Setién sat motionless on the bench.
Whatever fighting spirit Barcelona had recovered after Messi's goal had been destroyed again.
More than ten minutes remained.
United showed no intention of stopping.
Was Barcelona truly about to suffer one of the worst defeats in their European history?
Setién sank deeper into his seat.
Across the technical area, Mourinho stroked his chin.
"Five goals is the Champions League record for one player in a single match, isn't it?"
Faria immediately understood.
"Yes. Messi scored five against Bayer Leverkusen in 2012. Luiz Adriano later matched it for Shakhtar Donetsk."
Mourinho looked toward the pitch.
"Then let them continue."
"Give Ling the chance to break it."
There was little value in retreating now.
Barcelona's confidence had already collapsed, and defending passively would only allow them to leave Manchester with a slightly less humiliating scoreline.
Mourinho preferred to turn the night into something historic.
A record-breaking performance against Barcelona would give United enormous confidence for the remaining weeks of the season.
It would also dominate headlines across the world.
"Kanté!"
Faria called him toward the touchline and quickly relayed Mourinho's instructions.
When Kanté returned, he passed the message through the team.
The United players looked toward Barcelona's goal with renewed hunger.
Ling grinned.
"If I break the record, I'll make the club pay everyone a bonus."
He possessed enough wealth to reward his teammates personally, but doing so would create unnecessary complications.
The club could afford it.
More importantly, United's commercial department would profit enormously from the attention generated by such a night.
A record broken against Barcelona was precisely the kind of story a global club could turn into sponsorships, merchandise, documentaries, and millions of new followers.
"Come on!" Havertz shouted, raising his fist.
The sight unsettled Barcelona's players.
They could surrender mentally or attempt one final stand.
They chose to fight.
The conviction behind that choice was fragile.
Their shape shifted into something resembling a 4-2-4 and occasionally a reckless 4-1-5, yet the principles remained unchanged.
They still attempted the same short buildup, still relied on Messi to provide the decisive action, and still allowed United to dictate the rhythm.
...
In the 83rd minute, Herrera stepped across Messi and knocked him off the ball.
He immediately found Havertz.
The German redirected possession wide with his first touch.
Luke Shaw surged down the left and reached the byline before pulling the ball back toward the edge of the penalty area.
Havertz allowed it to run through his legs.
Kanté arrived from deep.
He drove a low shot through the crowd.
CLANG!
The ball struck the inside of the right post and ricocheted into the net.
6–1.
Even Kanté was surprised.
Then Old Trafford exploded around him.
"KANTÉ HAS JOINED THE FEAST!" Drury cried. "The man who has covered every blade of grass now finds the corner of Barcelona's goal!"
"Six for Manchester United!"
"For the home supporters, this is a festival. For Barcelona, it is an ordeal without an end."
Beglin highlighted the movement.
"Havertz's dummy is excellent. It removes the final midfielder and allows Kanté to strike without breaking stride."
"United's hunger is remarkable. At five goals ahead, their defensive midfielder is still making a forty-yard run into the penalty area."
Barcelona's players stared at one another.
They had no explanation left.
Since Messi's goal, they had become increasingly passive without actually defending more securely.
United attacked with complete confidence, treating Barcelona's midfield and back line as though they were training obstacles.
The score reflected more than tactical failure.
Barcelona had changed managers halfway through the season, endured disputes throughout the boardroom, struggled with confused recruitment, and watched their domestic form deteriorate.
The disorder above the team had finally appeared on the pitch.
Messi bent forward with his hands on his knees and fought for breath.
Then he looked toward the bench.
The meaning was obvious.
He wanted to come off!
Setién had another problem.
Semedo had suddenly collapsed near the touchline and was clutching his calf.
Cramp.
Whether the pain was genuine or offered a convenient escape from the match, only Semedo knew.
The medical staff ran onto the pitch and attempted to stretch the muscle. After several minutes, he still claimed he could not continue.
Setién had no option.
Sergi Roberto replaced him, using Barcelona's final substitution.
"Barcelona have made their last change," Beglin said. "Sergi Roberto comes on for Semedo."
Drury looked toward the bench.
"Messi appeared to be asking to leave the pitch, but that possibility has now disappeared."
Setién had considered introducing Dembélé and committing everything to attack, but Barcelona's right side had been torn apart repeatedly.
Leaving an injured full-back in place would merely invite further punishment.
Messi returned to his position.
His movement became increasingly slow.
Under United's pressure, Barcelona struggled to leave their own half.
Three or four passes would end with another interception or hurried clearance.
...
In the 87th minute, Ling drifted toward the inside-left channel.
He cut onto his right foot and curled a shot toward the far corner.
Ter Stegen stretched fully and gathered it securely.
"That attempt lacks the usual sharpness," Beglin said. "Ling may finally be feeling the physical cost of the evening."
The stadium display showed that he had covered nearly fourteen kilometers.
For a center-forward, the distance was extraordinary.
Ling had repeatedly dropped into midfield, pressed Barcelona's buildup, and then sprinted forward to finish attacks.
His role demanded almost constant movement.
Messi's distance was barely half of that, although the age difference and the contrasting tactical demands made a simple comparison unfair.
Barcelona immediately countered.
Griezmann raced through the center.
Wan-Bissaka tried to recover, but his stamina had been drained by constant sprints along the right flank.
The Frenchman escaped him and then moved beyond Thiago Silva, whose aging legs could no longer produce one more recovery burst.
Griezmann entered the penalty area alone.
De Gea advanced.
He moved both hands continuously and spread his body, attempting to cover as much of the goal as possible.
Griezmann remained composed.
Scoring would not rescue Barcelona, but it might protect him from some of the criticism that would follow.
Without a goal, every post-match debate would focus on another expensive attacker failing beside Messi.
He pushed the ball outward, cut back inside, and guided a shot toward the near post.
De Gea threw out his right leg.
His studs caught the ball.
CLANG!
The deflection struck the post and bounced behind.
Griezmann fell to his knees and hammered the turf.
He cared little whether United scored seven.
Missing that one-on-one felt personally devastating.
De Gea sprang upright and punched the air.
"YES!"
"Brilliant, David!" Ling shouted, offering him a raised thumb.
The fourth official lifted the board.
Three minutes of stoppage time.
Urgency surged through Ling.
He did not want to share the Champions League record.
He wanted it entirely for himself.
...
Barcelona earned a late corner but did not commit every player forward.
The decision revealed how completely their belief had faded.
Rakitić crossed toward the far post.
Wan-Bissaka rose and headed clear.
De Jong gathered the second ball and tried to return it toward Piqué.
The header lacked power.
Piqué misjudged its flight and allowed the ball to bounce behind him.
Ling's eyes widened.
He was exhausted.
His breathing sounded ragged, and every step felt as though his boots had been filled with lead. His legs warned that another sprint might be one too many.
The desire to score ignored them.
One step.
Then another.
Within moments, he had passed Piqué.
"LING IS THROUGH!"
"HE HAS NOTHING LEFT—AND STILL HE RUNS!"
Lenglet turned after him, but the defender was even more fatigued.
Ter Stegen advanced again.
Ling had no energy for elaborate stepovers.
He shifted his weight subtly to the inside.
The goalkeeper reacted.
Ling carried the ball around the outside and entered the six-yard box.
Piqué and Lenglet summoned their remaining strength and slid desperately toward him.
Ling raised his leg.
Both defenders committed themselves.
It was a dummy.
They swept harmlessly across the turf, two exhausted bodies tackling nothing.
The goal stood empty.
Ling used the last of his strength to push the ball over the line.
7–1.
For a moment, he simply watched the net move.
Then his legs gave way.
Ling collapsed onto the damp grass and allowed his entire body to relax.
The roar reached him a second later.
It seemed powerful enough to lift the roof from Old Trafford.
Peter Drury was on his feet.
"SIX FOR JEREMY LING!"
"HE HAS BROKEN THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE RECORD—AGAINST BARCELONA, AGAINST MESSI, ON A NIGHT THAT WILL LIVE FOREVER!"
"Piqué faltered. Lenglet fell. Ter Stegen was deceived. And with the final strength remaining in his body, Ling has written a new page into European history!"
"MESSI SCORED FIVE IN THIS COMPETITION."
"LUIZ ADRIANO SCORED FIVE."
"JEREMY LING HAS SCORED SIX!"
"One age of football watches from the other side of the pitch as another announces itself with a scoreline of SEVEN TO ONE!"
Beglin allowed the noise to continue before adding:
"He has covered nearly fourteen kilometers, led the press, carried the counterattacks, and still found enough composure for the final feint."
"This is not merely a finishing record. It is a complete attacking performance of extraordinary physical and technical quality!"
Ling lay on his back as teammates sprinted toward him.
Above him, the floodlights blurred.
Around him, Old Trafford chanted his name.
"LING!"
"LING!"
"LING!"
The Champions League had a new single-match scoring record.
And Barcelona had been forced to witness its birth!
---------
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