The Football Legends System-Chapter 75: Attempt to Respond

Chapter 75 – Attempt to Respond

The second half began.

Real Madrid didn’t ease in.

From the very first whistle, they surged forward as though the dressing room had unlocked a deeper gear. Like a beast freshly wounded and now bloodthirsty, they pounced, pressing as if insulted by the very notion of a 1–1 scoreline.

Tchouaméni zipped a pass into Mbappé’s feet. The Frenchman barely needed a touch—he flicked it wide with terrifying precision.

Vinícius was already sprinting.

"Hah!" he exhaled.

Wan-Bissaka waited, stance low. One dribble—

"Chk!"

Then another—

"Chk-chk!"

Then—boom!—a third!

Wan-Bissaka twisted, feet tangled, and dropped to the turf like a snapped branch.

"Oi!" Bruno shouted from midfield, but it was too late.

Vini’s low cross carved through the box. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Mbappé could’ve shot. Anyone else would’ve. But he didn’t. He headed it backwards, a moment of genius, flicking it straight into Rodrygo’s stride.

Martínez lunged. Shaw stepped.

Too late.

Rodrygo dipped past both like water slipping between stones and calmly slotted it past Onana’s outstretched arm.

Thud!

The net shook.

Real Madrid 2 – 1 Manchester United.

The Bernabéu erupted.

White flags waved like a sea of ghosts, and Rodrygo sprinted to the corner flag, sliding to his knees with arms wide. The chant roared across the stands:

"RO-DRY-GO! RO-DRY-GO!"

Nathan stood still on the left flank, watching the celebration unfold. His hands slowly lowered to his sides. Around him, his teammates exchanged glances. Not angry ones. Not panicked. Just... regretful.

Bruno pressed his lips together, nodded faintly. Casemiro turned, jogging back to the center circle with a clenched jaw. Zirkzee rubbed the back of his neck, breathing hard.

–––––

57th minute.

Bruno sent a diagonal lofted pass out wide.

Nathan’s chest absorbed it in stride. He was off.

Boom—he exploded down the flank like a bolt loosed from a bow.

"Hup!" he grunted, shifting his weight past Vinícius.

Step! Past Tchouaméni now—shoulder brush, ankle flick—space!

The byline rushed toward him.

One more to beat.

Bellingham.

Nathan feinted left, then tried to chop right—but Jude read it. He stuck a boot in.

Thnk!

The ball bounced away.

Nathan growled under his breath.

But Bruno was there—one touch, slide pass—

Valverde stepped up—

BOOM!

A cannon shot!

CRACK!

The crossbar rang like a bell struck in rage.

The rebound dropped.

Nathan didn’t think. Just swung.

WHAP!

His volley caught nothing but sky.

The ball soared—miles too high.

Nathan stood, arms still raised in the follow-through.

"Haaah..." he exhaled, chest heaving, eyes following the ball into the heavens.

From the touchline, Amorim’s voice rang.

"The play is good... but the final touch! Where’s the focus?!"

He stomped once. His coat flared like a cape.

But he didn’t sub. Didn’t scream again.

Just watched.

Waiting.

–––––

60th minute.

United pushed. Demir cut inside from the right and tried his luck—block.

63rd—Bruno whipped in a corner. Zirkzee rose.

Whump!—Header!

"Save!" Courtois roared, diving low to his right and clawing it out.

Nathan pressed high. Pressed hard. The air tasted of sweat and static.

He dribbled—

Lost it.

He passed—

Intercepted.

Still he went again.

Every blade of grass under his boots felt heavier, thicker. The Bernabéu didn’t give inches. It took them.

–––––

67th minute.

A whistle.

Substitution.

Camavinga jogged off, and as he did, the stadium stood.

Modrić emerged from the bench like a spirit from another age.

Even Nathan paused, breath caught.

The Croatian’s entrance felt like myth stepping onto the pitch.

Bruno nudged Nathan gently.

"He’s older than our physio," he joked.

Nathan gave a tired grin.

–––––

70th minute.

Still 2–1.

Still United chasing ghosts through white shirts.

Demir drove down the right. His cross—too high.

Bruno worked space, slipped Zirkzee through—

Offside.

Wan-Bissaka recovered well to stop Vinícius, but every second felt like it belonged to Madrid now.

Nathan felt the fatigue clawing at his legs. The knock from Bellingham earlier throbbed like a silent drumbeat in his calf. But he refused to slow.

Every time he touched the ball, he thought:

"Make it count."

But making it count wasn’t so simple now.

Alaba was always there. Militão too. Closing angles before Nathan even saw them.

Still—he pressed.

He dribbled—

"Tch...!" Fouled. No whistle.

He got back up.

Passed.

Intercepted again.

"Damn it," he muttered, under his breath. Teeth grit. He wiped his brow. His vision blurred for a second, then cleared.

Focus.

The crowd surged behind him, white and roaring.

And yet...

He could feel something stirring.

It wasn’t over.

–––––

72nd minute.

Madrid probed. Modrić pinged passes like poetry. Casemiro and Valverde fought fire with fire. The ball zipped between feet like it had a mind of its own.

Onana shouted instructions, sweat pouring. Luke Shaw motioned with his hand—"Push the line!"

Nathan took his position again on the left wing.

Breathing in sharp bursts.

He looked up at the scoreboard.

Real Madrid 2 – 1 Manchester United.

The moment lingered like smoke.

His shirt clung to his chest. His boots felt soaked with effort. His legs ached. His lungs burned.

He turned toward the sideline.

Amorim met his gaze.

And nodded.

"You’re still in it," that look said. "So make it matter."

Nathan exhaled slowly.

He adjusted his shin pad.

Pulled his sock up.

Cracked his neck.

–––––

80th minute.

The Bernabéu held its breath.

Modrić, timeless and tireless, received the ball near the halfway line. One glance. That was all he needed.

Nathan saw it too late.

"No—!"

Too late to stop it. Too late to warn the line.

Tchk!

The pass glided—threaded between Casemiro and Shaw, bending into the space between Martinez and Wan-Bissaka.

Mbappé.

One touch.

One stride.

And he was gone.

Boom!!! A shot.

WHACK!

The net rippled violently behind Onana.

Real Madrid 3 – 1 Manchester United.

A dagger.

The roar that followed wasn’t a cheer—it was a roar of triumph. Of inevitability.

Mbappé stretched his arms like wings, gliding toward the corner flag . And then, as he slowed his run, his eyes flicked sideways.

Right at Nathan.

Just a glance. Just a smile.

Not mocking.

Not arrogant.

Just... final.

Nathan stood frozen.

His jaw clenched. His fists balled.

A thousand things burned behind his eyes. Anger. Shame. Frustration. A storm of self-loathing.

"No. No. No!"

His heart pounded.

He sprinted to the goal, snatching the ball from the back of the net with a fury that shocked even the ball boy nearby.

"I won’t accept defeat like this!"

He turned, storming upfield.

No waiting.

No words.

Just movement.