Chapter 24: The Magic Flute Flies Beyond the Heavens! Cristiano Ronaldo sprinting his way to a match-winning goal

The game resumed.

There are only two minutes left in regular time.

Having lost a man, Barça didn’t choose to hide but went completely crazy.

Two center-backs simultaneously pressed across half the field, and the formation shifted directly from 4-3-3 to 2-4-3.

Only two players remain in the backcourt.

This isn’t tactical—it’s a gamble with your life.

The stands at Camp Nou were like a volcanic crater on the verge of losing control, with nearly a hundred thousand voices shaking the air throughout the stadium.

They are urging and shouting, injecting adrenaline into their teams in the most primal way.

It seemed that as long as he shouted loudly enough, the score could be restored.

Carlo Ancelotti stood on the sidelines, letting out a long breath. His hands pressed down, then again.

The meaning is clear: everyone should be back, just squat in the penalty area, not a single one can go up.

Real Madrid began to shrink.

Players surged back to their own half like the tide, beginning to build a human wall at the edge of the penalty area.

Barcelona’s possession system began to derail under this extreme anxiety.

There’s no time left for short-form penetration.

Their choices have become increasingly harsh and direct.

Long passes and high-altitude bombardments, hand-to-hand combat within the penalty area.

Every cross was filled with resentment.

The fourth official walked to the sidelines.

He raised the stoppage card in his hand.

The numbers above are.

Eight minutes.

The moment the wave of the Camp Nou sounded at that number, it rose another octave.

Eight minutes is enough.

Enough for them to score two more.

Enough for them to create miracles.

At least, that’s how they feel.

The commentator’s voice was completely drowned out by the noise of the stadium; he was almost shouting through the microphone.

“Eight minutes. The fourth official gave eight minutes of injury time, which is directly related to the injury sustained in this match!”

“Camp Nou is like a pressure cooker right now, and the lid could be blown off at any moment!”

And at this moment, inside the Real Madrid penalty area,

It’s like people crowding and pressing against each other.

Every cross landed in a small-scale hand-to-hand battle.

Pushing and tugging at An Elbow, performing this full martial arts act.

The referee’s whistle was almost nonstop.

This is no longer football; it is street fighting.

Fourth minute of stoppage time.

The Barcelona left winger took the ball, made no fake moves, and drove past Carvajal to make a rapid run to the byline.

The cross arc was low and flat, like a knife sweeping across the way.

Lewandowski jumped inside the small penalty area.

Rüdiger gripped his jersey tightly, the fabric being pulled out of shape.

But Lewandowski still managed to hit the ball.

The ball headed straight for the lower right corner of the goal.

The angle of the shot was too tricky, the distance too close, and the power was overwhelming.

But Courtois made a move.

He was sent flying sideways, his right arm fully extended, and a dull thud from his shoulder.

A fingertip is just a fingertip.

The last knuckle of five fingers bounced up like a spring at the last moment before the ball pierced the goal.

The ball was lifted out.

It grazed the outside of the pillar and flew off the bottom line.

Courtois fell onto the turf and slid two meters away, his numbers on his back completely covered by grass debris.

He flipped over, lay face down on the ground, and pounded the turf hard.

One centimeter more and everything is over.

“Courtois, what kind of save is that!”

“Is this something a human can do? Lewandowski’s header, that angle. Oh my god, is there a magnet on this goal…”

Barcelona took a corner kick.

It was a tactical corner, a short pass that was knocked down, then sent to the front edge of the penalty area.

Kroos had already taken his place.

He precisely deflected the ball with his forehead.

Exactly at the edge of the penalty area arc.

The second landing point.

Modrić.

The Croatian used his chest to smoothly unload the falling ball.

The ball was as quiet as a tamed cat at his feet.

Two Barça midfielders immediately surrounded him.

Normally, he would protect the ball and turn around, waiting for teammates to move out before making any distributions.

But today is not the usual day.

Modrić didn’t look down at the ball.

He lifted his head.

His gaze passed over the two approaching blue-red jerseys.

Crossing the halfway line, he looked toward the center circle.

There was a man there.

A white figure resembled a leopard crouching in the grass, waiting for its prey to be exposed.

While everyone is desperately fighting in the penalty area.

When all the white jerseys were defending desperately.

He had already run toward the midfield line.

Like a knife stuck in Barça’s throat.

What does it mean for Barcelona to go all in?

It means there’s an open space behind you.

A vast, undefended open space that would wake any forward from a dream with a smile.

And Cristiano Ronaldo stands right at the entrance to that open space.

Modrić flicked the outside of his right foot.

No charging or big moves, just a gentle ankle twist.

The ball sped along the turf like a green bullet being fired.

It passed between the legs of the top-ranked Barcelona midfielder.

Then, with a strange spin, he circled past the foot stretched out by the second-placed Barcelona midfielder.

Rolling toward Cristiano Ronaldo, who was already in motion.

The moment Cristiano Ronaldo received the ball, he was already running with acceleration that a thirty-nine-year-old should never have.

He didn’t control the ball.

With a push on the inside of his right foot, the ball rolled forward five meters.

The human and ball teams have been divided into long-distance runs.

At that moment, Barcelona’s half revealed its most fatal truth.

Empty.

Completely empty, nothing at all.

Both center-backs were trapped in Real Madrid’s penalty area and hadn’t come back yet.

The entire backline was left with only one trailing center-back.

Alone.

Facing a Cristiano Ronaldo sprinting at full speed.

The center-back was retreating.

He wasn’t defending, he was running away.

He didn’t dare to go up.

His body instinctively refused to face this person head-on.

He even diverted part of his attention to look at the left and right sides.

Vinícius Júnior made a sprint down the left flank, while Jude Bellingham made a desperate charge on the right, both creating wide gaps.

The center-back chose to block the passing lane.

Because in his mind, the reasonable choice for this position is to pass the ball.

Only a madman would choose to shoot.

Cristiano Ronaldo dribbled forward to the point thirty-five meters from the goal.

This distance.

In the entire football world, this is not a reasonable range.

Vinícius Júnior waved to the left.

Jude Bellingham waved on the right.

Both players made excellent runs, and as long as Cristiano Ronaldo managed to pass the ball, it was a one-on-one.

Every Barça player on the pitch who could still breathe was running back.

Goalkeeper Ter Stegen moved slightly beyond the goal line, ready to block a possible through ball.

Cristiano Ronaldo still did not slow down.

He also did not look at Vinícius Júnior on the left.

Not looking at Jude Bellingham on the right.

His eyes never left the goal from start to finish.

Just look at the goal.

Left foot touches the ground.

Step on the grass.

That step was too heavy.

So heavy that a small clump of dirt and grass debris was splashed up.

His entire left leg wedged into the ground like a nail, bearing the full weight and inertia of his entire body.

Meanwhile.

Raise your right leg high behind you.

The muscles on the surface of his thighs bulge up one by one.

Like a crossbow pushed to the limit.

Deep in Cristiano Ronaldo’s mind, that line of golden text fell silent for the entire second half.

At that moment, it suddenly lit up.

Heavy artillery and thunderous weapons ready.