Sagnol reached out to grab Su Hang, but Su Hang was simply too fast—Sagnol couldn't get a proper hold.
In the blink of an eye, he was beaten again.
A second figure flashed past him.
Ribéry was still chasing back!
He hadn't given up yet!
Su Hang's last touch to slip past Sagnol had been a hard one, sending the ball skidding at high speed toward the byline.
Countless French fans started praying—
Praying the ball would roll out.
Praying Su Hang wouldn't reach it.
Meanwhile, Zidane adjusted his recovery run, shouting for teammates to block the cut-back.
Even if Su Hang reached the ball before it crossed out, he'd only be able to play it back—so as long as the middle was sealed and Iniesta, Xavi, and Torres were marked…
Bang!
Su Hang caught up before the line—but instead of stopping the ball, he let it roll on. After two quick steps, he lashed a left-footed strike right on the edge of the line.
His momentum carried him tumbling off the pitch.
Ribéry slowed as he looked up—the moment he saw the ball's arc, his pupils widened.
It was bending toward the goal in a wicked, impossible curve.
By the time Barthez reacted, the ball was already drilling into the net at his right side.
Whoosh!
A white burst of netting rippled upward.
"This…"
Boom!
The stadium detonated with noise.
"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!"
"It's in!"
"A zero-angle strike!"
"This is insane!"
"Su Hang! Su Hang scores again!"
"One assist, two goals! He drags Spain level again!"
"80th minute—3–3!"
"Su Hang is unstoppable!"
On the sideline, Su Hang glanced at the goal and collapsed onto the grass, arms and legs splayed out.
His chest heaved—he had emptied everything into that run.
Sagnol raced to the referee, insisting the ball had gone out.
But the assistant confirmed it had stayed in.
The referee pointed to the center circle: the goal stood.
The Spanish team was so pumped they could barely speak.
Even Fàbregas—who now had almost no chance of coming on—managed a cheerful smile.
The momentum had flipped.
A blue French jersey suddenly dropped from the stands, landing squarely on Erling Haaland's head.
Haaland ripped it off in disgust.
His head had been blessed by Su Hang—how could a French jersey ever deserve to touch it?
Norway wore red, and Su Hang's Spain jersey was red.
So in Haaland's mind, his future colors should always be red.
Blue? Never. Absolutely not.
He looked up and locked eyes with Mbappe, the culprit. The hostility between them cracked like electricity.
Clara and Jennifer stared at Mbappe in disbelief.
This kid… wasn't swapping?
What happened to "swap fast, no sadness, only love"?
Mbappe thumped his chest, overflowing with excitement:
"This is Su! The strongest striker of the new generation!"
"From now on, my life goal is to join Real Madrid, play beside Su Hang, feed him assists—and polish his boots!"
"Even France's national bronze medal can't stop me!"
The aunties rewarded him with two enthusiastic cheek-pinches, making him look even more like a Ninja Turtle.
Clara: As long as you support my Su Hang, you're one of us.
For some reason, the Spanish cheering grew even louder.
Everyone looked up at the big screen—Ribéry, after that exhausting chase, was vomiting on the sideline.
He had simply run himself to the limit.
Given Ribéry's focus and his excellent performance all match, it was actually admirable.
But admiration could come later—right now, Spanish fans gave him nothing but laughter.
On the sideline, France coach Domenech pounded his chest and stomped the ground:
"Mercury retrograde! I told you it was Mercury retrograde! Damn it, Sagnol!"
"Sub! Get him off!"
The French substitutes exchanged awkward looks.
Sagnol really had been awful, especially these last minutes—practically a liability.
He had even disrupted Thuram's positioning.
If Thuram had been marking Su Hang earlier, maybe he would've stopped him.
But let's be honest: was it Mercury retrograde that broke Sagnol?
No.
It was Su Hang.
Soon France sent on Silvestre for Sagnol.
The Manchester United utility defender slid into right center-back, and Thuram moved out to right-back.
If Su Hang drifted wide again, he'd now face the former best right-back in the world.
Under Zidane's instructions, Makélélé and Diarra also switched roles.
With a yellow card hanging over his head, Diarra was hesitant when defending Su Hang.
In the 82nd minute, Spain prepared a change as well.
Xavi had taken a knock from Diarra and couldn't continue.
"Fàbregas—"
"Wait a moment, sir!"
Aragonés was about to send him on, but Simon stepped forward.
While the team doctor treated Xavi, Su Hang had already shared a silent exchange with him.
Su Hang had a different idea.
"Coach," Simon began carefully, "Fàbregas is having a terrible horoscope today. I'm serious. If we put him on now, it's practically inviting bad luck."
Zidane, sipping water nearby, nearly spat it out.
Was Simon really talking astrology at a time like this?
Aragonés frowned.
"Simon, football tactics are serious and scientific. Don't start sounding like Domenech with that superstitious nonsense."
Simon shook his head.
"That's the thing, coach—they're superstitious. Domenech's squad lives on astrology charts and cosmic signs. If they even sense we've put on someone with 'bad energy' today, they'll act like the universe itself is backing them."
"And once a superstitious team feels destiny on their side, they become twice as hard to deal with."
Aragonés paused.
We aren't superstitious… but they are.
"What do you suggest?" he asked.
Simon leaned in.
"Put on Albelda."
Albelda—Valencia's captain—had led his team to two La Liga titles, a UEFA Cup, and back-to-back Champions League finals.
A pure Defensive Midfielder with elite Interception and strong aerial ability.
Bringing him on was a very different tactical stance compared to using Fàbregas.
"Zidane is aging, and Makélélé is already thirty-three. If we push this match into extra time, France's two pillars in attack and defense will decline sharply," Simon said, pointing toward Su Hang on the pitch. "Most of our players are still young."
"Extra time will be our domain!"