The morning of March 13th broke over Manchester with a typical slate-grey sky, threatening rain but holding off just enough to allow the city to wake up.
At Manchester Airport, the arrivals hall was buzzing with a specific kind of energy.
The first wave of the "Premier League Viewing Tour," organized by Ctrip International Travel Agency, had touched down.
Eighty exhausted but exhilarated Chinese fans pushed their luggage trolleys, their eyes scanning for the red flags of their tour guides.
Fortunately, the agency had foreseen the logistical nightmare of moving eighty people through a foreign city.
They had split the group into two manageable cohorts, assigning bilingual guides to ensure everything ran like clockwork.
Li Tao, the senior manager who had championed this project, stood at the forefront, waving a small flag. Beside him, Zhang Wei was busy checking names off a clipboard, looking slightly overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm radiating from the travelers.
"Welcome to Manchester!" Li Tao announced through a megaphone as they boarded the luxury coaches. "After we drop our luggage at the hotel and freshen up, we will head straight into the city. Tomorrow is the main event: Manchester United versus Sevilla in the Champions League."
He paused for effect, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
"By the way, there is a special surprise arranged for today. Keep your eyes open."
"What surprise, Old Li?" a fan shouted from the back of the bus, causing a ripple of laughter. "Don't keep us guessing! Is it a player? Is it Ferguson?"
"My lips are sealed," Li Tao teased, signaling the driver to move. "If I tell you now, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"
The bus rumbled out of the airport and onto the motorway.
These weren't casual tourists; these were the die-hards fans!
They were people who had spent tens of thousands of RMB, taken precious annual leave, and flown halfway across the world just to breathe the same air as their heroes.
As the urban landscape of Manchester began to rush by—red brick buildings, industrial canals, and modern glass structures—Li Tao switched into guide mode.
"English football isn't just a sport; it is the history of the working class," Li Tao explained, his voice crackling over the bus speakers.
"Most clubs here were born from local communities. Manchester United, for example, was founded by railway workers from Newton Heath. Arsenal began in an armaments factory in London. The club is the heartbeat of the city."
He pointed out of the window as the bus navigated narrower streets lined with identical brick houses.
"If we had come here ten years ago, you might have seen players jogging down these streets. This is the real Manchester."
The bus eventually pulled up to a curb in a quiet residential neighborhood.
It was a modest area, famous for its murals.
The club often partnered with professional artists to paint depictions of players on the walls of residents who agreed to it, turning the streets into an open-air gallery.
"This is the first stop," Li Tao announced. "The internet celebrity check-in spot."
The fans poured off the bus, cameras and phones at the ready.
They scanned the walls of the terraced houses. They saw a painting of Michael Carrick conducting play, a vibrant depiction of Paul Pogba dancing with the ball, and a serious portrait of Marcus Rashford.
"But where is Ling?" a fan asked, looking around anxiously. "I don't see him."
"Follow me," Li Tao said, walking toward the center of the block.
He stopped in front of a pristine end-terrace house.
The entire side wall was a canvas dedicated to one man. On the left side of the brickwork was a larger-than-life painting of Ling, viewed from behind, the iconic Number 7 jersey dominating the frame.
On the right was a dynamic action shot of Ling executing that famous sideways volley against Liverpool, the muscles in his legs captured in vivid, hyper-realistic detail.
The artwork radiated power and dynamism.
Zhang Wei stood at the back of the crowd, staring up at the wall. He wasn't a football fanatic like the others, but he was struck by the sheer scale of the tribute. He wondered what kind of person would allow a stranger's face to dominate their home so completely.
It was a level of devotion he couldn't quite comprehend.
Suddenly, the front door of the terraced house swung open.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a thick Manchester accent stepped out, holding a mug of tea.
He looked at the group of Chinese tourists with a knowing slightly smug smile.
"Chinese?" the man asked.
"Yes," Li Tao stepped forward politely, switching to English. "Sorry to disturb you, sir. We are just admiring the art. It is magnificent."
"No problem at all," the man, whose name was Frank, waved a hand dismissively. "Do you know why only my house has Ling's mural on this street?"
He didn't wait for an answer, eager to tell his story. "That's because the others lacked vision! Back then, the club knocked on every door. They said, 'We want to paint the new kid, Ling.' My neighbors laughed at them. They said, 'We don't rate that Chinese kid! My wall is for legends only! Let's see if he makes it first!'"
Frank snorted, puffing out his chest with immense pride. "Me? I saw it. I told the club to paint him big. I knew he was special from his first touch."
He took a sip of tea, enjoying the rapt attention of the crowd. "Now? Three months later, those same neighbors are begging the club. 'Please paint my wall!' But it's too late. The portrait rights for Ling on this street belong to me. No one can take that away."
"You have excellent judgment, sir," Li Tao praised, translating the story for the laughing fans.
"I'm planning to paint the other two walls in the back," Frank confided, gesturing to the rear of his house. "After he scores against Liverpool next week, I'll need space for the new celebration. He's going to run this city."
Leaving Frank to bask in his glory, the group boarded the bus again.
Half an hour later, they arrived at the holy ground: Old Trafford.
The "Theatre of Dreams" lived up to its name. The group walked through the museum, their eyes wide as they took in the dazzling array of silverware.
The Premier League trophies, the Champions League cups, the history of Ferguson, Cantona, and Ronaldo.
It was a cathedral of football.
Even Zhang Wei found himself swept up in the emotion, feeling the weight of the history surrounding them.
Following the guide, they moved to the press conference room, where they took turns sitting in the manager's chair, and then down a nondescript corridor.
They stopped in front of a simple wooden door marked "Home Dressing Room."
As the door pushed open, a hush fell over the group. The room was spacious, lined with walnut benches and silver hooks. It smelled of deep heat and grass.
The guide pointed to a corner spot.
There it was. The jersey.
LING 7
Seeing it on television was one thing.
Seeing the red fabric hanging on the hook, imagining Ling sitting on that very bench, lacing up his boots while Mourinho barked instructions... it was surreal.
It was an unprecedented sense of authenticity.
"Is this match-worn?" one fan whispered reverently, reaching out a hand but stopping short of touching it.
"Brothers," another shouted, breaking the trance. "Take a photo of me! I'm sitting in Ling's spot! Imagine the energy here before kickoff!"
Cameras flashed continuously, illuminating the tactics board covered in arrows and magnetic markers. The fans soaked in every detail, from the tactics board to the shower area, before finally lining up in the tunnel.
As they walked out toward the pitch, the guide played a recording of the crowd noise over a speaker.
Emerging from the dim tunnel into the vast expanse of the empty stadium, seeing the sea of red seats rising around them, many of the fans were visibly moved.
Two hours later, the group returned to their hotel, physically tired but mentally buzzing.
They thought the day was over, that the tour had peaked.
They were wrong.
As they gathered in the lobby to collect their room keys, a commotion broke out at the entrance.
A sleek black car pulled up, and the automatic doors slid open.
A young man in a Manchester United training tracksuit stepped out, flanked by a security guard and a smiling Jorge Mendes.
It was him.
"LING!" someone screamed, the sound echoing off the marble floors.
The lobby erupted.
This was Li Tao's surprise.
He had used his connections and the agency's partnership to arrange a brief meet-and-greet.
Ling walked in, relaxed and smiling.
He didn't look like a distant superstar; he looked like a young man happy to see his countrymen.
The fatigue of the travel vanished instantly from the fans' faces. They surged forward, respectful but excited, holding out markers and jerseys.
Ling spent twenty minutes with them, signing shirts, taking selfies, and exchanging brief words in Mandarin.
He was gracious and patient, ensuring everyone got a moment.
"Ling," a fan shouted as the player finally turned to leave. "Score a goal tomorrow! Show Sevilla who is boss!"
Ling paused at the door, looking back at the group of pilgrims who had traveled thousands of miles just to support him.
He raised a fist and winked.
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Damn manunited just destroyed city with ease, this confirm that arsenal gonna win the league this season 😭