Great Wall Explosion: Second Half
The second-half whistle blew after the Great Wall Explosion.
The score was 2-0. We played it cool and steady. Thanks to the ref keeping his eyes peeled like a hawk, it was a proper clash of skill against skill—real football.
"Xi Jinping! Xi Jinping!"
There was the usual noise pollution from the Chinese fans, but fuck if I knew what they were saying. Not Chinese class time, so I ignored it clean.
Tak Go-gang picked up the ball at the halfway line, timing the incoming midfielder's tackle perfectly. He faked leaning left with his upper body, crumbling the guy's balance, then scraped the ball with the sole of his foot for an elegant turn. More practical than a Marseille roulette—pure Tak Go-gang pressure escape.
I took the pass from Tak Go-gang and flicked it one-touch to the wing.
Thud.
Our passes were short and sharp. The ball never stuck to a foot for more than a second. The Chinese chasing it started tripping over their own feet.
"Huff... huff."
The number 8 who'd hounded me relentlessly in the first half was already bent over, gasping.
They were learning the hard way that the ball's faster than people—a simple truth etched into their bodies.
48th minute.
Bong Hyeoksu grabbed the ball just outside the penalty box.
The moment their eyes locked on him, I slipped through the narrow gap between two defenders and signaled.
Bong Hyeoksu's eyes flashed.
Whoosh—
A razor-sharp through ball slicing the grass. A killer pass delivered right to my feet.
The second I shaped for the shot—
Thwack!
A dull thud echoed. A Chinese defender, mistiming it, hurled his body like a beast to block. Less a technical tackle, more a dumb meat shield.
The ball smashed into his side, ricocheted out for a throw-in.
"Ptoo."
Close. A hair faster and I'd have rattled his ribs and the net.
52nd minute. Tak Go-gang's delivery pass gave me a chance. The defender was already leaning to block me, but I faked folding, fooling him into stumbling. Spotting the keeper narrowing the angle, I slotted it corner.
Thud.
The ball rolled clean into the net angle—
The keeper pulled Buffon-level reflexes, toe-poking it away. Drunk Buffon territory—had to clap for that.
56th minute. Corner kick chance. Tak Go-gang stood by the flag and raised his index finger.
The Chinese defense finally gawked, scrambling.
"Shenma Tianma something-something lailaila-cha-cha."
"Fuck, are they chanting a spell?"
The penalty box filled with noise. Tak Go-gang's boot sent the ball flying; I shouldered two defenders aside, creating perfect space.
Crack!
Bong Hyeoksu's forehead cannoned the ball like grapeshot.
A normal team would've tweaked tactics or subbed for a comeback. Not these Chinese fucks.
They exchanged weird glances, like hyenas divvying up who to maul.
Their target? Clear: me, who'd toyed with them first half; Bong Hyeoksu, captain and core attacker/defender; Tak Go-gang, midfield link.
Whenever the ref followed the ball, their filthy limbs struck.
Thud!
Pretending a shoulder charge, an elbow stamped my side. I swallowed a groan, grinned, and ground my stud into his instep.
"Aaaagh!"
"Hurts? Me too."
Their eyes blazed. 'We're losing anyway—might as well snap some Korean ankles.' The arena reeked of it.
Exploiting no VAR in qualifiers, sly blind-spot dogfight. But I'm no stranger to mud. Regression experience doesn't fade.
Over there, Tak Go-gang danced like an eel.
A burly defender charged like a punching bag assault, but Tak Go-gang's fluid dodge left him flailing into empty air, faceplanting pathetically. I could see his mug turning red-purple.
Bong Hyeoksu? Straight-up clash.
A Chinese forward shoved shoulders in provocation; Bong met it head-on.
Thump! The unprepared Chinese flew back.
Bong eyed the downed prick coldly and spat.
Bro'd definitely changed.
Old him would've helped up; now he radiated 'who the fuck you think you are?'
"Chie, shiang!"
Chinese patience hit rock bottom.
Sneaky gropes turned blatant. Football second—cart one Korean off on a stretcher was the vibe.
I waited for it.
Furious beasts are easiest prey.
I deliberately drove into the crowded center, baiting: ball a bit loose off my foot, like come get me.
Hook cast.
Sure enough, number 18—the fidgety midfielder in front—eyes rolled back and lunged.
His eyes locked on my ankle. No slowdown—both feet up, scissoring in.
Classic scissors kick. Dead-on? Ankle ligaments shredded, season over—murder tackle.
'Gotcha.'
Just before his boot hit—
I screamed preemptively, no contact.
"Gaaahhh!"
Jumped, tucked legs. His studs raked viciously under my foot.
Mid-air, I twisted into a dramatic fall.
Simple trip wouldn't cut it. No VAR—acting's key. Needed Oscar artistry. Not Mo Chanhee rat level.
Roll roll roll.
Four and a half turf rolls, clutching ankle.
"Aaaagh! My leg! Leg!"
Writhing like my ankle was severed. Oscar lead actor shit, even by my standards.
Tweeeeeet—!!!
Ref sprinted over, whistle clamped.
Stadium hushed, then massive boos rained on China.
"You fucking dogs!"
"Trying to kill someone?!"
Crowd peaked frenzy. Face in turf, I peeked through slitted eyes.
Number 18 bounced innocently.
"Didn't touch! Wo meiyou! Didn't touch!"
He gestured no foul wildly, too late. Karma backlog huge—ref ain't buying.
Plus my acting slayed.
Ref glanced at my writhing, face hardened, hand to back pocket.
Raised high.
Red card.
'Boss, nice shot.'
Bit lip to stifle laugh.
Kim Jinu and Tak Go-gang charged over with grim faces, shoving the Chinese back.