Treble -4
The Copa del Rey final between Real Madrid and Mallorca was underway at Estadio La Cartuja de Sevilla. Mallorca, challenging for their first title in 39 years, faced Real Madrid in their historic bid for a treble—and from the opening whistle, it was one-sided dominance by Real Madrid.
Mallorca center-back Jose Felix was effortlessly shrugged off by Jesus, who slotted a shot through Yoo Youngbeom's near post.
Thwack-!
Yoo Youngbeom proved exactly why he'd been named to the Europa's top 11 this season. Punching Jesus's shot clear over the goal line, he fired up his teammates.
"Vamos!! Get your heads in the game!! Don't lose your mark!!"
Jesus nodded approvingly at Yoo Youngbeom rallying the team, then positioned himself next to Sergio Pepe.
"...Why the hell are you here?"
"Heh heh..."
Sergio Pepe felt a chill at Jesus's glazed eyes and unhinged chuckle, but got no reply. Sensing danger, he tried to edge away—just as Luka Savic lofted a cross. The ball arced toward him. Focused on it, Pepe forgot all about that creepy laugh, timing his leap...
"Urraaaagh-!"
With a primal yell, Jesus barreled in, shoving him to the turf. Stunned by the blindside hit, a curse exploded from Pepe's mouth.
"Puta! Madre!"
Shoving him aside, Jesus met Luka Savic's cross forehead-first for the goal, then sprinted to the corner flag roaring in triumph. Pepe just stared, dumbfounded.
'What the fuck did I do wrong?'
"Vamos-!!"
Sometimes, memories from past loops bubbled up mid-match. In one loop, a close friend became a bitter enemy in the next—all over something trivial.
Back when he played for Atletico Madrid, during a Derbi Madrileño at Santiago Bernabeu, Sergio Pepe had deliberately tripped him, then stomped on his hand. From then on, in that loop, every encounter devolved into trash-talking each other's moms instead of greetings, and Jesus dominated with one-sided beatdowns.
Realizing he couldn't win a pad lip battle against an orphan, Pepe's eyes welled up, begging for mercy—until Jesus finally relented.
Come to think of it, Vladimir Rajovic had thrown a tantrum over his contract renewal offer and transferred to Man United back then. This loop? Cool as ice, re-signed without fuss.
"Puta! Madre! Why the hell you do that to me, you bastard?!"
Sergio Pepe stormed over, face twisted in injustice after getting shoved for no reason. Jesus met his glare head-on.
"'Cause I felt like it!"
Sudden flashback? Bullshit excuse. Truth was, he just wanted to. No deeper reason. Like eating when hungry or sleeping when tired—Jesus shoved Pepe because he damn well felt like shoving Pepe.
Pepe muttered something about talking to a psycho making him the idiot and stormed off. Outwardly pissed, but deep down, he'd be racking his brain for what he'd done.
And sure enough, after stewing, Pepe slunk back for confession.
"Uh... Jesus, about that durian I exploded in your car a month ago... sorry, man. Even I think that was too far."
That was you, you son of a bitch?
Yoo Youngbeom barely clawed away Luis Garcia's shot. The ball sailed over the line—corner to Real Madrid.
He kept tracking Jesus's position. Relief washed over him seeing Jesus lurking outside the box.
'Phew— who the hell shoves their own teammate mid-header?'
Early in the first half, as Yoo prepped to dive on Pepe's jump, Jesus blindsided Pepe for the header. Caught flat-footed, he conceded.
That goal forced Mallorca to scrap their 10-back-to-penalties plan, drop deeper—and Real Madrid exploited the gaps, tormenting Yoo nonstop.
"Felix! Don't lose your mark!"
Luka Savic signaled then crossed. Felix won the aerial duel, clearing it out. But Yoo stayed vigilant. Anyone who'd watched Real Madrid clips knew Jesus ghosted in for screamers from distance.
'He's coming. Gotta be.'
In the chaos of the box, Yoo held focus.
Thwack-!
The shot rang out—he dove on instinct.
Thud-!
Dead on Jesus's favorite corner. Yoo parried it away with an uppercut roar.
"Vamos!!"
Jesus watched, smirking as Yoo bellowed.
Next corner: Yoo claimed Luka Savic's cross, launching a counter. Jose Gaya's shot was smothered by Ter Stegen, but it chilled Real Madrid's spines. As Mallorca's momentum built, Jesus...
Thwack-!
...unleashed a barrage of long-range rockets.
"Puta! Block it! Don't let him shoot!"
Shots rained in from every angle, corners razor-sharp—Yoo's stamina plummeted in real time.
'Why the fuck did I roar after that save?'
Mid self-reflection, another Jesus screamer flew in. Yoo tipped it away with his fingertips.
"Block that bastard!!"
The rebound fell to Jesus Gonzalez. Poised for a tap-in, he stumbled over a Mallorca defender—miskick, but trickling goalward. Everyone froze—then Felix charged, hooking it off the line.
Felix sheepishly tapped Yoo's head.
"Youngbeom! Fuck! Sorry, that Jesus prick plays soccer like absolute shit!"
Yoo burst out laughing—body heavy as lead, but he reset, directing the backline.
"Hold the offside line!"
Felix's clearance went out for a throw. Raphael Obrador hurled it to Luis Garcia. Real Madrid pinged passes, evading pressure. Roberto Fabian ski burst down the right—Jesus stabbed a killer pass.
"Number 18! 18! Stop him!"
Fabian ski skinned the left-back in one touch, entered the box, shot—again denied by Yoo.
Gripping the ball, collapsing in exhaustion— the stadium screens caught it. Real Madrid and Mallorca fans rose in applause.
"Yoo! We'd love you even if you played for Atletico Baleares!"
"Yoo! You ain't dropping to that third-division dump with those idiots, no way!"