[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-start-with-r9-template":3,"chapter-start-with-r9-template-start-with-r9-template-chapter-34":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"english","Start with R9 Template",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},1388723,1840,"Chapter 34 - 34","start-with-r9-template-chapter-34",34,"\u003Cp>\"WHOA!!!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Old Trafford didn't just cheer; it erupted.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The sound was a physical force, a deafening, guttural roar that shook the foundations of the Stretford End.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thousands of arms punched the air in unison, a sea of red scarves waving like banners of war.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The anxiety that had plagued the fanbase before kickoff—the fear of falling behind the \"Big Six,\" the dread of a post-Pogba collapse—evaporated in an instant.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was replaced by a bloodthirsty anticipation. They didn't just want to win anymore; they wanted a rout.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the pitch, the tension broke.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Romelu Lukaku, now one step closer to the Premier League Golden Boot he so desperately coveted, sprinted toward the corner flag, swinging his massive arms to pump up the crowd.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As the Manchester United players rushed to join the huddle, Nemanja Matić grabbed Ling by the shoulder, shaking him with a grin that wrinkled his eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Haha! Well done, kid! You fooled them all!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"It was a team effort,\" Ling replied, shouting over the noise, patting the Serbian giant on the back.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He wasn't being falsely modest.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ling knew the geometry of the goal better than anyone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Without Matić's ghost run into the vacuum, and without Lukaku's bullying hold-up play, Ling's movement would have been meaningless.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He hadn't just isolated Idrissa Gueye; the system had dismantled him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The touchlines presented a study in contrasts.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ronald Koeman stood frozen, the color draining from his face.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The smile he had worn during warm-ups was gone, replaced by a look of dawning horror.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He hadn't expected Matić—usually a defensive anchor—to be the hidden blade.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>'But why was that dark-haired kid lingering in the left half-space? 'Koeman thought, his mind racing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>'Wasn't he afraid of being trapped?'\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Unless...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Koeman's expression stiffened. He realized, too late, that he had walked into a trap.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every movement, every lure, every pass had been pre-planned.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His \"Giant Killer\" tactics hadn't just been beaten; they had been deciphered and dismantled before a ball was even kicked.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A few yards away, José Mourinho allowed himself a brief, clenched-fist celebration.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the Special One never lingered on success. He immediately whistled, summoning Matić to the sideline.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Hold the midfield now,\" Mourinho instructed, his voice cutting through the din. \"Mark Sigurðsson tightly. Suffocate him. If he can't turn, Everton has nothing.\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Matić nodded, wiped sweat from his brow, and jogged back into the fray.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Whistle Blew. The Trap Snapped Shut.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Manchester United's 19th-minute goal forced Everton to abandon their shell.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Like a boxer who had taken a heavy blow, they staggered forward, desperate to land a punch of their own. Their formation loosened, attempting to push through the center.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But they immediately hit a wall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Everton's engine room was built for destruction, not creation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schneiderlin and Gueye were excellent ball-winners, but they lacked the vision to drive play forward.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And Gylfi Sigurðsson? The \"Icelandic Sniper\" was suffocating.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Shadowed relentlessly by Marouane Fellaini's elbows and Matić's positioning, he couldn't find a pocket of space to breathe, let alone shoot.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sigurðsson had no choice but to drop deep, bypassing the midfield entirely to launch hopeful long balls toward the lone figure up top.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wayne Rooney.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was a cruel sight.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Facing his former teammates, Rooney fought with everything he had.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Phil Jones, the man who had once looked up to him, showed no mercy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jones engaged physically, slamming into Rooney's back every time the ball approached.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Working in tandem with the athletic Eric Bailly, they muscled the legend off the ball with brutal efficiency.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Rooney tried to turn.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He tried to chase.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But his legs, once powered by rocket fuel, now felt heavy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Years of playing at the absolute limit—and perhaps a life lived fully off the pitch—had eroded the explosive vigor that once terrified Europe. He was a lion with dull claws.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Bailly wins it! He plays it out to Fellaini on the flank.\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Manchester United are breaking!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the 37th minute, the trap sprung again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fellaini didn't dwell on the ball. He struck a diagonal pass toward the right flank, bypassing the congested midfield entirely.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Conte's Chelsea had made the \"back three\" fashionable in England, and Koeman had tried to copy it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But a back three is a double-edged sword.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If your wing-backs are caught high, the flanks are not just weak; they are empty.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mourinho stood on the touchline, arms crossed, exuding the aura of a general watching his cavalry charge.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Trample them, his posture seemed to say.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Juan Mata gathered the ball in the final third. He cut inside sharply, forcing Phil Jagielka to step out of the defensive line.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The structure was broken.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Mata slipped the pass into Lukaku.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Belgian striker received the ball with his back to goal, using his immense strength to hold off Ashley Williams.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He was an immovable object. He prepared to turn and shoot, to hunt for his own glory.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But then, a voice screamed from his left.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"PASS IT! IT'S OPEN!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Lukaku didn't think.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He laid the ball off instantly to the left side of the penalty area.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ling arrived fast.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In his peripheral vision, he saw Michael Keane charging in from the side like a freight train.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Keane, a former United academy graduate, was desperate to make a block.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Time slowed down for Ling.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Option A: Control the ball, feint, and try to dribble past Keane.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Result: The angle closes. Pickford rushes out. The chance dies.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Option B: Hit it now.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ling didn't hesitate.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He planted his right foot and swung his left boot through the ball with perfect technique.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He didn't try to smash it; he guided it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>THUMP!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The sound was dull and heavy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The ball shot off the turf like an arrow, keeping low, skimming the grass.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jordan Pickford stretched his frame to the absolute limit, his fingers clawing at the air, but the shot was too precise. It kissed the inside of the side netting.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>2-0!!!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Beautiful!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"A classic Mourinho masterclass! From back to front in four touches!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Jeremy Ling doesn't waste the gift! A low-driven arrow into the bottom corner!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the Sky Sports studio, Martin Tyler voice cracked with emotion.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"That is efficiency! That is lethal! His second Premier League goal, and he looks like he's been playing here for a decade!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At Old Trafford, the noise reached a fever pitch.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The fans were falling in love.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They had seen Ronaldo, they had seen Giggs, they had seen Best.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And while it was too early for comparisons, they knew a \"United player\" when they saw one.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And this kid? He was one of them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just imagine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He is only eighteen.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the pitch, Ling scrambled up from his slide and sprinted toward the corner flag, his face a picture of pure joy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But he didn't make it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ashley Young intercepted him with a tackle-hug, and within seconds, he was buried under a pile of red shirts.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"You beauty!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Ice cold, Ling! Ice cold!\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"My pass wasn't bad, eh?\" Lukaku laughed, slapping his head.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Ling finally emerged from the scrum, his hair was a bird's nest, standing up in every direction.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He looked disheveled, exhausted, and utterly happy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>From the sideline, Mourinho raised both arms, a rare, genuine smile breaking his stoic mask.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"You always manage to surprise me, kid.\"\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>...\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The match resumed, but the spirit had shifted. Everton tried to attack, but it was the desperate flailing of a drowning man.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>United's midfield was a fortress.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every Everton attack ended with a hopeless long ball toward Rooney.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It became painful to watch.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the final eight minutes of the half, Rooney was isolated.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The man who used to bulldoze through defenses was now being bullied by them. Time is the one defender no striker can dribble past.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In stark contrast, Everton's other youngster, Tom Davies, provided a few sparks—nimble turns, energetic runs—but he was fighting alone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Finally, the referee brought the whistle to his lips.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>PEEEP!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The first half ended.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>United 2, Everton 0.\u003C\u002Fp>",1328,"2026-06-05T22:48:22.783Z",1,"novelbin.me","8023ab5f69c19b2ea31dda25418b5974ea6da8a9c8fda1ea08b51aa744f75bcb","start-with-r9-template-chapter-35","start-with-r9-template-chapter-124",371,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fstart-with-r9-template-cover.jpg"]