Soon, the final whistles of the Premier League's sixth round echoed across England, and the results were splashed across every sports channel and website.
The headlines were predictable, but the noise was deafening.
Manchester City had absolutely dismantled Crystal Palace in a 5-0 drubbing.
Chelsea, not to be outdone, put four past Stoke City in a 4-0 away victory. Even Arsenal managed a clean 2-0 win against West Brom.
All were decisive, dominant, and, according to the pundits, entertaining victories.
Then, there was Manchester United's 1-0 squeak-by against Southampton.
The media storm, which had been brewing for weeks, finally broke.
....
On Sky Sports: Sunday Supplement, the discussion was cutting.
Martin Tyler: "You look at City, you look at Chelsea. You see fluidity, you see attacking intent, you see goals. Then you watch Manchester United, and... it's a grind. It's effective, yes, but is it the 'United Way'?"
Graeme Souness: (Leaning forward, jabbing a finger) "Forget the 'United Way.' This is the 'Mourinho Way.' It's pragmatic, it's cautious, and frankly, it's boring. He's got a war chest of attacking talent—Lukaku, Mkhitaryan, Martial, Rashford—and he's got them defending on the halfway line. It's industrial. It's football by numbers, and the fans won't stand for it much longer."
...
The fan forums were even less forgiving.
User: '99_Treble_Winner: "I'm sick of it. SICK of it. We won 1-0, but it felt like a loss. We were parking the bus from the 70th minute against Southampton. Fergie would never."
User: StretfordEndSarge: "Here we go again. The 'Fergie would never' brigade. Lads, we are second in the table. SECOND. We've conceded two goals all season. What more do you want? Pretty football that gets us 4th place like Liverpool?"
User: Kloppite_Killa: "@StretfordEndSarge Liverpool just scraped a 1-0 win vs. Leicester too, and Klopp's getting praised for 'grit.' Mou wins 1-0, and it's 'industrial football is meaningless.' The bias is unreal."
User: ClassOf92Reboot: "It's not about the result, it's about the performance. We're not creating. We're not taking risks. We're heading to Moscow for a tough Champions League away day in three days. We need momentum, not this... this crawl to the finish line."
User: MouTheSpecial1: "Calm down, everyone. Mourinho's career stats against CSKA Moscow: 6 games, 16 points. United has never lost to them. Trust the process. This is a marathon, not a sprint."
User: Ling_is_King: "Hope Jeremy Ling gets a start in Moscow. Fellaini's got a knock, Rashford's gassed. Martial will probably start, but Ling's pace could be what we're missing. He's got to be an option over Lingard, right? Jose seems to trust him."
...
Meanwhile, at the Aon Training Complex in Carrington, the atmosphere was completely detached from the media circus.
The players, going through a light recovery session, were relaxed, chatting, and laughing.
The expected cloud of frustration or worry was nowhere to be seen.
The reason? Zlatan Ibrahimović.
The previous night, the injured striker had called a players-only meeting.
It wasn't some empty, "rah-rah" speech. Zlatan, in his typical fashion, had laid out the truth.
Jeremy Ling, stretching his hamstrings, recalled the meeting vividly.
Zlatan had sat on a physiotherapy table, his surgically repaired knee propped up, and addressed the room.
"You read this... shit... on your phones," Zlatan had said, his voice a low rumble. "You listen to pundits who have never won what he has won."
He didn't even need to say Mourinho's name.
"They call it 'ugly.' They call it 'boring.' Let me ask you. Is your bank account ugly? Is a winner's medal boring? Is the top of the table boring?"
He had paused, letting the silence hang.
"A lion does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep. We are lions. We hunt, we win, and we eat. Let them talk. We will count our trophies and our money. Focus on your job. Focus on the man next to you. And focus on winning. Everything else is noise."
It was simple, direct, and brutally effective.
Once Zlatan had put it all on the table, the terms "conservative" and "ugly" lost their sting.
Victory was the only metric that mattered.
Victory meant bonuses, it meant trophies, and it meant proving the whole world wrong.
Mourinho, with his complex, often confrontational personality, probably hadn't even realized how much the external criticism was starting to seep into the dressing room.
He was a manager of generals, not a communicator of feelings. It took another general, a player-king like Ibrahimović, to rally the troops.
The recovery session ended, and the players dispersed.
Ling toweled off, his mind already shifting.
It was time for his one-on-one.
As he walked the familiar path to the gaffer's office, Ling automatically focused his mind.
The world faded slightly at the edges, and a crisp, semi-transparent blue interface shimmered into his vision.
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: PLAYER STATUS]
Name: Jeremy Ling Team: Manchester United Overall: 77 (+0.2)
[PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES] Pace: 88.3 (+0.1) Stamina: 81.1 (+0.1) Strength: 65.0 Agility: 85.5 (+0.1)
[TECHNICAL ATTRIBUTES] Dribbling: 80.1 (+0.2) - Finishing: 74.6 (+0.1) Crossing: 72.1 (+0.1) Short Passing: 78.0 Ball Control: 81.2 (+0.1)
[MENTAL ATTRIBUTES] Composure: 75.0 Vision: 73.4 (+0.1) Positioning: 77.0
A wide, uncontrollable grin split Ling's face.
Dribbling: 80.1.
The night before, it had been stuck at a frustrating 79.9 for weeks.
He had been pouring attribute points and grinding in training, but it just wouldn't budge.
He'd hit his first major bottleneck.
But now, it had broken through.
And not just that—a ripple effect of small increments had spread across his other stats.
His body, he realized, was catching up.
The system wasn't just magic; it was an accelerator. It enhanced his natural talent and development, but it was still tied to his physical reality.
He'd been reading up on it.
Modern sports science classified physical development in stages: rapid growth, slow growth, stability, and decline.
The system, it seemed, had locked him in the "rapid growth" phase, but even that had its limits, its temporary plateaus.
This breakthrough, accelerated by his rigorous training and the system's boosts, meant his body was adapting, maturing.
He could feel it.
His legs felt lighter, more explosive.
The corners of his mouth lifted.
A Dribbling stat of 80 was a significant threshold. It was the line between "promising" and "proficient."
Manchester United, in its current form, lacked a pure winger.
They had forwards who could play wide, like Martial and Rashford, and a creator like Mkhitaryan.
But they didn't have a classic, chalk-on-your-boots speedster who could stretch the defense, beat a man 1v1, and serve as a reliable, explosive outlet.
His style fit the bill, but his overall ability had held him back from being an undisputed starter. Now, his stats were on the rise again.
He had time.
The system had given him the talent; all he needed was the time and the opportunity.
...
Ling knocked on the door, the system interface vanishing from his sight.
"Come in."
He entered.
José Mourinho's office was neat, organized, and smelled faintly of strong coffee and paper.
The man himself was sitting behind his desk, peering at a document.
"My assignment, Coach." Ling handed over his tactical analysis of the Southampton match.
Mourinho adjusted his reading glasses, took the papers, and began to read, his expression unreadable.
Ling stood there, watching the man.
He couldn't help but feel a wave of emotion.
Fifteen years ago, this was the "Special One," the impossibly handsome, charismatic force of nature who led Porto to an impossible Champions League victory.
He was arrogant, untouchable, and brilliant.
The man in front of him now looked tired.
The hair was white, the arrogance had been weathered into a more defensive prickliness, and there were deep lines of fatigue etched around his eyes.
Hesitating for just a second, Ling broke the silence.
"Coach," he said softly, "don't pay too much attention to the outside opinions. We... we all support you."
Mourinho's finger, which was halfway down a page, paused.
He looked up, his sharp eyes meeting Ling's.
He looked genuinely surprised.
The "arrogant one" wasn't an image; it was a fortress.
People didn't offer him comfort.
A strange, small smile flickered on Mourinho's lips.
"Do you think I care, menino?" he asked, using the Portuguese word for 'kid'.
But the surprise was real.
Maybe, he thought, he needed to change how he dealt with this new generation.
"But... thank you for your support," he said, his voice softening just a fraction. "And I hope you all don't pay attention to the noise either. Focus on the matches. Victory is the only answer. It is the best way to respond."
"I understand, Coach." Ling got the subtext loud and clear: Tell the others I said this.
Still a bit proud, then.
Mourinho's focus snapped back to the assignment, his work mode reactivated.
He tapped the paper. "Your understanding here is flawed. When the team is in the second phase, making short or lateral passes, you are static. You must create the opening. You must be the vertical change in rhythm. This is what I call the 'horizontal-vertical connection' in our transitions."
He pointed a pen at Ling. "As the left winger, when the ball is central, you must not be on the chalk. You must be attacking the half-space. Run at the weak spot between the right-back and the right-center-back. That is where you will kill them."
For the next half-hour, they went over tactics.
Finally, Mourinho leaned back.
"For the Champions League, the day after tomorrow. Moscow," he said, shifting topics. "I plan to use a three-center-back formation. 3-4-3 or 3-5-2, we will see. It will increase our attacking intensity."
Ling's heart beat a little faster.
"Your task, if you play, is to create. Be direct. Link with Romelu. Deliver the ball to him. You must learn to switch your attacks: drive to the byline and cross, yes, but also the diagonal 45-degree cross, the in-cut for the through pass. You must be unpredictable."
He fixed Ling with a stare. "I know this is not something you master in one day. But I must see you try these things in the match."
Seeing the finality in the manager's eyes, Ling didn't press.
It was enough.
He was confident in his new 80-point dribbling.
As Ling turned to leave, Mourinho spoke again.
"Ah, Ling."
He gestured casually to a small, branded gift box on the side table.
"I was at the Portuguese bakery this morning. I... accidentally... bought an extra box of Pastéis de Nata."
Ling blinked. Portuguese Egg Tarts.
"Take them. Share with the others."
Mourinho was already looking back at his papers, a picture of indifference.
Then, as a final thought:
"And remember. Only one piece per person."
Ling picked up the still-warm box, a grin spreading across his face.
The "Special One" was still in there, but maybe, just maybe, the "sentimental old man" had a warm side too.
"Thanks, Coach!"