles precisely because they cannot be replicated.
Amid the harsh reality of "financial football," with City, United, Chelsea, and Liverpool spending hundreds of millions, Leicester City might never touch that trophy again.
This was the slow, steady slide back to reality.
A few yards away, Shinji Okazaki's gaze fell upon the black-haired young man who was swapping shirts with Harry Maguire.
He was lost in thought.
There weren't many Asians truly making a mark in the Premier League.
There was Southampton's Maya Yoshida, a solid defender.
There was Swansea's Ki Sung-yueng, a tidy midfielder.
There was himself.
And then, there was Son Heung-min.
The Tottenham star was, without question, the most prominent.
Spurs hadn't just paid €30 million for him; they'd bent the rules, activating a special talent clause to secure his work permit.
After a difficult first season, Son had suddenly found his footing and exploded.
He'd won two Premier League Player of the Month awards last season alone and scored 19 league goals.
He was the undisputed standard-bearer, the man who would soon claim the title of Asia's greatest-ever player.
But now... it seemed someone had entered the fray.
This made things suddenly, unexpectedly interesting.
Okazaki's expression grew increasingly peculiar.
In his professional opinion, Jeremy Ling's current ability was still raw, still somewhat lacking, and certainly not yet enough to challenge the phenomenon that was Son Heung-min.
And yet...
The young man had progressed from the Under-23s to the first team in just one month.
His performances in three appearances had grown exponentially better with each match.
If he continued to develop at this frankly unreasonable pace, his future potential was limitless.
He might even overtake Son midway through his prime.
'Come to think of it,' Okazaki mused, 'they're both left-wingers. The comparison is direct. It's almost too perfect.'
As he pondered this, he suddenly found himself genuinely looking forward to the match between Manchester United and Tottenham.
It would be a fascinating data point.
...
Not far away, the Manchester United players gathered in front of the away end, a sea of ecstatic, bouncing red.
"Chinese kid, I've remembered your name now! LING!"
"You played beautifully today, son, keep it up!"
"Push harder, lad! You aim for that number seven jersey! You hear me? You can follow in the footsteps of Best, Cantona, and Ronaldo!"
Ling, his face flushed with sweat and exhilaration, smiled and waved in response.
He felt the shirt on his back, damp and heavy, a physical reminder of the work he'd put in.
He was quite satisfied with his performance.
He'd nearly perfectly met the pre-match tactical requirements, both in attack and in his defensive tracking.
He believed, he hoped, this display would be enough to cement his place in Mourinho's thoughts.
Moreover, the calendar was about to get brutal.
Manchester United was about to enter the Champions League and League Cup campaigns.
With the increase in matches, his chances of starting would, logically, only grow.
On the sidelines, José Mourinho watched the young man's cheerful, almost shy grin as he interacted with the fans.
A slight, rare smile curled his own lips.
Why did he favour Jeremy Ling? Why had he plucked him from the reserves and thrown him into the fire?
The goal was to bring about change.
The goal was to give Manchester United a more stable, more reliable, and more varied ability to break down the packed defences that had stifled them all last season.
But he was a realist.
Relying solely on one teenager with electric dribbling skills couldn't definitively solve this complex, systemic issue.
It required better tactical cohesion, more intelligent off-the-ball movement, and a ruthless, coordinated team effort.
This wasn't something that could be accomplished overnight.
But as long as they were on the right path, there was nothing to fear.
Even if countless thorns blocked the way ahead, it didn't matter.
Because in his hands, he now held a peerless weapon.
A weapon that would only grow sharper and more deadly as it cut through the brambles and thorns of the Premier League.
...
🎙️ In the Match of the Day Studio
Later that night, in the iconic BBC studio, Gary Lineker leaned forward in his chair, a familiar smile on his face.
"Well, Alan," he said, turning to Alan Shearer. "A 2-0 win for Manchester United, and that, for now, sends them to the top of the Premier League table. It looked... comfortable."
"It was, Gary," Shearer replied, as the highlights played on the screen behind them.
"They were in total control, especially in that second half. And for Manchester United, despite dominating possession, they've struggled to turn that into goals. Today was different, and it was largely down to one man."
The screen froze on Ling taking on Simpson.
"This young man, Jeremy Ling. What a debut. He won the penalty, and then he laid on the second goal. He was the one who was brave enough to take a man on, to try something."
"But," Shearer continued, his tone shifting, "if you're a United fan, or if you're José Mourinho, you're still looking at this."
A graphic popped up: SHOT CONVERSION RATE: 9%.
"They had 21 shots, only 6 on target. That's not good enough. They won 2-0, but it should have been four or five. They need to be more clinical. This game was over, but against a better side, you let them hang around, you get punished."
Ian Wright, sitting opposite, couldn't hold back.
"I'm with you, Al, but I've got to say, I just loved watching the kid! He was exciting! He made things happen! That shoulder drop on Simpson... he's sent him to the shops! And his decision-making for the second goal—to slow down, fake the shot, and lay it off... at his age? That's top-class."
Lineker nodded. "A nearly perfect starting debut for Jeremy Ling. United fans have a new hero."
...
📱 On Twitter and the Forums
The fans didn't wait for the pundits.
The moment the final whistle blew, the internet was ablaze.
@UtdTrey (I kinda hate this guy ngl): LING. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE TWEET. #MUFC
@StretfordEnd_7 (Sarah): Get in!! Ling was an absolute livewire, 10/10. Simpson's going to have nightmares. #LEIMUN
@markgoldbridge (The United Stand): Ling MOTM. Not even a debate. He was the one who unlocked it. BUT... can we finish a chance PLEASE? We let them off the hook. Ibrahimović is needed back ASAP.
@NotSoSpecialOne (Mourinho's_Translator): The problem is solved. The bus is unlocked. The Ling-pin.