This tactic left them wide open to a counterattack.
With all the tall defenders pushed forward for aerial duels, and most players crowded near the opponent's penalty area, the risk was obvious—a single long ball, a sharp through pass, or even a solo run could lead straight to goal.
"No! Don't push up—get back!" Su Hang called Woodgate, who was about to challenge for the header, back into position. "Defend! Everyone back!"
"Hold out for the last two minutes!"
The commentator quickly caught on.
"Oh! Real Madrid is giving up this scoring opportunity. Su Hang is signaling his teammates to drop back and defend."
"They won't be lofting the free kick into the box."
"But if Roma score next, will they regret letting this chance go?"
Su Hang's decisiveness caught Zidane and the others off guard.
It was a choice he alone would bear.
If Roma scored and knocked Real Madrid out of the Champions League, the fans would tear him apart.
But if he hadn't made the call and the team conceded on the counter, the blame would fall on the defenders and goalkeeper—not on him as a forward.
"This guy…" Figo had dropped back past the halfway line, a mix of admiration and surprise in his eyes.
Su carried real responsibility.
Only Ronaldo, Morientes, and Owen stayed up near the edge of Roma's box, ready to contest the ball.
On Roma's side, apart from Cassano and Totti, everyone was back.
Three against eight—there was no real chance of scoring.
Zidane stood over the ball.
"Zizou, let me take it." Su Hang gestured toward midfield, meaning Zidane should retreat and help defend.
That way, if Roma broke forward, they'd have an extra man in the back.
Besides, even if Su Hang went forward, it would still be four against eight—not much better.
Zidane nodded and moved back to the center circle.
The stands erupted in boos and jeers.
"Cowards! Wimps! Is this how Real Madrid plays?"
"Real Madrid? More like yellow turtles!"
"They're just a circus! Pathetic!"
"This is an insult to football! And they call themselves Galácticos?"
"I've never seen such cowardly Galácticos! And La Liga dares call itself the best league in the world?"
"Get out of this stadium! Cowards aren't welcome here!"
Roma fans knew that once Real Madrid committed to defending, they had no chance of breaking through in the last two minutes. Their hopes of dragging Madrid into chaos were dead.
Noise levels in the stadium broke past 100 decibels—every shout a Roman insult.
Real Madrid's stars on the pitch were fuming, and the fans watching from home were sick to their stomachs.
Still, for the sake of advancing, they accepted the cautious approach.
Meanwhile, in Madrid, Florentino Pérez frowned.
He hadn't brought all these superstars to turn Real Madrid into cowards.
The club should have the bearing of nobility.
The presence of a true powerhouse.
Even in the face of a trap, they should crush it underfoot—not shy away.
Otherwise, what set Real Madrid apart from the rest of the world's giants?
"Su Hang, you're Real Madrid's Crown Prince. You should know what this club needs most." Florentino muttered. "Real Madrid doesn't settle for a draw. Real Madrid wants victory."
"We'd rather die chasing it than survive by hiding."
"You… have disappointed me greatly."
Bang!
Florentino hurled his glass to the floor, startling both his assistant and the renowned South American agent Figer.
Figer, agent to Luxemburgo, understood perfectly what Florentino meant—there was a reason he was a heavyweight among agents.
"Actually, Su Hang's performance surprised me," Figer said. "He's so mature—nothing like a nineteen-year-old."
"He could captain most teams. But…"
Florentino looked at him.
"He lacks that sharp edge young players should have," Figer continued. "Without it, no matter how well he plays, he'll just be another Raúl."
"And Real Madrid doesn't need another Raúl."
"To be blunt, Cristiano Ronaldo—Ferguson's golden boy—fits Madrid's image more than Raúl."
"That arrogant, untouchable aura! That's what Real Madrid needs. That's what sets them apart."
"And Luxemburgo has always pursued that style and those players."
"With him, Madrid would win by attacking—never turtling up in the final minutes, mocked by the world, dignity in tatters."
Boom!
A sudden explosion of noise from the TV cut him off.
Figer turned to the screen.
It was a replay—in slow motion.
On screen, Su Hang stood well back from the ball.
The whistle blew. He began his run-up.
And then—he struck it with everything he had.
The ball tore through the air.
At the edge of the box, Ronaldo, Morientes, Owen, and the others took a couple of steps… then realized.
This wasn't a pass—it was a shot!
Su Hang was going for goal.
No—this wasn't just a shot, this was a cannon blast.
The power was like Roberto Carlos himself had struck it.
A free kick from 36 meters—straight at goal.
Was he crazy? Could he actually pull it off?
In the entire Madrid squad, only Beckham and Roberto Carlos could attempt such a strike.
And from here, Beckham's odds were almost zero.
Only Carlos was a real threat from this range.
And now… Su Hang?
Whoosh!
The ball screamed through the air, flying over the heads of Ronaldo and the others in an instant.
They turned toward the goal but saw only a white blur, like a ripple spreading across water.
Then, out of the ripple, the ball appeared.
The Stadio Olimpico went dead silent.
Silent.
Still silent.
Until Su Hang threw up his arms with a roar and charged toward the corner flag, where the small cluster of Madrid fans stood.
"My God! My God!"
"He's done it! Su Hang wins it for Madrid with a free kick! An absolute match-winner!"
"Three-two! Su Hang sinks Roma!"
"One stroke of the sword—swift, cold, and unstoppable!"
"A 36-meter free kick—and Su Hang went straight for goal!"
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(35 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser