Anything Can Happen in Five Minutes

The clock had already ticked past the eighty-fifth minute of the second half.

Even the fittest players begin to show their fatigue at this stage of a match. For Southampton—already stretched thin by a shallow squad and a relentless schedule—stamina was draining even faster. Concentration slipped as a natural consequence.

And in that fragile moment, a fatal mistake arrived.

It began at the feet of Southampton’s central defender, Jose Fonte. Raheem Sterling, who had come on as a second-half substitute, charged at Fonte the instant the defender received the ball—a blistering high press built on pure pace.

Fonte turned and played the ball back toward his goalkeeper, intending nothing more than a safe recycle. Under ordinary circumstances the pass would have reached Artur Boruc cleanly, and the keeper would have launched it long. But concentration had frayed. Fonte’s pass was poorly weighted—too soft, so soft it might as well have been a deliberate gift to the nearest Liverpool player.

And Raheem Sterling was exactly that player: explosive speed married to razor-sharp instincts. He did not miss the chance. Thud-thud-thud! He exploded onto the under-hit ball.

“No!”

Fonte’s face twisted in pure despair. He could not bear to watch his own error tear the team apart. Yet Sterling collected the ball with ice-cold composure, rounded the onrushing Boruc, and found himself staring at an empty net. He rolled the finish home with almost casual ease.

Swish—

A late equalizer? No—Liverpool’s go-ahead goal, struck deep into the second half.

Sterling sprinted straight into his manager’s arms while the rest of the Liverpool squad swarmed them in celebration. Inside Anfield the home supporters roared as if they had just claimed the world, throats raw with triumph.

Wooooaaaaahhh!

Southampton’s players, by contrast, hung their heads. Fonte, the man who had made the decisive error, could not bring himself to look up.

Then—

Thud.

A hand settled firmly on his shoulder. Jung Hyuk had appeared at his side without a sound.

“Fonte. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“…We conceded because of me.”

“No. It wasn’t your fault. That kind of thing can happen to anyone. You gave everything for the team. None of us blame you.”

“……”

“So lift your head and play with pride. The match isn’t over yet.”

“Even with stoppage time we’ve got less than five minutes left… Can we still score?”

Fonte looked at Jung Hyuk with naked anxiety, silently begging for the words he needed to hear—that a goal was still possible, that they still had a chance.

Jung Hyuk met his eyes and answered in a calm, even voice.

“Five minutes is enough time for anything to happen.”

“…R-really?”

“It’s more than enough time to score. So just do what you can do.”

“Got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it.”

The heavy shadow that had settled over Fonte’s face lifted. His eyes sharpened with fresh light. Jung Hyuk’s words had planted hope. If it was Jung Hyuk, maybe—just maybe—he could still save them.

Jung Hyuk turned and jogged back to his position. The goal had been conceded; that was done. Now it was time to create the equalizer.

Peeeeep!

The referee’s whistle restarted play. Jung Hyuk moved as if nothing had happened, full of energy. Years of experience had taught him one iron truth: football never reveals its final answer until the last second. Anything can still happen.

One chance. That’s all I need.

He waited for that single opening, certain that if it came he could force the equalizer. Tap. Tap. From the heart of midfield he exchanged short passes with his teammates, advancing patiently. There was no need to rush. Goals explode in an instant; the present moment was for calm, deliberate creation of opportunity.

Liverpool dropped into a defensive shell, determined to protect the lead and see out the remaining minutes.

Then, just as Jung Hyuk received the ball again, a message bloomed before his eyes.

A wide grin split Jung Hyuk’s face. Perfect timing.

With the new boost stacked on top of the already-active One with Strong Stamina (+3), every attribute now carried a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠total of +8. The result was devastating.

Every attribute except tackling now sat comfortably above 80. Stamina and dribbling had climbed into the 90s. And his speed—boosted by the full +8—had reached a staggering 102.

A dribbling rating of 90 and a speed rating of 102 are not mere numbers on a screen. They translate directly into what a player can do on the pitch right now. And Jung Hyuk was proving it in real time.

Whoosh! He blew past Raheem Sterling in a single explosive burst. Sterling was no slouch for pace, yet he could not even stay close. Jung Hyuk tore through Liverpool’s midfield like a fish returned to water, every attribute supercharged by +8. The distance to the defensive line vanished in heartbeats. Daniel Agger and Martin Škrtel both lunged at him in panic.

What followed was pure artistry. With his technique now sitting at 86, Jung Hyuk executed a perfect roulette, flicking the ball with both feet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and slicing between the two centre-backs. Thud! Škrtel and Agger slammed into him with desperate body checks, yet he still forced his way through.

“Wh-what the hell was that?”

Liverpool goalkeeper Simon Mignolet stared in blank disbelief. Jung Hyuk was already on top of him, already striking.

Boom!

The shot was thunderous and laser-precise—more than enough to beat the keeper and rip into the net.

Swish!

The scoreboard flipped to 4–4. Jung Hyuk’s hat-trick goal, born from a storm of a run, had restored parity. He turned to the crowd and roared, making it clear the match was far from finished.

One minute of stoppage time had already elapsed.

“Damn it! How is this even possible?”

Brendan Rodgers’s face twisted. He had taken the Liverpool job late the previous season and entered 2013/14 with genuine title ambitions. He had prepared meticulously and felt confident—even against the Southampton side that had been riding a wave of recent form. The first half had gone well enough; once Southampton went down to ten men he had been certain of victory.

Yet one boy in a Southampton shirt was systematically dismantling every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠plan.

“What the hell is that kid?!”

Rodgers snarled at the celebrating Jung Hyuk. For all the frustration in his voice, he knew exactly who the boy was—the Golden Ball and Golden Boot winner from the U-20 World Cup, a genuine prodigy. Rodgers had even earmarked him as a future Liverpool target. That knowledge only made the regret sharper.

I should have listened harder when Gerrard warned us to be careful.

Jung Hyuk had already been outstanding early in the season, yet Rodgers had still filed him under “promising youngster”—someone who would be erased by a true powerhouse. So he had trusted his own tactics and his own players. The result had been a nightmare: an end-to-end war of attrition, and now another goal conceded to a one-man masterclass. Yes, the defence had momentarily switched off—but the quality of the dribble had been simply too high.

He was this good?

Rodgers ground his teeth. He had no intention of settling for a draw against ten men. Pride would not allow it. Liverpool threw every remaining ounce of energy into an all-out assault.

After the 4–4 equalizer Liverpool began circulating the ball at a noticeably higher tempo, squeezing out the last drops of their strength. In a match where every player was already exhausted, the sudden urgency was genuinely dangerous.

The moment Jung Hyuk saw the shift in their body language, his eyes lit up.

Finally—they’re panicking.

Haste breeds mistakes, even among elite players.

If we stay focused just a little longer, we can win this.

He emptied whatever stamina remained, throwing his body into every challenge, disrupting Liverpool’s build-up with pure willpower. His desperate running set fire to the rest of the Southampton side.

Two minutes of stoppage time had passed. The referee had added three in total. One minute left.

Liverpool kept probing, searching for a crack. Southampton’s players, legs screaming, still found the concentration to hold the line. At last Liverpool went for the aerial route—a high cross aimed at the strikers. But fatigue had dulled even their delivery. Kolo Touré, playing right-back, floated a ball that sailed too long and too high.

Thump— Boruc rose and claimed it cleanly, then immediately hurled the ball toward the nearest red-and-white shirt: Jung Hyuk. Liverpool players swarmed around him, yet the keeper never doubted he would keep possession.

Whoosh! A sharp body feint before the ball even arrived shrugged off one presser. Tap! Jung Hyuk collected it and instantly drove a long pass into the space ahead—straight into the path of a teammate already sprinting at full tilt.

Every Liverpool outfield player had been committed to the attack. The space behind them was empty.

Whoosh—!

The ball arrowed forward. The man racing onto it was Southampton’s striker, Oh Jung-hoon.

Stretch—thud!

Oh Jung-hoon stretched out a long leg and killed the ball. The goalkeeper rushed out. Oh Jung-hoon’s expression hardened as he charged straight at him.

I won’t mess this up again.

One-on-one with the keeper. He intended to finish it, and he intended to maximise every percentage of success. Maintaining full speed, he gave a tiny dip of the shoulder to the left, then exploded right, knocking the ball past the diving Mignolet.

Tap-tap! Tap! Pure pace and timing. The keeper never got close.

Tap!

Oh Jung-hoon rolled the ball into the empty net, then dropped to his knees on the spot, overwhelmed.

“Yes…! Finally…!”

Peeep! Peep!

Full time.

Final score: 5–4.

After a relentless, breathless war of attrition, Southampton had taken the three points.

The instant the whistle blew, every player on the Anfield pitch collapsed onto the grass. They had poured out every last drop of energy; there was simply nothing left. Both sets of supporters remained in their seats long after the final whistle, offering genuine, heartfelt applause to the men who had just delivered a classic.

Jung Hyuk lay flat on his back, chest heaving. It had been a brutal match even for him. Yet a laugh suddenly escaped his lips—because a new message had appeared before his eyes.