Word spread fast.
Ferguson's starting XI had been made public just minutes earlier, and already it was echoing across newsrooms, broadcast booths, and message boards across the globe.
Inside the Xinglang Sports studio, the broadcast team scrambled.
Veteran commentator Zhang Jun adjusted his headset as the team list arrived. His eyes scanned quickly—goalkeeper, backline, midfield...
Then he froze.
No. 39. Alessandro Dybala.
He stared at the name for a moment before speaking.
"Dybala is starting," he announced, his voice carrying that tight blend of disbelief and excitement.
"Seventeen years old... starting at Anfield."
Even in the age of early debuts and rising stars, this wasn't ordinary.
This was Manchester United versus Liverpool.
It wasn't just about football. It was legacy, ego, history—played out with studs and sweat.
Next to him, co-commentator Zhang Lu gave a considered nod.
"It's a surprise," Zhang Lu admitted. "But it says one thing clearly—Sir Alex Ferguson trusts him. If Dybala has been named in this match, it means he's ready."
Zhang Jun still looked unconvinced. "We should temper expectations. He's young, it's Anfield, and this is the most volatile fixture in English football. If he simply plays a clean game without errors, that's already a success."
It wasn't an unfair stance.
After all, even seasoned veterans had folded under the weight of this rivalry.
---
Online, reactions were even louder.
On Spanish forums and fan communities, messages streamed in every second.
"He's starting? Against Liverpool?"
"No way. He's seventeen."
"Pressure is insane. Hope he doesn't break."
Others were cautiously optimistic.
"Ferguson must see something."
"He passed the Ajax test. Let's see how he handles fire now."
In every corner of Dybala's growing fanbase, anticipation spiked.
---
On the other side of the divide, Liverpool's war room was absorbing the news.
Kenny Dalglish stood at the center of his squad's dressing room at Anfield, the fluorescent lights above casting a glow on his creased forehead.
He was staring at the team sheet again.
Carrick and Dybala.
Not Carrick and Scholes.
He exhaled.
"So... the kid's starting."
His assistant, Steve Pearson, tilted his head. "You want to target him early?"
Dalglish considered it, walking a few paces across the floor.
"No. Stick to the plan. If he struggles, the game will find him. And if he doesn't... then he deserves to be out there."
Pearson nodded. He understood.
Targeting rookies was a strategy that often worked without needing to be ordered. The game itself tested nerves better than any premeditated pressing trap.
Veterans like Steven Gerrard or Charlie Adam wouldn't need reminders. They could sense blood. If Dybala blinked, they'd see it in an instant.
---
Back in the Liverpool dressing room, Gerrard was tying his boots, lacing each one with ritual precision.
The captain stood and addressed the squad in his usual way—short, direct.
"They played in Europe midweek. They're tired. We've had all week to get ready. We're at Anfield."
His voice sharpened.
"We don't let them settle. Not for a minute."
There were nods across the room. Determined stares.
Even with Liverpool sitting mid-table and nineteen points behind United, that gap meant nothing here.
Not today.
They weren't playing the league table.
They were playing them.
Gerrard turned to the group again.
"Let's drag them down."
"Drag United down!!" he shouted again.
The roar from the team followed.
---
And inside the Manchester United dressing room, just a few doors down, the mood was starkly different.
Not tense.
But still.
Sir Alex Ferguson stood at the front, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping across the players as they settled into place. Shirts were already half-on, boots tied, tape wrapped around ankles.
He didn't give a grand speech.
He didn't need to.
"You all know who we're playing," he said. "This fixture speaks for itself."
Then, he looked directly at Dybala.
The room shifted, if only subtly.
"Dybala—nervous?"
Dybala glanced up from tightening his laces. There was a small smile on his face. Calm. Controlled.
"A little," he admitted.
Ferguson grinned.
"You're handling it better than I did. First time I played, I looked like I'd seen a ghost."
There were some chuckles, enough to ease the pressure just slightly.
Rooney smirked. "To be honest, I thought he was a robot. I was shaking when I debuted for Everton."
"Didn't you get sick the night before?" someone jabbed, earning another round of laughter.
The jokes bounced around the room. Players bantered like brothers. A touch of irreverence that spoke to confidence, not carelessness.
This was the difference between champions and contenders.
Even walking into a blood feud, they walked with shoulders loose and heads up.
Ferguson raised his voice again.
"Dybala—start with the basics. Read the rhythm. Control space. Defend first. If the tempo's there, the rest will come."
Dybala nodded.
The tactical sheets had been clear all week.
His job wasn't to orchestrate from the first whistle. It was to provide control alongside Carrick, to slow down Liverpool's transitional chaos, to find calm inside the storm.
He could handle that.
---
The knock on the door came at 4:23.
"Teams to the tunnel, please."
The dressing room turned electric.
United's players stood, tightening final straps, bumping fists, walking toward the narrow corridor where white-walled silence gave way to chaos.
The boots echoed across the tunnel floor.
Dybala stood in line, just behind Carrick, the crest of Manchester United heavy on his chest.
Across from them, red shirts.
Steven Gerrard met his eyes once, then turned away, jaw clenched.
As the anthem blared over the Anfield speakers and the tunnel doors opened, the cauldron revealed itself.
Flags.
Scarves.
Red.
Noise.
And hate.
And for the first time in his life, Dybala walked into the storm as one of United's own.
---