Following the conclusion of the EFL Cup Round of 16, the eight teams advancing to the quarter-finals were finalized: Chelsea, Bournemouth, West Ham United, Leicester City, Bristol City, Arsenal, Manchester City, and Manchester United.
This lineup meant that in the next round, Manchester United had a high probability of drawing a formidable opponent.
A Manchester Derby, perhaps, or a clash with Chelsea.
However, Mourinho, ever the pragmatist, had long been prepared to abandon the EFL Cup if necessary.
The "Mickey Mouse Cup," as it was sometimes dismissively called, was low on his priority list.
If they crashed out in the next round, he probably wouldn't lose much sleep.
It would clear the schedule for the competitions that truly mattered: the Premier League and the Champions League.
But for the Chinese fan community, the League Cup wasn't just a warm-up.
It was a battlefield of pride.
The forums were buzzing with joy, filled with a cheerful, victorious atmosphere.
Before the match, Korean fans had been wildly arrogant, flooding social media with taunts like 'Manchester United's substitute squad can't possibly beat Swansea' and 'Ling is completely inferior to Ki Sung-yueng'.
Those comments had been infuriating to read.
But what they feared didn't happen.
Instead, they witnessed Jeremy Ling not only outplay Ki Sung-yueng but humiliate him with a piece of high-IQ, Bergkamp-esque skill.
Now, it was finally time to counterattack.
The Chinese fans, organized and ruthless, launched their digital offensive.
[That goal by young Ling was art! So ingenious!]
[Don't think it's just a simple shift of balance—there are actually many factors to consider, and it has to be executed very quickly. That's high football IQ.]
[Absolutely! He sent Ki for a hot dog!]
[Young players should dare to make moves; only then can they improve faster! Our boy has the courage of a lion!]
[Haha, those Koreans have stopped barking now! Where are they?]
[Before the match, they were calling him the Korean 'Gerrard'—don't insult Steven Gerrard like that! 😂]
[Can't wait for Manchester United vs. Tottenham! Round 2!]
Someone even compiled these comments and juxtaposed them with screenshots of the Korean fans' pre-match arrogance, creating a viral meme that spread like wildfire across Weibo and WeChat.
When the Korean fans saw this, they felt the burning shame of being proven wrong.
But shame quickly turned into defensive anger.
Armed with their usual online bravado and world-class stubbornness, they took to social media to continue mocking, shifting the goalposts.
[They only beat Swansea—you'd think they won the Premier League title or something. Calm down.]
[They'll show their true colors when they face Tottenham on Saturday. Spurs are on a similar level to Real Madrid right now!]
[What do you mean similar? Let's do the math: Manchester United beat Liverpool 2-1. Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1. Therefore, Tottenham are 2-0 better than United! Simple logic!]
[Even though Pochettino hasn't won any titles, I feel he's better than Mourinho. Mourinho is past. Poch is the future.]
[That Chinese kid was just lucky; otherwise, he'd never have gotten past Ki Sung-yueng. Ki slipped!]
[Let Son Heung-min teach that brat a lesson! Son is world-class. Ling is a rookie.]
[Go Son Heung-min! Show them who the King of Asia is!]
....
Meanwhile, in North London, the mood was focused and intense.
At the Tottenham Hotspur training ground, an intra-squad training match was underway.
It was high-octane stuff.
After the "Red" team lost possession in the attacking third, the Spurs trident—Harry Kane, Son Heung-min, and Dele Alli—didn't retreat.
They sprang into action.
They quickly pressed one-on-one, slowing down the "White" team's advance.
The entire formation moved forward in sync, creating a pincer movement from both sides.
They weren't pressing recklessly like headless chickens; they held their zones, stepping up to cut passing lanes, suffocating the opposition until they regained possession.
Mauricio Pochettino, watching from the sidelines with his arms crossed, nodded in satisfaction.
He had used this exact "running press" tactic to sink Real Madrid at the Bernabéu and completely neutralize their legendary midfield trio of Modric, Kroos, and Casemiro.
His tactics were inherited from the master himself: Marcelo Bielsa, the famous Argentine "El Loco."
Before becoming a coach, Pep Guardiola had traveled 5,000 miles to Argentina just to sit at Bielsa's feet and discuss football theory.
Even after winning everything, Guardiola still praised Bielsa as the best coach in the world.
It's worth noting that Bielsa, upon meeting a young Pochettino, was astounded by his tactical intelligence.
He personally visited him, took him under his wing, and imparted his philosophy: high energy, high press, total football.
It was this mentorship that set Pochettino's coaching career on a smooth path.
However, as Pochettino watched his team, his expression suddenly twisted into a frown.
He remembered that he had not only inherited Bielsa's tactical philosophy but also that heartbreaking curse: winning no trophies.
Over the past decade, he had tossed and turned, moving from Espanyol to Southampton, and now to Tottenham, earning plaudits everywhere but winning... nothing.
The only thing worth mentioning on his resume was a handful of "Premier League Manager of the Month" awards.
But to be honest, its prestige was limited.
It was a participation trophy compared to the big silverware.
What broke his heart even more was the stats.
Tottenham had accumulated more total points over the past two seasons than any other Premier League team.
They were the best team in the country... on aggregate.
Yet the trophy room remained empty, dusty, and mocking.
Their situation was, in some ways, even more pitiful than Arsenal's—at least Arsenal had their history.
Now, after several seasons of adjustment, he had finally perfectly integrated his philosophy.
He had transformed a rough, inconsistent Spurs side into a high-pressing machine.
He had established a tactical system with clear responsibilities and a rigorous framework, led by a hungry group of young players who adored him.
'This season', he told himself, clenching his fist, 'we must win the title. We must end the drought.'
He looked up at the pitch.
He saw Son Heung-min skillfully dribble past Kieran Trippier, cut inside onto his right foot, and curl a stunning shot into the far corner.
A trademark goal.
After celebrating briefly with his teammates, Son immediately returned to the center circle.
But his mind was wandering.
He couldn't help thinking about his increasingly hyped "rival" online.
Son was a grinder.
Whether at Hamburg, Leverkusen, or now Tottenham, he had put in immense, grueling effort to achieve what he had today.
He had fought for every minute.
Yet that Chinese youngster, Jeremy Ling, had suddenly emerged from nowhere.
He had risen from the youth team to the first team in just a few months and was delivering performances that were stealing the headlines.
This stirred a slight, uncomfortable sense of imbalance in Son's heart.
A competitive jealousy.
He also knew that millions of Korean fans were counting on him to win this personal duel.
This match had already taken on great significance for him—he absolutely could not afford to lose to a rookie.
....
Meanwhile, at the Carrington training ground, the atmosphere was different.
It was calmer, more assured. A pre-match tactical meeting was underway in the video room.
"First, the starting lineup," Mourinho announced, his voice cutting through the room.
"De Gea. Valencia, Bailly, Jones, Young. Matic, Herrera. Mkhitaryan. Ling. Ibrahimović."
Ling was not surprised to hear his name; he had earned his spot.
But he was taken aback to find that Zlatan Ibrahimović was also starting.
The Lion was back in the starting XI.
This was excellent news. Zlatan's exceptional hold-up play and control would significantly boost Manchester United's overall strength, not to mention the intangible, terrifying aura he brought to the pitch.
Unfortunately, Pogba and Fellaini still needed one to two weeks to recover, so the midfield would have to work double-time.
"So?" Ibrahimović leaned over, nudging Ling hard with his elbow.
"Excited to play alongside me tomorrow? To serve the God?"
"Of course!" Ling grinned widely, rubbing his arm. "Can't wait for it."
It wasn't just flattery.
Ibrahimović had helped him immensely.
The big Swede had taken Ling under his wing, teaching him shooting techniques ("Smash it!"), positioning ideas ("Stand still, let them run"), and dribbling skills.
Oh, right, and the daily, impromptu taekwondo sparring sessions in the gym which usually ended with Ling on the floor.
So, in his heart, Ling already saw Ibrahimović as both a mentor and a friend.
He was naturally eager to fight alongside him in a big game.
Ibrahimović smiled upon hearing this, a rare genuine expression softening his sharp features.
He recalled the first time he saw Ling in training.
He had noticed the kid because of an exaggerated, confident feint that sent a senior defender the wrong way.
Zlatan saw a spark of arrogance he liked.
He decided to offer the young man whatever help he could.
As they interacted more, he found that Ling suited his temperament perfectly.
He was respectful but not subservient.
He was hungry.
Zlatan felt as if they had met too late in his career.
Lately, watching Ling's performances improve in matches filled him with a strange sense of pride.
It was almost as if he were playing a nurturing game.
'Nurturing the next Ronaldo... or perhaps, the next Zlatan.'
...
That night, in his dorm room, Ling sat on his bed, staring at the wall.
The excitement for the Spurs game was building, a knot in his stomach.
He closed his eyes and summoned the system.
[Current Status: Peak Condition]
[New Module Integrated: Bergkamp First Touch (Progress: 15%)]
[Active Quest: The North London Test]
[Objective: Win against Tottenham Hotspur]
[Secondary Objective: Outperform Son Heung-min (Rating)]
[Reward: ???]
The system didn't reveal the reward, but Ling knew the real prize.
Tomorrow wasn't just about points.
It was about legitimacy.
Beating Swansea was one thing. Beating Huddersfield was another.
But Tottenham? They were the real deal.
They were the press-monsters who had just humbled Real Madrid and Liverpool.
If he could perform against them... against Vertonghen and Alderweireld... against Son... then nobody could call him a fluke ever again.
He lay back, visualizing the game.
The touch. The turn. The shot.
Tomorrow, the King of Asia debate would be settled on the grass of Old Trafford.