Albelda was supposed to follow the head coach's instructions, but the truth was, this substitution was something Simon had fought for on his behalf.
Before Albelda was even sure he would be going on, Simon had already whispered something to him.
Simon: "David, we also have a David at Real Madrid—yes, Beckham. And you're both playing defensive midfield now."
"Listen to me, David. When you get on, keep a close eye on Su Hang. He often drops deep. Passing to him will help relieve the pressure on our back line."
"If he actively calls for the ball, you must trust him."
"Because if anyone can lead this Spain side to an impossible victory, it's Su Hang. Do you agree?"
Albelda didn't quite catch all of it, but he nodded immediately.
Simon then went to Aragonés and swapped out Fàbregas—who was originally supposed to come on—for Albelda instead.
So…
Bang!
Albelda pushed the ball horizontally and sent it toward the onrushing Su Hang.
…
At the arc of the box, the referee shook his head, signaling no goal.
The assistant referee also indicated the ball hadn't crossed the line.
In reality, it was still about twenty centimeters short.
This wasn't even a hard call.
While Henry was still arguing with the referee, Zidane instinctively turned his head to scan the pitch—and saw Su Hang already charging toward the ball.
"Wiltord!" Zidane roared, immediately sprinting after Su Hang.
Warned by Zidane, Wiltord reacted instantly.
He stepped in to block Su Hang's path.
Su Hang arrived with the ball, slowed down, and squared up to Wiltord.
Wiltord jabbed a foot out to press him—more to delay than to tackle.
But Su Hang dragged the ball back, flicked it up with the tip of his boot, lifting it to knee height.
Then he burst forward.
As his leg rose, his knee collided perfectly with the ball, knocking it ahead.
Bang!
A beautiful Brazilian Knee Flick Dribble.
Su Hang slipped past Wiltord in one motion.
Grass flew everywhere.
Each stride Su Hang took pressed harder and harder into the turf, his speed exploding with every push-off.
But just after two steps, Zidane came sliding in from the rear angle.
Su Hang hopped, nudging the ball up.
Luckily, he hadn't hit his absolute top speed yet—he still had enough control to adjust.
Otherwise he'd have just stood there helplessly while Zidane took him out with a red-card tackle, wasting the final seconds of the Bale Moment Card.
Zidane was ruthless—the slide was almost identical to Thuram's earlier one. He deliberately raised his leg.
Ball or no ball, the message was clear: you're not getting through.
But Zidane, after all, was thirty-four. It was already impressive he managed to close the distance.
Coming from a diagonal angle also meant he had no chance to use his hands to pull and might even end up slower than the runner.
So this full-on illegal sliding tackle only brushed the studs of Su Hang's boot.
Su Hang stumbled after landing, but after three or four erratic steps, his powerful physique—and Bale's stride pattern—brought him back under control.
Seeing Su Hang pull away like a red streak, Zidane's eyes filled with dread.
That earlier disputed goal attempt had thrown France's shape into chaos.
Center-back Gallas and defensive midfielder Diarra had nearly stormed into the box to start a fight—no one needed to imagine how bad the defensive structure was now.
Including the goalkeeper, there were only three people left who could stop Su Hang.
Bang!
Su Hang hit full speed. Before Makelele could get across, he tore down the flank past midfield at blistering pace.
Only two men remained who could stop him.
Watching Su Hang charge straight at him, Silvestre took a deep breath.
He knew he had to stop him.
And Su Hang could read in Silvestre's eyes that the man was willing to foul—whatever it took—to block his path.
So…
Bang!
Su Hang poked the ball forward early.
Then he intentionally sprinted off the pitch, trying to slip around Silvestre.
The ball flew a dozen meters ahead.
Bang!
Silvestre didn't crash into Su Hang, but he did succeed in forcing him at least two strides off the touchline.
Silvestre then accelerated toward the ball. This time, the defensive effort seemed to have worked but—
Hm?
In his peripheral vision, a flash of red appeared.
And that red was growing larger.
He turned—and saw Su Hang, running outside the pitch, level with him.
He was…
The very next instant, both benches shot to their feet.
Thousands of fans in the stands gasped in disbelief.
Because the man running outside the touchline was visibly overtaking Silvestre.
Silvestre was running a straight line to the ball. Su Hang had run a huge arc.
Yet Su Hang was pulling ahead.
Finally!
As Su Hang cut inward, arcing back onto the field, Silvestre was already a full stride behind.
"This is…" Aragonés had never witnessed such a monstrous display of speed.
Simon's mouth was dry: "Between two points… Su Hang is the shortest!"
"He's past him!"
"Su Hang is past him!"
"Incredible!"
"This is a super, super, super outside-line overtake!"
"Su Hang just passed the ball to himself three seconds into the future!"
"He's beaten Silvestre!"
"He's driven into the penalty area!"
"Silvestre is trying to disrupt him from behind, but it's barely having any effect."
"Su Hang is slowing down—he's using his body to shield Silvestre. Is he setting up for a shot?"
"Barthez is charging out!"
Every camera locked onto Su Hang.
If you looked closely, you'd notice his expression shift the moment he entered the box.
Because…
The Bale Moment Card effect had ended.
So he slowed down.
First, he simply couldn't maintain that speed anymore.
Second, going that fast meant he'd lose control of the ball.
That was why Silvestre managed to get close again.
An ambush ahead, a pursuer behind.
Su Hang braced, knocked Silvestre back half a step, then hopped forward, stopping abruptly—
A Heel Flick Direction Change!
The ball rolled behind him to the right.
Su Hang pivoted and immediately burst after it.
Barthez was adjusting his angle—if he couldn't get the ball, he'd just go for Su Hang.
A red card plus a penalty didn't matter anymore.
Because otherwise Su Hang would score into an open net.
Bang!
Silvestre, lunging after being shoved aside, saw a flash of red—Su Hang—but it turned into Barthez.
He had no way to stop.
The two French players collided just outside the left side of the six-yard box, both crashing to the turf, forming the perfect screen for Su Hang.
Su Hang caught up to the ball, glided forward, and rolled it into the empty net.
Then he stopped, standing in front of the goal, head lowered, panting furiously.
Exhausted.
Absolutely exhausted.
Is this what it feels like to play as a pure speed demon?
No wonder Dembélé or Lazy King Leão, even though they can sprint, don't like sprinting.
Fair enough.
Rumble!
All of Germany trembled.
A deafening roar erupted, drowning everything out.
Even the referee's whistle confirming the goal.
Invisible soundwaves filled the air.
Just as nature sends warnings before disaster, making all beasts bow—
Spain's red shirts surged like a rising tide.
A spark had become a wildfire.
"GOAL!"
"GOAL!"
"GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLL!"
...
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