The Final Battle of Sangam Field (Finals vs Italy) [Part 2]
The referee’s whistle sliced through the night air of Sangam.
The Italian players stepped onto the pitch wearing easy expressions. A 1–0 lead. Their opponents were exhausted, their spirits broken. If they simply locked the game down for the remaining forty-five minutes, the championship trophy would be theirs.
But then—
“Kill them!!”
A blood-chilling roar erupted from the Korean half. The moment the kickoff whistle sounded, the red jerseys charged like rabid dogs.
“What?!”
Italy’s midfielder Pessina reached for the ball and recoiled in shock. Korea’s forward Im Woo-seung never slowed; he launched his entire body into the tackle. It wasn’t a challenge for the ball. It was a tackle meant to break a man.
Crash!
Pessina went sprawling. The referee blew for a foul, but Im Woo-seung didn’t even pretend to apologize. He simply looked down at the fallen Italian and spat the words out.
“Get up. Stop faking it.”
The faces of the Italian players hardened. The atmosphere had shifted. If the Korea of the first half had been a pack of well-trained young masters, the Korea of the second half was a pack of starving wolves.
Ten minutes into the second half, Italy’s towering defender Romagna leapt for an aerial ball. A black shadow crashed down on top of him. It was Kwon Jae-min.
“Uwaaaaah!!”
Kwon Jae-min rose a full head higher than Romagna. Overwhelming hang time. He hammered the ball down with his forehead and crushed Romagna with his shoulder at the same time.
Thud!
The 190-centimeter Romagna slammed into the turf. The instant Kwon Jae-min landed he beat his own chest and roared. That beast-like aura made the Italian attackers flinch and take a step back.
What the hell is wrong with them? Did they take something?
On the bench, Coach Shim Yong-tae clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white. Tactics? Those had already lost all meaning. The “poison” Gang-cheol had planted in the locker room was forcibly unlocking every last drop of the players’ potential.
Twenty-five minutes into the second half, Korea’s wave after wave of attacks continued, yet Italy’s iron curtain remained solid. Eight men packed inside the penalty box. No space. Not even a needle’s width of room.
Gang-cheol gasped for air as he stared at that fortress. The wound on his head had reopened; crimson blood ran into his eye and ruined his vision. He was forced to see the world through only one eye.
If there’s no space…
Then I’ll make it.
Gang-cheol raised his hand at the top of the arc.
“Give it to me!!”
Kwon Jae-min’s long pass sailed toward him. Gang-cheol cushioned it with his chest. At the same instant three Italian defenders swarmed him—Mandragora, Dimarco, Romagna. The core of Italy’s defense all locked onto Gang-cheol alone.
“You’re not getting past even if it kills us!”
Mandragora yanked on Gang-cheol’s jersey and hung on. But Gang-cheol didn’t try to break through. He simply turned his back and held his ground.
Trait: Master of Space
Like a black hole he pulled every nearby defender into his gravity. More… come closer. Stick tighter. Four defenders piled onto a single man. The pressure felt as if it would crush Gang-cheol’s bones. Yet in that moment the corner of his mouth curled upward.
Got you.
If the defense had collapsed onto him, the opposite side was empty. Gang-cheol reversed the force he had been using to hold them off, toppled backward, and flicked the ball with his heel.
A no-look heel pass.
The ball threaded through the forest of legs and rolled into the vacant left channel. Waiting there, having read Gang-cheol’s eyes alone, was Im Woo-seung, already at full sprint.
“This one’s mine!!”
The ball sat perfectly on Im Woo-seung’s instep. The shot left his foot before the goalkeeper could even react. It flew like a clothesline and buried itself in the far corner.
Boom—!
The net bulged as if it might tear.
Korea 1 : 1 Italy
Scorer: Im Woo-seung | Assist: Ma Gang-cheol
“Waaaaaaaaah!!!!!”
Sangam Field exploded. Im Woo-seung sprinted toward the corner flag, then suddenly changed direction and threw himself into Gang-cheol’s arms.
“Hyung! Hyung! I scored! Did you see?!”
“I saw, you idiot! Well done!”
Players piled on top of one another in pure celebration. The Italian players stood with vacant eyes. They had marked him. They had surrounded him perfectly. And still one monster had collapsed their entire defensive line and threaded the killer pass.
Fortieth minute of the second half. Score 1–1. The match settled into a lull. Both sides were at their limit. Italy began blatantly wasting time—taking a full minute over every goal kick, collapsing theatrically at the lightest contact.
If it goes to extra time, we win.
That was Italian coach Evani’s calculation. The Korean players were surviving on pure willpower; physically they were already spent. Another thirty minutes and muscle cramps would finish them off.
Forty-fifth minute of the second half. Four minutes of stoppage time were shown. Gang-cheol’s vision blurred. His legs no longer obeyed. The muscles in his thighs screamed and threatened to seize. Every breath tasted of iron, as if his lungs were tearing.
A system window flashed blood-red across his sight.
[WARNING] Stamina has reached 0%.
[STATUS] Pushing past physical limits. Injury risk: EXTREME.
[WARNING] If you do not stop immediately, your career as a player may be permanently compromised.
Stop?
Don’t make me laugh.
Gang-cheol bit down on his lip until blood welled. The pain anchored his mind. Before the regression he had spent thirty-five years of nights drowning in alcohol after injury forced him out of the game. Compared to that hell, this moment was pure happiness. He didn’t care if his legs broke. He would finish it here.
One last time… just one last time.
Forty-eighth minute of the second half (93rd minute overall). One minute left in stoppage time. Italy’s final corner-kick chance. Every Italian player flooded into the Korean half, hunting one last shot.
The ball came in. Goalkeeper Shin Geun-beom punched it clear. The clearance sailed far beyond the penalty box, toward the halfway line. No one was there.
No—someone was.
Only one man.
Ma Gang-cheol had stayed at the halfway line, waiting for exactly this moment.
“Run!!”
Shin Geun-beom’s shout and Gang-cheol’s explosive start came as one. Italy’s last defender, Romagna, sprinted after him. Two men racing for the ball. Gang-cheol’s legs felt like lead, yet he was burning his very soul.
The Last Dance
Consumes life force to lock all physical abilities at their prime for 30 seconds.
His heart hammered as if it would burst. Gang-cheol’s speed multiplied exponentially.
“Wh-what?!”
Romagna’s eyes went wide. The kid who moments ago could barely walk was suddenly accelerating like a Ferrari. Gang-cheol reached the ball first.
“No!”
Romagna lunged and seized Gang-cheol’s jersey with both hands, dragging him backward. He had to foul him if that was what it took.
Riiip—!
Gang-cheol’s jersey stretched to the tearing point. Any ordinary player would have gone down. Gang-cheol never stopped. He kept running with Romagna still hanging off him. Thirty-five years of resentment. That heavy, smoldering rage poured into his legs.
“Out of my wayyyyy!!”
Gang-cheol shrugged his shoulder free.
Crack!
Romagna could not withstand the monstrous strength and was flung away. He tumbled across the grass and stared in despair at Gang-cheol’s back.
No one left in front of him. One-on-one with the goalkeeper. Thirty meters remaining.
All sixty thousand spectators in Sangam Stadium rose as one. The commentators, Coach Shim Yong-tae, every player on the bench—every single person held their breath. Time itself seemed to slow.
Gang-cheol dribbled forward. Even the sound of his own breathing vanished. Only the goal and himself remained. Italian goalkeeper Zacagni rushed out, narrowing the angle. Gang-cheol’s eyes turned ice-cold.
Shooting isn’t about power.
Aguero’s words from the Manchester City training ground flashed through his mind.
Watch the keeper’s knees. Roll it the opposite way they bend.
Gang-cheol swung his ankle hard as if to blast a shot. The goalkeeper flinched and threw himself. In that instant Gang-cheol relaxed his ankle and lightly scooped the underside of the ball.
A chip shot.
The ball traced an elegant parabola over the goalkeeper’s fingertips. Everything felt like a frozen frame. The ball floated slowly, so slowly… and nestled into the net.
Swish.
“……”
One-tenth of a second of absolute silence.
Then—
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!”
It was not a cheer. It was an explosion. A roar that threatened to tear the stadium apart erupted from every throat. Gang-cheol did not celebrate. He could not. The moment he confirmed the ball had crossed the line, the strength left his legs and he collapsed face-first onto the grass.
The referee checked his watch and raised the whistle to his lips.
Beeeep, beeeep, beeeeeeeep—!!
“We won! We actually won!”
The players on the bench poured onto the pitch like a bursting dam. Kwon Jae-min dropped to his knees and sobbed openly. Im Woo-seung ripped off his jersey and screamed like a madman. Coach Shim Yong-tae locked arms with his staff and wiped away tears.
Teammates swarmed the fallen Gang-cheol.
“Gang-cheol! Get up! We won, you crazy bastard!”
“Hey! Ma Gang-cheol! We did it!”
Park Jin-ho shook Gang-cheol’s body. Gang-cheol’s eyes fluttered open. He saw his hyungs’ faces—ugly, tear-streaked, snot-covered faces. Yet they were the most beautiful faces in the world.
Fireworks burst above the night sky of Sangam.
Boom! Boom!
Multicolored sparks reflected in Gang-cheol’s bloodied eyes.
We did it…
He tried to smirk, but his mouth wouldn’t lift. He was simply too exhausted. Sensation was draining from his entire body. Yet from deep in his chest something hot kept rising. It was not mere joy. It was the triumph of having rewritten his own fate with his own hands.
In the broadcast booth the commentator’s voice cracked with emotion.
“Are you watching?! The Republic of Korea stands at the summit of the world! And at the center of it all is a fifteen-year-old boy hero—Ma Gang-cheol! Today we have witnessed the birth of a new legend!”
Supported by Park Jin-ho and Kwon Jae-min, Gang-cheol forced himself upright. He could barely stand. The blood-soaked bandage had come loose and fluttered in the wind. That desperate yet majestic sight drew tears and a standing ovation from every spectator.
“Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!”
Gang-cheol slowly spread both arms toward the stands, accepting every cheer and every glory with his whole body.
The system window displayed its final message.
Miracle Maker, huh…
He liked the sound of it.
Leaning on his teammates’ shoulders, Gang-cheol looked up at the night sky. The moon was bright. The night at Sangam stretched long.
And the memory of this day would remain forever—the overture of the “Last Dance” he would never forget, even on the distant future day when he stood as the greatest player in the world and lifted the Ballon d’Or.