Chapter 856: Sound the Call to Arms
"No!" Captain Bruno rose to his feet and answered.
"I told you to stop thinking about Paris Saint-Germain because the second leg was still far off—we couldn't keep obsessing over it, couldn't play the league while carrying a revenge complex!"
"Of course, I know many can't help thinking of that match," Mourinho said. "No one likes failure. No one calmly accepts a crushing defeat."
He raised his voice. "We are Manchester United! Under any circumstances, against any opponent, we have the capacity to fight—and to win!"
The atmosphere heated up, the emotion spreading like flame.
That is the power of pre-match mobilization—people follow the crowd and absorb the energy around them. Even those who had thought losing to a powerhouse like PSG without Bruno was understandable now felt the fire rising within.
Paris Saint-Germain are a top team in Europe—true!
But that is no reason to accept defeat, because we are Manchester United!
...
"We can start thinking about the quarterfinals—no matter how our opponents play today, they can't stop us," one line read.
"Manchester United? They created a miracle—three straight Champions League titles over the last three years, something even Real Madrid couldn't do. It belongs in their club's history. But unfortunately, their dream of a fourth is over; they've been eliminated by mighty PSG!"
"Our boys can go sightseeing in Manchester for the second leg—it may not be as pretty as Paris, but there's plenty to see!"
…
Mourinho held a stack of newspapers, reading line after line in a flat, emotionless tone.
"These are Parisian reports—I haven't added a single word," he said calmly.
He looked at the players and saw the anger on their faces.
Good.
"The PSG people say they're already in the quarterfinals, already celebrating," Mourinho shook his head. "No comment. Here's my view: I won't harp on about revenge or comebacks. But I refuse to accept this. There's a fire in my chest."
He hammered his chest. "This is our home. I will not allow PSG to strut around here."
"Manchester United have their dignity! Anyone who dares to underestimate United will pay a price they cannot bear!" He tossed the newspapers into the air. "For tonight, I have only one demand: fight! Fight!! Fight!!! When the match ends, you will walk off proud, with your heads held high!"
"Go! Fight! Tell those smug PSG players! Tell them you're men of courage! Tell them this is Manchester United—our territory! Now answer me—are you men?" Mourinho slammed his chest.
"Yes!!"
With a roar, everyone sprang to their feet.
"We've been through the tactics a thousand times! From the first second—attack, fight, attack, fight! Think of your bitterness and tears at the Parc des Princes. Now, carry hot blood into this match and show our fans—and yourselves—that you are warriors!"
"At United there are only warriors who die standing—no cowards who raise their hands to surrender!" Mourinho bellowed, pounding his chest, eyes reddened, his expression almost feral.
"Fight!"
"Fight!"
The players shouted, fists pumping, pounding their chests—the dressing room thundered as if the air itself had caught fire.
Assistant coach Rui Faria checked his watch and reminded the players to get ready to head out.
"Let's go!" Bruno tugged at the captain's armband on his right arm and shouted, "Fight!"
"Go, fight! Go fight! Fight!" Mourinho flung open the dressing room door, roaring almost madly. He high-fived every player as they streamed past, barking encouragement. Heads high, chests out, they charged into the tunnel.
The atmosphere was scorching—they felt only the start of the match could release the fire in their chests.
"That was incredible! I've never seen that side of you," Faria said, face alight as the players poured out.
"I only said what's in everyone's hearts—stirring their refusal to accept and their fighting spirit," Mourinho replied hoarsely.
"No—only you can make them truly believe, make them fight willingly," Faria said. It wasn't flattery; it was the plain truth.
"Come on," Mourinho clapped.
He had prepared so long and so much for this match—now was the time for proof.
"I'm curious—why didn't you mention victory or a comeback?" Faria finally asked. Was it an acknowledgment that the deficit was too great to speak of such things?
"Against a strong opponent, don't emphasize their strength or shout about revenge—that only makes players fixate on the opponent and recall the past defeat," Mourinho said as they walked. "Now, all we do is fight. As for the result…"
He paused, then said with a touch of scorn, "If we give everything, does the result matter?"
The result matters—he knew it, but he could not say it out loud. As he had told Faria, harping on revenge and comebacks only triggers self-doubt—can we really do it?
That becomes a psychological suggestion, cooling hot blood with cold reason.
So Mourinho chose the simplest path: don't talk results—inject pure adrenaline.
The big screen in the stadium displayed the starting elevens.
Paris Saint-Germain (4-3-3):
Goalkeeper: Keylor Navas.
Defense: Alessandro Florenzi, Marquinhos, Presnel Kimpembe, Layvin Kurzawa (No. 16).
Midfield: Idrissa Gueye, Leandro Paredes, Marco Verratti.
Forwards: Julian Draxler, Mauro Icardi, Anthony Martial.
"Compared with the first leg, PSG made just one change—Draxler replaces Kean, the other ten are unchanged," Martin Tyler said.
"After a 4–1 first-leg win, PSG have essentially booked passage, yet Mauricio Pochettino remains cautious and fields his full-strength side—proof that United's three straight Champions League titles have instilled fear worldwide," Andy Gray added.
He wasn't wrong. Though many thought the second leg was mere formality for PSG, Pochettino—battle-hardened from years in the Premier League—knew United too well and went all-in again, intent on giving no chance at all.
Manchester United (4-3-3):
Goalkeeper: David de Gea.
Defense: João Cancelo, Harry Maguire, Virgil van Dijk, Luke Shaw.
Midfield: N'Golo Kanté, İlkay Gündoğan, Bruno.
Forwards: Kylian Mbappé, Harry Kane, Marcus Rashford.
...
Mourinho and Pochettino shared a perfunctory handshake—little more than the ritual "Hope it's a great match." Despite years crossing paths in England, they had no personal relationship.
"PSG are cautious," Faria observed.
Mourinho nodded. PSG had fielded their strongest XI—the lone change a restoration of Draxler for the youngster Kean.
Mourinho shot Pochettino a sidelong glance in surprise. Not bad—the man hadn't gotten carried away by that big first-leg win.
Referee Felix Brych blew for kickoff.
PSG took the ball. Mauro Icardi returned Anthony Martial's touch-off to Draxler, and both surged forward.
Draxler, bristling with energy, feinted as if passing back to Paredes, then snapped the ball forward and drove on himself.
The crowd jeered louder—interpreting it as disrespect toward United.
Draxler shifted gears past Gündoğan and prepared to push on—but the next second Marcus Rashford scythed him down with a fierce tackle.
Brych's whistle shrieked—United foul!
Draxler watched Rashford jog away without a glance and could only get up, annoyed.
...
For the free kick, Paredes lofted the ball forward; Van Dijk muscled past Icardi to head clear.
Verratti stretched to hook it back before Luke Shaw arrived, spun on the ball to look for a teammate—only for N'Golo Kanté to surge in and bump him off balance.
Verratti's technique, delicate as ever, saw him recover the ball even as he staggered—one deft drag to evade Kanté's next bite.
PSG fans at home applauded the slick piece of skill.
Not enough—Verratti tried another flourish, hopping the ball up and shaping to turn, using a scorpion-like flick to… pass it straight to Gündoğan!
Gündoğan had read him perfectly, stepped in at the lane, and picked it off!
(END CHAPTER)
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