During the performance, Blatter, Beckenbauer, and officials from the Spanish and French football associations appeared in the VIP section.
In the stands, many players and celebrities were also present.
Jennifer, Clara, Modrić, and others sat together—Su Hang had provided all their tickets.
A young boy had also been invited: little Mbappe.
He wore a blue France jersey so fans would easily relate to him.
But underneath, he wore a red Spain jersey—because deep down, he supported Su Hang.
Our boy Mbappe had been sharp since childhood.
Soon, both teams lined up in the tunnel, ready to enter the pitch.
Su Hang sat in a wheelchair, pushed to the front by Simon.
With Simon's help, he stood up.
The entire French squad stared at Su Hang.
This…
Coming to play football in a wheelchair?
Is he not healed yet?
Why force himself?
Are they basically starting a man down?
Zidane, leading France at the front, turned to him.
"Why don't we just lift the trophy now? At least that way you stay healthy."
Su Hang smiled lightly.
"Zizou, come on—be grateful. I already carried you to a treble. If you're going to ride my coattails, at least do it with some self-awareness."
Zidane let out a cold laugh.
"Next season, everyone will see who the real backbone of the team is. Just promise me you won't leave Real Madrid without European competition."
"I'm not even demanding Champions League. The Europa League is fine."
Su Hang couldn't be bothered to trade jabs with this bald guy.
Until eight o'clock, he couldn't use his right foot for even a second.
So...
He turned to the blond ball boy beside him, placing a hand on the kid's head.
"Kid, is it okay if I lean on your head like this when we walk out?"
The boy tried to nod but couldn't—Su Hang was already leaning on him.
"Thank you!" Su Hang praised. "Judging by your strength and height at ten, you're going to be a great footballer someday."
The boy gave an awkward smile.
"I'm not ten. I'm six… well, six in twelve days."
Su Hang: ???
"What kind of feed are they giving you at home? You're even half a head taller than an eight-year-old kid named Mbappe I know!" Su Hang joked. "Don't go anywhere later. After the match, I can give you my jersey."
The boy lit up with excitement.
"Really?"
Su Hang nodded.
"Yes, and I'll write your name on it. What's your name?"
The boy said excitedly,
"Haaland! Erling Haaland!"
Su Hang staggered and almost fell.
Haaland?
Holy shit.
No wonder he felt the kid looked familiar. If the boy hadn't been tall enough to serve as a makeshift crutch, Su Hang might've asked the staff to switch him out.
Not exactly beneficial, you know.
Now it all made sense.
Majin Buu.
At six, his features weren't fully formed yet, and neither of them were capable of eating people.
Give it a few years and he'd be able to scare children into silence at night.
Soon, staff signaled for both teams to enter the pitch.
Zidane led France out of the tunnel with elegance, brushing past the World Cup trophy.
On the other side, Spain moved much slower.
Because their captain was literally hopping on one foot.
When Su Hang hopped out of the tunnel—one step at a time on his left foot, using Haaland's head for support—forget the 70,000 people in the stadium, even the hundreds of millions watching on TV didn't know how to react.
Should they laugh?
Or call their bookies to change their bets immediately?
How was he supposed to play football like this?!
His right foot couldn't even touch the ground.
Golden left foot?
Some kind of miracle kick?
A secret martial-arts technique?
French fans quickly burst into wild celebration.
Spanish fans fell into dead silence.
Only Mbappe in the stands stared at Haaland with envy, jealousy, and hatred.
He didn't know why, but he disliked that big kid.
If only he were twice as tall—would Haaland still dare be Su Hang's stepping stone?
Hmph.
I remember you!
You will be Kylian Mbappe's lifelong rival!
"Uh… well… it seems Su Hang's right foot is still not fully healed."
"But I believe Aragonés and Su Hang will take responsibility. Spain wouldn't send out someone who can't even walk properly."
"We'll need to keep observing."
"My guess is Su Hang isn't fully recovered. His right foot works, but he avoids using it unless necessary, so he… okay, I can't keep making this up."
Derek Rae gave up.
There was no way to explain this logically.
As both teams took the field, time ticked by.
Queiroz, far calmer, began analyzing the starting lineups.
"France is sticking with their 4-2-3-1."
"Henry is the lone striker."
"Malouda and Ribéry play wide, with Zidane central as the attacking midfielder."
"Makélélé and Vieira anchor the midfield. Both are among the best defensive midfielders in the world."
"Abidal, Gallas, Thuram, and Sagnol form the back line."
"Butterfingers Barthez starts in goal… Of course, as a commentator, I'm completely neutral."
"Butterfingers is just a nickname. It doesn't imply anything. I definitely don't secretly support Spain."
After a quick dodge, Queiroz turned to Spain's formation.
"Spain is also using their usual 4-3-1-2."
"Su Hang and Villa up front."
"Raúl as the attacking midfielder."
"The midfield trio of Xavi, Senna, and Alonso has developed strong chemistry this World Cup. Especially Xavi and Alonso's long passes—they maximize Su Hang's role as a pivot."
"Mariano, Puyol, Marchena, and Sergio Ramos form the defensive back line."
"Casillas took a knock last match and was subbed off, but he reported no issues and starts today."
With the referee's whistle—and a ding inside Su Hang's mind—
the match officially began.
Spain kicked off, but mindful of Su Hang's condition, they didn't launch an opening attack.
Both sides entered a cautious probing phase.
Completely different from the intense Spain vs. Portugal match.
Finals never produce casual games—no other match carries this kind of pressure.
Soon, everyone noticed Su Hang looked completely normal on the pitch.
He moved normally.
Dropped back normally.
Fought for the ball normally.
Jumped normally.
This made people wonder—
Was he acting during the entrance?
Some kind of performance art?
For what?
To embarrass himself in front of the world?
He wasn't selling an injury, so who was he fooling?
To trick France?
Su Hang: Yes, to make them think I'm crippled.
Zidane: No, you wanted us to think you're insane!
In the fifth minute, danger struck.
Su Hang received the ball outside the box, turned, lifted it slightly, and unleashed a thunderous shot.
Barthez made a heroic save, but his butterfingers were obvious—the ball spilled out.
Raúl sprinted in for the rebound.
Gallas lunged desperately.
They collided in the box, and the ball ricocheted away.
Spain—the team no one believed stood a chance—was the first to threaten France.
And Su Hang, the man who limped into the stadium, answered the world with a stunning long-range strike—
proving he was in peak form.
...
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