Chapter 118
Chapter 118
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 118
Chapter Title: FA Cup Quarterfinals (8)
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Thwung-!
[Owen Doyle crosses it to the far side...!]
[Oh, Pak smashes it—!]
The commentators shouted.
It was right then that Pak tore down Manchester United's left flank at an insane speed.
"Crazy...!"
Solskjær's body trembled faintly.
The ball soaring from the right side dropped precisely and swiftly right at the spot where Pak was arriving.
Diogo Dalot immediately went in with a front tackle, but it was too late.
Tuk-!
The moment Pak played a back pass, Quick Floyd cut across hiMad Dog took off with the ball.
"Block him—! Foul him if you have to!"
Solskjær bellowed, veins bulging in his neck.
At his shout, Lindelöf charged forward from the halfway line toward Floyd approaching the area.
Swish-!
[Ooooh! Cruyff turn—!]
Floyd used Lindelöf as a pivot to shake him off and immediately unleashed a right-footed shot.
The commentators jumped to their feet before letting out disappointed sighs.
[Argh! The shot flies way past the post!]
But they didn't get a chance to sit back down.
Just two minutes later, and then three minutes after that, Bolton kept pressing with long counterattacks and short counters.
Solskjær's heart sank for a moment, and now rage piled on top, making sweat pour from his entire body in frustration.
'Damn it all!'
The instant extra time began, the opponents unleashed a barrage as if they'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Of course, they also smartly pushed up their defense, pressing like total football.
Their attack was fierce, but overall, they were starting to lock it down from the front.
Led by star Pak and Sensuous Rough up top.
'Frank and David are box-to-box...!'
They'd only run in their defensive zones too, so they still had gas left.
No, even so, this was ridiculous.
'How much stamina training have they been doing...!'
The two defenders were blatantly preparing for counters.
Meanwhile, United's attack line had dulled significantly compared to the first half.
Extra time first half, 4th minute. Bruno Fernandes lofted a perfect lob pass over the defenders' heads, but that was it.
Tuk, tuk, thuuk-!
[Argh! Bruno's pass bounces straight out over the dead ball line!]
[It looked like he was aiming for Ronaldo...!]
[Ronaldo couldn't even step into the area, pressured by Frank Gerrard and then screened by Dignity!]
Even amid the frustration of repeated swamp football, Ronaldo kicked at the innocent turf.
Extra time 5th minute. Finally, Solskjær made the call.
[Edinson Cavani In, Cristiano Ronaldo Out!]
The commentators were stunned.
[Oh! Manchester United! They're subbing off Cristiano Ronaldo for Edinson Cavani!]
The Red Devils in the stands buzzed in shock.
"No way...! He's still got that one shot in him!"
"I say we should've pulled him ages ago! That guy's just been camping in the box hunting goals! Zero team play!"
Meanwhile, the Wanderers applauded.
Not out of respect, but a mocking, provocative clap.
Ronaldo shot a furious glare at the fourth official.
"What? No, why?!"
Ignoring the broadcast cameras, he hopped in outrage.
His face crumpled as he crossed the pitch, venting at Solskjær.
"I can still run! I can do it! Damn it!"
For Ronaldo, his pride was shattered.
He'd planned to play only the first half, yet he'd gone into extra time. And when his eyes met Manager Ma's by chance, his brows furrowed deeply.
Ma was grinning, mouthing it crystal clear.
"You're the worst today."
He curled his lips mockingly and thumbs-downed him.
Solskjær ignored Ronaldo completely.
For him now, winning this match mattered more than Ronaldo's goals.
Even a win now would just be a pyrrhic one.
'I've already taken all the heat I can!'
Even now, abuse rained down from the away stands aimed at him.
Amid it all, Ronaldo stormed straight off not to the bench, but through the tunnel.
Tossing his jersey aside.
Whatever. Michael Pallin spoke next to him in a slightly subdued tone.
"At least we subbed him now."
"..."
Solskjær clamped his mouth shut.
He hated how Pallin always acted like a know-it-all.
But now in extra time, he had no choice but to heed Pallin.
'Rotten...!'
Extra time 10th minute.
Taaang-!
[David de Geaaaaah—!]
The commentators rose from their seats shouting.
The long kick from his toes crossed the halfway line in an instant.
Then their eyes widened like saucers.
[Ooooh, Edinson Cavaaaniii—!]
Cavani, lingering on Bolton's defensive line, spun and bolted forward without warning.
That alone shattered Bolton's back four in a heartbeat.
"Eek!"
Quick center-back Dennis Slip closed the gap with every ounce of strength from the right flank.
Thwung-!
Just then, the ball bounced once in front of Cavani's feet. He controlled it forward with his instep, refining it perfectly.
'Is there a rubber band between his foot and the ball or what...?!'
Stunned by the insane control, Slip stretched his leg desperately.
'Now!'
Timing it as the ball edged forward, he went for a sliding tackle to clear it.
Thwung-!
"Huh?!"
A dumb noise escaped Slip's mouth.
Cavani's sneaky left-footed instep flick shot came faster than his lunge.
"Th-this...!"
At that moment, Bolton keeper Screech panicked and backpedaled frantically.
He leaped with all his might, nearly falling backward.
The ball dropping under the crossbar was crystal clear in his sight.
But too late.
Clang-!
[GOOOOOOOOOOAL—!]
[Maaaanchester Uuuunited—!]
The commentators didn't just stand—they hopped in excitement.
Ooooh oh oh oh oh—!
While the Wanderers fell silent, the thousand-odd Red Devils jumped like they were in their own pub.
Edinson Cavani, scoring just five minutes after subbing in, let out a short roar, dropped to one knee, and fired off his arrow celebration.
"Yes!"
Only then did Solskjær swing a clenched fist with a face full of joy.
"Damn it."
Ma Jeong-woo's face twisted slightly. The coaches around him sighed deeply too.
They'd hoped when Bolton came out aggressive right at extra time's start.
Soon, Jeong-woo shrugged.
"Can't do much about this."
It was purely Cavani's wonder goal.
Even world-class defenders and keepers would've struggled to stop that.
"Well... yeah."
Hee-won nodded with a deflated face at Jeong-woo's mutter.
* * *
Extra time second half.
Adebayor huffed ragged breaths through gritted teeth.
Yet he recalled it.
'Don't overdo it. Just positioning up top is threat enough.'
That was what Jeong-woo had said during the brief extra-time halftime.
But he couldn't deny the greed bubbling up.
'Even if they score first..., we won't push further.'
Jeong-woo had added.
Beating United now would be near-miraculous.
He'd conceded one in the extra-time halftime break but praised them instead.
Dragging United to extra time was as good as beating them.
'That makes sense..., but Boss...!'
United scored in extra time first half 10th minute, but the Red Devils' joy was fleeting.
They quickly realized reality, all staring at the pitch with grumpy faces.
Some fans near the fence, shirts off, yelled.
"Don't settle for one goal, huh? If that's it, we'll slash all your tires!"
"Press them! Keep attacking and crush Bolton!"
Even United players, after a brief celebration, focused more on attack than defense.
They wore frustrated expressions too.
'Still stinging from the pride hit?'
They'd barely scored once against a League One side.
Truth was, Adebayor knew.
Manager Ma hadn't expected victory from the start.
Instead, he'd dragged United into this slog, sapping their stamina as much as possible. Smearing shit on United's path ahead—that was Ma's plan.
So they'd already hit the goal.
But now he was getting pissed.
'You lot might be pride-hurt, but I'm pissed right now!'
Madness flickered in Adebayor's eyes.
"The best scenario was..., penalties."
Jeong-woo smirked, folding his arms.
Current time: extra time second half 7th minute. Score: 1-0.
Eight minutes left till end.
Enough time to chase a turnaround.
But no plans for reckless all-out attack.
They kept using Pak and Sensuous Rough for side penetrations, Adebayor as target man for counters.
'Now it's just hoping for that one moment.'
Nothing more.
Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
'Send everyone forward, and all our work could go to waste.'
United hadn't parked the bus.
Right after scoring, threats poured led by subbed-in Cavani.
Flat out: attack vs. attack, and Bolton gets crushed.
'Cavani's a line-breaker master. Lifting it high just serves them dinner.'
Plus Jadon Sancho, Marcus Rashford, Bruno Fernandes could rip sides and center on individual skill.
Since Cavani came on, their performances were reviving.
'If Ronaldo had played till extra time end, things might've differed a bit.'
Ronaldo was a suppressant of sorts.
So Solskjær finally woke up late, or Pallin gave harsh advice—one or the other.
You could tell from their more aggressive tension now.
Jeong-woo wrinkled his nose.
"When the tide comes in, paddle hard."
Ability gaps between players were massive from the start.
So he'd covered with two-back tactics, focused on draining their stamina.
Then in extra time grind, gained stamina edge for counter threats.
"It's come to this, but still."
Second-best result achieved.
If it ends like this, United wins but eats all the shit.
"We did more than we could."
Never aimed for FA Cup from the start.
But even folding here, Bolton gained plenty.
Streaking wins vs. big teams boosted recognition, prize money, broadcast fees galore.
Still a bit regrettable.
Then, Jeong-woo's eyes caught a player.
"Huff, huff-!"
Adebayor kept moving ceaselessly up top.
Obvious his stamina was shot.
Yet when his team had the ball, he stuck to Maguire and Lindelöf, screening to disrupt.
Jeong-woo chuckled.
"That bastard hasn't quit."
"Huff, huff-!"
Ragged breaths burst from his mouth now.
Subbed in second half, minimal movement like vs. Arsenal.
Still, tussling with defenders like Harry Maguire, Victor Lindelöf drained him plenty.
Pfft.
A laugh slipped out.
Stamina built round by round, yet vs. EPL-level defenders, it plummets like this.
'Fucking...! Every shoulder bump feels like damage!'
Realizing his body was way worse than before. Ironically, another thought hit.
'Still... pretty doable?'
Felt surprisingly manageable.
Proved time building his body wasn't wasted.
Then Jeong-woo's words resurfaced.
'Hang in there, keep enduring. Make United's back four babysit you, can't join buildup.'
Instruction before extra time second half.
Maybe Jeong-woo believed in him more than he did himself. Issuing that order.
Then.
From left flank, Pak grabbed the ball and drove forward, forward again.
With Sensuous Rough on right, they eyed hiMad Dog pierced fullback gaps like scripted.
Both looked to Adebayor.
'These idiots...'
Heart pounded. Felt like these morons eyed only him.
Sensing danger, Maguire and Lindelöf pressed closer. He didn't evade.
Instead spun and charged like a bull.
Thwack-!
[Oh! Adebayor! He just powers through!]
Maguire and Lindelöf, charging in, staggered back from Adebayor.
He felt alive bursting that gap.
[Ooooh Adebayor!]
Sprint barely three steps before Maguire stubbornly shoved from the side, halting him quick.
But after, Adebayor kept eyeing line breaks.
Thwack-!
Didn't shy from physicals vs. Maguire and Lindelöf.
'Physicals still holding...!'
Maguire wobbled a bit; vs. Lindelöf, he even had edge.
"Good job. Ugh! Holding off United like this is huge."
Hee-won said.
His eyes rimmed red with emotion.
"Look at this, all praise articles."
Checking real-time news on his phone, even more moved.
[ Bolton Wanderers! Double squad battling United tooth and nail...!]
[Manchester United! A win's no win!]
As planned, everyone slamming United.
Then Hee-won puzzled.
"Our brother's burning his last embers...!"
Hee-won watched the pitch, eyes misting, sniffling.
Adebayor, minutes from end, hounding relentlessly.
Meanwhile, Jeong-woo checked time, smirked at Adebayor suddenly raging like he'd downed a potion.
"What a guy. Temper still world-class."
Regret lingered minutes ago, but ending like this felt satisfying.
But Adebayor now—no.
He burned his body screaming.
'Fucking hell, can't let this match end like this!'
Just then, Jeong-woo's eyes flashed sharply.
Adebayor stirring chaos up top, disrupting United's shape.
Swish-!
Jeong-woo didn't miss, raising his hand.
'Fine, damn it. Even if we don't win, it's cheese.'
* * *
Extra time second half 14th minute.
'We won!'
Ole Gunnar Solskjær was convinced now.
Barely a minute left.
So he slowly dropped United's line back.
Wanted another goal, but seemed reckless.
Bolton kept relentlessly countering behind.
'Futile thrashing won't work.'
No even slim chances left.
Better drop line and finish it.
Pwaaang-!
Just then, Bruno Fernandes, driving from their center circle under pressure, just hoofed it long.
Bolton's right-back Delicate chased desperately toward the corner flag.
Solskjær smirked lazily.
Clack-!
Even snagging it just before dead ball line, smile stayed.
Thwung-!
Pushing it forward again changed nothing.
'We're parked already.'
Frank Gerrard, back to halfway, rolled short left on receive.
Tuk-!
'Owen...!'
Even if to Owen, Solskjær didn't care.
'Make defense ironclad...!'
But he couldn't finish the thought.
From Owen receiving, huge shift hit Bolton.
Thwung-!
Thwung-!
Sensuous Rough and Pak sequential counters from flanks scattered the defensive line again.
Not just them.
[Ooooh! Frank Gerrard! David Dignity!]
[Quick Floyd too...!]
Instant Owen got it, all Bolton players surged forward like into flames.
Piercing center-back, fullback, midfielder gaps, shattering balance.
"Ridiculous...!"
Solskjær was dumbfounded.
Next was obvious.
"Lob pass? Huh?"
No goal threat from there.
So lob incoming...!
Tuk, tuk-!
Solskjær's brow twitched.
Wrong.
[Ooooh! Owen Precise! Advances! Advances again!]
Owen exploiting dropped United defense, driving forward.
Belatedly sensing danger, Solskjær roared.
"Jadon!"
Closest to Owen was Jadon Sancho.
Block via him.
Too late.
Jadon Sancho leaped powerfully, but Owen already advanced over 5m left from United's center circle.
From there, shot range.
Pwaaang-!
Owen's shot rocked eardrums with power.
Ball rocketed toward United goal like lightning.
"Shit...!"
Harry Maguire leaped desperately from area edge to clear—didn't reach.
David de Gea crouched max, stamping feet.
Panicked too.
'Huge swerve...!'
No-spin shot, bouncing wildly up-down, trajectory unpredictable.
'Leaning left a bit...!'
Before thought finished—whiiiiiish! Ball whistled cold wind into far post corner.
Tiiiing-!
Post screamed loud.
For a split second, de Gea relieved.
Without post, definite goal.
Feet still planted proved it.
'Couldn't predict...!'
But de Gea's eyes bulged.
"Move, you fuckers!"
Thwack-!
Chaotic box, Adebayor bulled between Lindelöf and Dalot, eyes blazing.
Like ripping doors, he forced into goal area.
Tuk-!
Chest-trapped the far-post ricochet, dropped to turf.
"No, fuck! @[email protected]!"
De Gea gibberished wildly for a second, charging out.
Pwaang-!
Adebayor instep-whipped the rebound hard right then.
Whiiiish-!
"Huh!"
De Gea, one step out, head snapped back at soaring ball—froze.
Ball razor-grazed nose tip.
Pupils shook like earthquake.
Clang-!
Extra time second half 15th minute. Net rippled, Wanderers' roar erupted.
They chanted: not over yet.