Paris, France.
The Théâtre du Châtelet had stood in the heart of the city for more than a century and a half, watching generations pass beneath its lights.
Tonight, beneath the winter sky, it became the center of the football world.
Outside the theater, the red carpet had been laid out beneath rows of lights and massive Ballon d'Or posters.
The thirty shortlisted players looked down from the walls like witnesses to an approaching coronation, while media reporters shivered in the cold wind, fingers stiff around their cameras but refusing to lower them for even a second.
No one wanted to miss the perfect shot. No one wanted to blink on a night like this.
Everyone knew what tonight meant.
One era was fading, and another was waiting to be crowned.
"Year after year, I come here just to be a runner-up. I'm simply too dedicated."
Salah sighed deeply as he looked at his own poster.
Klopp adjusted his glasses beside him. "You could learn from Cristiano Ronaldo. If you're not winning an award, just stay home. It saves you the heartache of coming here anyway."
He had been at Liverpool for quite some time now, but he still had not won the title he wanted most.
Of course, he meant a major one.
Especially the Premier League, the trophy Liverpool had chased for so many years that the longing had almost become part of the club's identity.
The pressure Klopp felt did not come from management or even the fans.
It came from himself.
He had left Borussia Dortmund for Liverpool because he wanted to write a new chapter in history.
But whenever he thought of that figure in Manchester red, he could only shake his head with a bitter smile.
What a rotten luck!
First Manchester United had returned to power.
Then Manchester City had risen right behind them.
Liverpool's road was truly difficult!
Not long after, Guardiola and De Bruyne walked in with heavy steps.
Another victim had arrived.
This dazzling archway, surrounded by lights and applause, felt more like a cross to them.
Every step beneath it seemed to nail them back to painful memories they would rather forget.
"Boss," De Bruyne said, narrowing his eyes slightly under the lights, "do you think we can still win the league title?"
"Of course. Absolutely. Without a doubt."
Guardiola answered quickly, but his mind had already drifted to Maria and the wedding at the end of the month.
The thought made him angry, though not because he was truly dissatisfied with Ling.
It was simply a father's instinct.
After cherishing his daughter for so many years, he now had to personally hand her over to that Manchester United brat.
How could he not be upset?
De Bruyne fell silent.
He felt Guardiola was definitely letting personal feelings cloud his judgment.
The next victim was Barcelona.
Valverde walked along the soft red carpet with a distant look in his eyes, as if a painful montage had started playing in his mind.
The 2017–18 Champions League quarter-final, where Barcelona had been blown away by underdog Roma.
The 2018–19 Champions League quarter-final, where Manchester United had outplayed them across two legs.
He could not help thinking of Enrique, that bastard who had somehow led Barcelona to six trophies in one season.
So how had things turned out like this for him?
Beside him, Messi's eyes carried a shadow of gloom.
Could it be that his era had truly passed?
Deep down, he refused to accept it. Losing last season's Ballon d'Or was one thing, but this season was not over.
If Barcelona could win the Champions League, La Liga, and the Spanish Super Cup, he was confident he could reclaim the honor that belonged to him.
After Barcelona came the Tottenham Hotspur delegation.
At that moment, Son Heung-min's heart was filled with too many emotions to count.
Envy, jealousy, shame, frustration... all of them tangled together until he could barely tell them apart.
For the past two Asian Footballer of the Year awards, Ling had not attended, so the honor had effectively fallen to Son.
But that did not feel like an honor.
It felt like humiliation!
He decided he would not attend the next one either.
Winning an award in that kind of situation only made him more frustrated.
Perhaps this was a rare case in football history, where a player felt worse after receiving an individual prize.
Click, click, click!
The flashbulbs suddenly erupted in a frenzy.
Don't misunderstand.
It was not for the main character of the night, but for Real Madrid!
Zidane's shining head had become a natural reflector under the lights.
Logically speaking, who had suffered the most from Manchester United's resurgence?
Without a doubt, Real Madrid.
Their hope of becoming the first team to win three consecutive Champions League titles since the tournament's restructuring had been shattered by a young man's strength, courage, and absurd hunger.
Not only that, but the collapse had indirectly dragged Real Madrid into decline.
Their performances last season had plummeted, and even now, they had not fully recovered.
"Eden," Zidane said softly, "have you ever thought about winning the Ballon d'Or in the future?"
"Oh, um, of course I have. What player wouldn't want to win the Ballon d'Or?"
Hazard answered, but his mind was actually on the Burger King near the hotel, which surprisingly had the newly released Red Devils beef burger.
He had been craving it for days back in Spain.
By the way, that burger was endorsed by him and Ling.
One was the club's Red Devil.
The other was the national team's Red Devil.
A perfect match!
Zidane looked at him and fell silent.
Faced with a player lacking ambition, he truly did not know what to say.
'If only Florentino Pérez could buy Ling.'
Zidane felt that even if Real Madrid could not replicate the sextuple, at least their hopes in La Liga and the Champions League would immediately rise.
Unfortunately, there were no "ifs" in this world.
When Allegri arrived with Pogba, a wave of boos erupted outside the venue.
Pogba's expression darkened, though since his skin was already... dark, it was not particularly noticeable.
As for Cristiano Ronaldo, he was in his villa in Turin.
Training.
Resting.
Doing whatever helped him convince himself he was the goat.
But no matter what he did, he could not settle his mind. In the end, he turned on the television and watched the Ballon d'Or ceremony anyway.
He wanted to witness it with his own eyes.
And Cristiano intended to turn that sight into motivation, into fuel, into something that would drive him forward again.
...
As stars from various clubs gradually arrived, the atmosphere outside the Théâtre du Châtelet grew hotter and hotter, until at a certain moment, a set of footsteps seemed to interrupt all the grand entrances before it.
"LING!"
"LING!"
"LING!"
The cheers thundered along the banks of the Seine, so fierce that even the biting winter wind seemed to be swept away.
Ling stood at the other end of the red carpet in a sleek black suit.
Beside him was Maria, wearing a simple off-shoulder black dress, elegant without being overwhelming.
She knew exactly who the star of the night was, which was why she had not chosen an extravagant gown.
Her presence was not meant to compete with the lights around Ling, but to complete the picture.
"Let's go."
Ling took Maria's hand and stepped onto the soft red carpet.
At that moment, every lens turned toward him.
The signature wall stood at the end of the carpet, already covered with the names of football's biggest stars. Yet strangely, the very center had been left blank.
There had been no prior arrangement, no hidden rule, no quiet instruction from the organizers. It was simply something the players had done subconsciously, as if even they understood that the center belonged to one person tonight.
Ling accepted the marker from a staff member and wrote his name.
Jeremy Ling.
Two neat, elegant letters became the only signature in that central space.
"Currently broadcasting live is the 2019 Ballon d'Or ceremony!"
"In the frame now is Manchester United and England star Jeremy Ling!"
"Last season, he won the Champions League, Premier League, UEFA Super Cup, Club World Cup, and several other major honors. He also broke multiple scoring records and became the most watched player in world football."
"He is the strongest contender for this year's Ballon d'Or!"
He Wei spent a full three minutes introducing Ling's trophies, records, goal statistics, assists, and basic achievements.
It was almost excessive, but no Chinese fan watching the broadcast felt impatient. On a night like this, every number sounded like music.
"Let me also briefly explain the Ballon d'Or," He Wei continued. "The Ballon d'Or is selected and awarded by France Football magazine. The thirty-player shortlist is chosen by the editorial department of France Football, and the final winner is voted on by a jury made up of professional journalists from around the world, with one representative from each country."
"The main selection criteria are individual performance and honors, both personal and collective, over the past year; the player's talent and fair-play spirit; and the player's overall career."
Fans watching the livestream flooded the screen with comments.
📱 @DongqiudiHot
Look at who's winning this award and what it represents. This isn't just another Ballon d'Or night.
📱 @OldFan1988
Could this be the most symbolic Ballon d'Or in history?
| ↳ 📱 @DataBallCN
| Reply: Hard to say. Messi once had a sextuple and 91 goals in a calendar year, but he still lacked a World Cup. Every era has its own regret.
📱 @YouthCoach
Ling is still only a few days away from turning 22. If he maintains his form, he can still play in multiple World Cups. That means he has time to influence an entire generation.
📱 @BinCityNightOwl
Aim for a 500-point lead. Don't be polite tonight!
Across China, although it was already three in the morning, countless homes still had their lights on.
In Bin City, the city where Ling grew up, the streets were as lively as if it were Chinese New Year.
Food stalls, barbecue joints, bars, restaurants, and late-night shops were all showing the same broadcast.
People who had work the next morning still sat with skewers, beer, tea, or instant noodles in front of them, staring at the screen and waiting to witness history.
"Ballon d'Or."
"Ballon d'Or."
The words were chanted again and again.
...
Boom!
The lights inside the Théâtre du Châtelet went out, plunging the room into darkness.
A heartbeat began to echo through the hall.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The rhythm grew faster and faster, until a faint glow appeared on the giant screen at the front.
The light spread outward, brightened, and finally burst into full bloom as a montage of the Ballon d'Or nominees began to play.
Van de Beek.
Benzema.
Son Heung-min.
Hazard.
Mbappé.
De Gea.
One by one, the faces passed across the screen, until finally only four remained.
Ling.
Messi.
Pogba.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
They were the top four contenders for this year's Ballon d'Or, and the ultimate winner would be chosen from among them.
Clang!
As the theater lights came back on, two people walked onto the stage.
"Good evening, everyone!"
"I am Didier Drogba."
"And I am Sandy Heribert."
A real-life tale of beauty and the beast unfolded at the Théâtre du Châtelet.
"The name of this year's Ballon d'Or winner is inside the envelope in my hand," Drogba said, lifting the envelope with a teasing smile. "Of course, I don't know who it is."
Sandy smiled beside him. "I'm sure everyone here is as curious as we are."
"But unfortunately," Drogba continued, "the organizers require us to present the Kopa Trophy and the Yashin Trophy first, so the big reveal will have to wait until the very end."
"The Kopa Trophy jury is made up of former Ballon d'Or winners," Sandy explained.
"Interesting choices they made," Drogba said, raising his hand toward the screen. "Let's take a look."
The nominees appeared on the screen.
Vinícius.
Havertz.
Gündoğan.
Lunin.
De Ligt.
Sancho.
And finally—
Ling.
Below the ten nominees, the vote counts were not displayed.
Why?
Because most of the others had received very few votes, and showing the numbers would have been embarrassing.
"Ronaldo voted for Ling. Kaká voted for Ling. Owen voted for Ling. Zidane voted for Ling..." Drogba glanced at the card in his hand, then smiled.
"Congratulations to Jeremy Ling, the winner of the 2019 Kopa Trophy!"
As his voice faded, music filled the theater.
A beam of light fell on Ling.
Beside him, Messi's expression became slightly unnatural.
Ahem.
Because he had voted for Sancho!
De Ligt, meanwhile, looked as if he was on the verge of tears.
What had he done to deserve this?
How was he supposed to compete with Ling for the Kopa Trophy?
"Don't forget to keep it brief," Mahrez quickly reminded him from the side. "You still have to go up later."
If Ling used up his acceptance speech on the Kopa Trophy, what would he say for the Ballon d'Or?
He could not just stand there awkwardly.
"Got it."
Ling buttoned his suit jacket and walked slowly toward the podium.
"Next, the previous Kopa Trophy winner, Kylian Mbappé, will present the award to this year's winner," Drogba announced with obvious interest.
Whoever arranged this part of the ceremony was a genius.
Having Mbappé present the award to Ling... wasn't that a little bit of a role reversal?
The Ninja Turtle was also slightly embarrassed.
Traditionally, the presenter should be a senior figure with greater achievements.
But what did Mbappé have right now?
Aside from Ligue 1 and the World Cup, what else could he really show?
'Damn it.'
'Even Ligue 1 felt a little underwhelming in this setting.'
Mbappé tried his best to hide his embarrassment and quickly handed the trophy to Ling.
"Now that you've won this award, do you have anything to say?" Drogba asked, mercifully not making things harder for Mbappé.
"I'm very grateful to all the judges for their votes, and I'm honored to receive the Kopa Trophy."
Drogba waited for another sentence.
Nothing came.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Aren't you a student at the University of Manchester? How come you only speak two sentences?"
"Because I'm majoring in Football Business Management hahaha!"
The Théâtre du Châtelet erupted in laughter.
No offense meant.
It was just a very cold joke.
"Here, I have to criticize my former coach," Drogba said, turning toward Mourinho with a grin. "Ling played under you for so long. Why didn't he learn your eloquence and public speaking skills?"
Mourinho smiled and shrugged. "Well, you didn't learn them either back then, did you?"
The theater filled with laughter again.
"Alright," Drogba said, raising both hands as if surrendering. "The backstage crew has reminded me that this is not a stand-up comedy show, but the Ballon d'Or ceremony."
"Let's move on."
"Next up is the Yashin Trophy."
The atmosphere became slightly more formal again as the screen shifted to goalkeeping highlights.
"He helped Manchester United win the Champions League, Premier League, UEFA Super Cup, Club World Cup, and more. He is the goalkeeper with the most clean sheets in the Premier League over the past decade, the goalkeeper with the most saves in a single Premier League match, and the winner of the 2019 Yashin Trophy..."
Drogba turned toward the audience.
"David De Gea!"
De Gea's grin stretched from ear to ear as he eagerly stepped onto the podium.
The moment the trophy entered his hands, his smile became almost impossible to hide.
"I'd like to thank my teammates, my coaches, my family, and the supporters. This award belongs to all of us."
He thanked many people with the Yashin Trophy in his hands, but he kept it short and quickly descended from the podium.
Because he knew.
Everyone knew.
The entire night had been moving toward one final name.
...
De Gea left the stage with the Yashin Trophy in his hands, still grinning like a child who had just been handed the keys to paradise.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Drogba said, his voice slower than before, "we have reached the award everyone has been waiting for."
The giant screen behind him lit up, and one by one the faces appeared.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Lionel Messi.
Paul Pogba.
Jeremy Ling.
Four names, four stories, four different roads to this stage.
Cristiano Ronaldo sat far away in Turin, watching the ceremony on television.
His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
He had once ruled this award like a king guarding his crown, now he was watching another man walk toward the throne.
Messi sat in the front row, hands folded, his face unreadable.
No one knew whether he was thinking about Barcelona, about last season, or about the years when the Ballon d'Or had felt almost like a private conversation between himself and Cristiano.
Pogba leaned back in his seat, trying to look relaxed, but the boos from the red carpet still lingered in his ears.
As for Ling, he sat calmly in his black suit, Maria beside him, her hand resting lightly over his.
His expression showed neither arrogance nor fear.
It was the look of a man who had fought too many impossible battles to tremble now, even with history only a few words away.
Drogba lowered his head and opened the envelope. For a moment he didn't speak.
He looked at the card, then smiled — a very small smile, but enough for the entire theater to understand.
The cameras pushed closer. Maria's fingers tightened around Ling's hand.
Mahrez leaned forward.
Maguire stopped pretending to be calm.
De Gea, still holding his trophy, stared at the stage with both eyes wide open.
Drogba lifted the microphone. "The winner of the 64th Ballon d'Or by France Football..."
He paused.
"Who is he?"
The screen behind him began to play.
A boy in a Manchester United shirt.
A teenager running at Carrington.
A number 7 walking out at Old Trafford.
Then the football itself: a volley, a header, a solo run, a Champions League night turned upside down, a Premier League record broken, a final conquered — a season where one player seemed to drag an entire era behind him.
Drogba's voice grew stronger.
"He is the boy who inherited a shirt that swallowed men whole... and made it his own."
"He is the forward who broke the Premier League scoring record not once, but twice."
"He is the man who stood three goals down in Europe and treated despair like an opponent to be dribbled past."
"He is the fourth player in history to score a hat-trick in a Champions League final."
"He is the champion of England. He is the champion of Europe. He is the face of Manchester United's Seven-Title season!"
The theater had already begun to rise.
Not fully, not yet — but people were no longer sitting comfortably. They leaned forward, drawn into the moment.
Drogba looked toward the front row.
"And tonight, football does not simply give him an award. It opens the door to a new age."
A final pause. Then his voice thundered through the Théâtre du Châtelet.
"The winner of the 2019 Ballon d'Or is...
"JEREMY LING!"
Boom!
The theater erupted!
Maria covered her mouth, tears instantly filling her eyes.
Mahrez jumped up first, shouting as if United had just scored in stoppage time.
Maguire roared and grabbed De Gea by the shoulders. Matić smiled quietly, and Kanté clapped with that shy little smile of his, as if he'd known all along.
Mourinho stood among the crowd, applauding slowly at first, then harder and harder, his eyes fixed on the player he had protected, sharpened, challenged, and trusted.
Guardiola, sitting not far away, let out a long breath, then clapped too.
No matter how much it annoyed him, his future son-in-law had earned this!
Messi rose and applauded.
Pogba's smile stiffened, but even he had to clap. In Turin, Cristiano Ronaldo stared at the screen for a long time before finally nodding once, as if accepting the challenge rather than the result.
And in China, Bin City exploded.
Food stalls shook with cheers, bars erupted, dormitories screamed.
Parents woke children and children woke parents. In countless homes, people who had stayed awake until dawn watched the golden ball appear on the screen and felt something rise in their throats.
Not all of it was simple joy. Some of it was pride, some regret, some pain.
But all of it was real.
He Wei's voice trembled on the live broadcast. "Ling has won it. Our Ling... has won the Ballon d'Or."
He paused, trying to steady himself. "From Carrington to Old Trafford, from doubt to glory, from a young player carrying impossible expectations to the man standing at the summit of world football... tonight, he becomes the first Chinese-born player to win the Ballon d'Or! Tonight, the name Ling is written into football history."
On stage, Drogba stepped aside and gestured toward him.
Ling stood up, and for a moment he didn't move.
Then Maria leaned closer and whispered something in his ear.
No one else heard it, but Ling smiled.
He buttoned his suit jacket, squeezed her hand, and walked toward the stage, step by step.
"Congratulations. It belongs to you, and you deserve it." Drogba offered his sincere blessing.
Countless beams of light converged on one man as Ling stood on the podium, looking down at the elite of the football world below.
"Well, the Ballon d'Or is the thing I've dreamed about most, over and over, ever since I became a footballer. To be standing here today, I'm truly honored."
"We had a perfect season. We made so much history, achieved things no one had done before. So this award doesn't belong only to me — it belongs to my teammates, the team, the coaches. Without them I could never have won it."
"Most of all, I'm grateful to my parents. I was born in a city that loves football, and I have parents who always supported me. They believed their child would succeed, and they did everything they could to make it happen. Whenever I faced criticism, doubt, or difficulty, they were the strength that kept me going."
To Ling, having parents like that was worth more pride than any success or glory his football career had brought.
A wave of applause rose from the audience again.
In Bin City, Ling Changzheng and Yan Lanxia watched the broadcast with red eyes.
They had never cared whether their son became some kind of king.
But seeing him stand there under the lights, speaking about them in front of the whole world, they felt as if all those years of hardship had finally been answered.
"A very touching speech," Drogba said. "Now, following the ceremony's procedure, I'll ask you a few short questions."
He glanced at the interview card. "First: we all know how disciplined you are, how much effort you've put into football. Can you share your thoughts on that?"
"Of course." Ling smiled. "There's a saying I've always taken as my motto: victory isn't as easy to grab as dandelions on a hillside. The best things never come easily. Championships, honors — each of us worked for them, and fortunately that work paid off."
Enthusiastic applause erupted from below.
Kane, however, listened with a face full of resentment.
What did Ling mean, victory wasn't like dandelions on a hillside?
Why did it sound so easy when he said it? Kane had played football for years and won more than a few league Golden Boots, yet he still hadn't caught a glimpse of a proper championship trophy!
These days he could only use flowerpots as substitutes at home, and he didn't dare invite friends over.
"Fans often compare you to Ronaldo," Drogba continued. "He's here today too. Is there anything you'd like to say to him?" He pointed toward a section of the audience, where Ronaldo waved at the camera with a chubby hand.
"It's an honor to be compared to Ronaldo," Ling said graciously. "He won the Ballon d'Or in 1997 and is still the youngest winner ever. He had a huge influence on me, too — there was a stretch when I watched his videos almost every night, trying to learn the secrets of dribbling and breaking through defenses."
"One last question," Drogba said. "What has Jose Mourinho meant to your career?"
A nostalgic smile spread across Drogba's face.
Together the two of them had built extraordinary glory at Chelsea and filled the club with a stubborn, unyielding spirit.
Remembering those years still stirred something in him.
Joining Chelsea had been the best decision of his life.
"Well, he taught me to hate losing — but also to accept defeat." Ling looked toward Mourinho and smiled.
"When I first came up to United's first team, I'd go to him after every match to review the game. That gave me a real understanding of how tactics work, how they're carried out and coordinated, and it's a big reason I've been able to score so often.
He's also a witty middle-aged man — we joke around all the time, like a close family. In short, I'm glad that in my career I found a coach so dedicated to winning."
Ling gave a slight bow to the audience below.
"My thoughts exactly, back then," Drogba said with a shrug. "The only difference is I never won the Ballon d'Or."
The theater filled with laughter again.
Then, beneath the dazzling lights, Ling stepped down from the podium.