Chapter 108
Chapter 108
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 108
Chapter Title: Must Grow (8)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The Gunners watching the match live couldn't hide their frustration at Bolton's lightning-fast equalizer.
- <MainPakFan>: This f***ing s***@#$%^dAKJ! F*** YEAH!!!
- <WengerBallLover>: What the hell is this?! How do we blow another lead like that?!
- <DogshitArteta>: Knew it. Same old playbook! Dominating then a random red card or late goal! Absolute moron!
- <FullPersie>: F***, struggling this hard against Bolton of all teams... Sigh! Is this an EPL side? Drop to the Championship and win that already!
Meanwhile, the Wanderers were thrilled for entirely different reasons.
- <BaldyYear3>: Quiiiick—! As a fellow baldy, I f***ing love Floyd!
- <HypeBinShot>: Damn, Floyd's on fire today. Looks like peak Lucas Moura in his prime.
<TottenhamRookieHarryKane>: Yeah, spot on. Like Lucas Moura in the CL semis against Ajax. LOLOLOL
- <JeongwooLove>: Manager Ma Jeong-woo has it all planned out, ahem!
* * *
"Goddamn Artetaaaah—!"
"You're killing Arsenal!"
"Get out! Get the hell out of the Emirates right now!"
As the score hit 4-4, the Gunners lost their minds.
A few near the fence pointed furiously at Arsenal's technical area—not Bolton's—and hurled trash.
In the midst of it all, Arsenal pulled another card.
[Van Cortrell Out, Martin Ødegaard In]
The commentary team shouted at the top of their lungs.
[Arsenal bringing on Martin Ødegaard late in the game!]
[But with only about five minutes of stoppage time left, what's the point?]
[Arsenal won't want a replay! They'll throw everything they've got!]
[Ultimately, a failure in the starting lineup! They underestimated Bolton!]
From the 2018-2019 season, FA Cup replays were allowed up to the third round.
If the match ended like this, Arsenal stood to lose big.
They had the North London Derby against Tottenham just four days away.
A draw would squeeze in an extra replay against Bolton amid their packed schedule.
For Arsenal, desperate to rack up points, it was a nightmare scenario.
Not to mention the fitness hit.
"Martin! Focus on playmaking from the front! If you see space, fire those forward passes without hesitation...!"
Mikel Arteta yelled desperately.
His pupils trembled with unease.
Everything had gone off script.
"Can't get this unlucky...!"
Beside him, assistant coach Steve Round let out a lament.
Arteta felt exactly the same.
Aside from Adebayor's opener, they'd conceded three goals they didn't have to.
'And all deflections...!'
Another shock.
In the tapes they'd reviewed, Quick Floyd was just a dribbler.
But since the second half kicked off, he'd unleashed ten shots already.
Stoppage time: 2 minutes 31 seconds.
Tweet—!
[Quick Floyd again—!]
Floyd approached the penalty box and unleashed a shot from the edge.
This time, Arsenal keeper Karl Heinen didn't budge.
Simple reason.
[Oh! It sails well over the crossbar!]
Floyd's shot volume had exploded like a dam breaking.
His teammates deserved credit too.
From Pak's halftime sub, Shearer Kane's off-ball runs dragged defenders wide.
Floyd's confidence now pierced the skies.
'I scored three...!'
Against Arsenal, no less.
First was an own goal, second grazed the keeper's head but counted as his.
Third started as his before flipping to Tomiyasu Takehiro's own goal.
Whatever. A small smile crept across Floyd's gritted teeth.
'I can do this...!'
Arsenal visibly rattled from his three strikes.
That's right.
They were human too!
He repeated Jeong-woo's words in his head—and out loud.
'Whatever happens when you shoot, second balls will come your way.'
"Ball's round anyway...!"
Thud—!
The instant he finished, Floyd planted his foot on the left edge of the box again.
Unlike before, the holding midfielder approached hesitantly from up front, looking spooked.
Bang—!
As the guy closed to three steps, Floyd whipped in a right-footed shot without pause.
Aiming dead for the right post.
'Doesn't have to go in!'
That moment, the prodigy shifted right half, slicing through defenders.
Left-back Nunu Tavares chased Pak but suddenly furrowed his brow.
Tap—!
His outstretched leg clipped Pak's right ankle.
Just before clearing the area, but Pak's dive was unreal.
Crash—!
Like he'd planned it, Pak tumbled toward goal like a mortar pestle.
Body fully committed.
Riiiing—!
Floyd's aimed shot smacked the post and ricocheted down for the first time in ages.
Arteta, watching from afar, flinched.
An ominous sound rang in his ears.
Tap—!
"What the... "
He even let out a bitter laugh.
One eye twitched uncomfortably.
It looked like slow motion.
The ball, bouncing down, hit Pak—who'd rolled like a hoop right to the goal line—on the ass and deflected again.
Splash—!
* * *
[Paaaak—!]
The commentators shouted, butts lifting from their seats.
[Pak scores what might as well be the winner—!]
[Let's check the replay—!]
[Oh! He's rolling! Keeps rolling! Losing balance in the area, Pak tumbles all the way to the line! Bouncing like a live fish!]
Luck followed the ball again.
Arsenal keeper Karl Heinen was helpless against the double deflection.
"Raaaaah—!"
Prodigy Pak sprang up roaring.
Stoppage time now past four minutes.
But Pak saw it.
From keeper Karl Heinen to Rob Holding, most Arsenal players stood rooted, feet planted, stares vacant.
He realized it instantly.
This goal had broken their will completely.
Meanwhile, the Wanderers danced in the away end, jumping in place.
Waaaaaaaaah—!
Amid over 40,000 Gunners, the mere 3,000 Wanderers' roar was conquering the Emirates.
"Yesssss—!"
Pak just kept running.
At the end stood none other than Floyd.
He was sniffling, on the verge of tears.
"I... I did it again... Sniff!"
Whoosh—!
Pak bear-hugged Floyd and yelled.
"Coach was right! Second ball chances no matter what!"
Owen, arriving late, wrapped both in his arms and grinned.
Then to Floyd:
"Nice one, Quick! Next time, lemme snag one too!"
Smack—!
Someone else smacked Floyd's bald shiny head.
Stoppage time: 6 minutes gone.
Beep, beep, bweeeeeep—!
The ref blew full time.
Most Arsenal players collapsed on the spot.
Rob Holding grabbed a water bottle by the post, took a sip, then hurled it viciously.
"FUUUCKAAAA—!"
Holding roared, veins bulging in his neck.
Arteta, rooted in the technical area, could only watch bitterly.
"Good work."
Assistant Steve Round offered a detached greeting.
He sensed his Arsenal fate ended with this match.
Trash rained harder from the sky now.
Stewards scrambled to stop furious hooligans scaling fences.
"Miiiikaaaah—!"
One fan screamed like he'd met his mortal enemy.
"..."
Arteta just stood like a statue.
Still, he mulled it over.
'Why did we lose...'
He felt wronged.
Bolton turned lucky chances into goals galore.
But on second thought... giving those chances was the problem.
'No proper marking...'
Not just Quick Floyd—from Pak to Sensuous, Owen—they slipped away repeatedly.
Turned into a shootout.
On pure talent, Arsenal's squad outclassed Bolton's.
Even in their slump.
Suddenly, Pep Guardiola's advice resurfaced.
'Better go full strength.'
Regrettably, Arteta hadn't.
The match mattered, but rotation was key for what followed.
He thought he'd mixed starters and bench well... but it backfired.
Felt like he'd been pummeled in a slugfest.
Another surprise.
'Ma...!'
Now he got it, a bit.
Why Pep gave that advice.
Bolton had Ma, the capable force.
Conceding hurt.
But tactically, Ma was the real threat.
'He read every move...'
Guard up? Useless.
Protect the face, gut got hit. Offer space? He never bit.
'Like... he knew everything.'
Right then.
Swoosh—!
A hand extended.
Mikel Arteta stared at the callused palm, then slowly looked up.
Ma Jeong-woo stood two steps away, black hair slicked back.
Instead of shaking, Arteta murmured low.
"What do you think was my downfall?"
Jeong-woo stared at Arteta.
Behind the detached face, those eyes shook wildly.
Genuinely curious.
Jeong-woo lowered his offered hand gently.
Then, with a sly smirk:
"I know you. But you knew Bolton—not me."
That was it.
Step—!
Jeong-woo shoved both hands in his suit pockets and brushed past Arteta indifferently.