The reason Gennaro Gattuso is called a raging bull is simple.
He is good at fighting, but more than that, he truly enjoys it.
Rough physical duels and hard tackles.
Those are the driving forces that move Gattuso.
That was why he had been looking forward to today's match so much.
Age had reduced his overall ability, but recently his condition had been soaring.
That was how he had completely erased Ronaldo in the previous match.
And today.
Next in line was Ho-young.
Gattuso was happier than anyone when he heard Ho-young would be playing.
He was so excited at the prospect of facing him that he had been unable to contain himself even before kickoff.
But once they actually clashed, it was not easy.
He had lost the ball in an unexpected moment, and Ambrosini and Flamini had both been brushed aside in succession.
It was unbelievable.
No matter how old Ambrosini was, and no matter how slight Flamini's frame, they were not players who would go down so easily.
That alone proved how powerful Ho-young's physicality was.
It only fueled Gattuso's pride further.
With the intent to finish it decisively, he prepared himself and charged in.
Right then.
"Argh!"
"Gattuso drives his shoulder into Ho-young!"
Gattuso came in from the right and slammed into him.
But Ho-young, who had been dribbling forward at pace, did not evade.
Instead, he suddenly reduced his speed.
No matter how strong one's physique was, if a challenge came while sprinting at full speed, it was easy to fall.
There was hardly any room to slow down, but his beast-like elasticity and flexibility made it possible.
He absorbed the impact with his solid frame.
Thud!
"Ho-young keeps his balance and protects the ball!"
"Damn it!"
Another curse slipped from Gattuso's mouth.
His plan to induce the referee's intervention and break the flow had failed.
He had to move to the next step immediately.
"Go down!"
Gattuso grabbed Ho-young's shirt and hooked his leg.
It was a cunning move, using an angle the referee could not see.
But.
"Ho-young pushes forward!"
"…?!"
He did not fall.
Something was seriously wrong.
By now, he should have been rolling on the ground several times. Instead, he maintained balance as if performing acrobatics.
Even amid that, Ho-young kept possession and forced his way forward.
"Is Ho-young breaking free from the pressure?"
"The referee might need to call a foul!"
It was a split-second battle.
One trying to hold on, the other trying to break free.
But it did not last long.
Ho-young had strength to spare, and his fighting spirit matched Gattuso's.
When he drove through with a body like steel, how could Gattuso hold on?
"Ugh!"
Thud!
"You son of a…"
The raging bull.
Gattuso could not withstand the physical duel and was finally forced aside.
"Ho-young escapes the relentless challenge!"
Now free, Ho-young burst forward like a fish in water.
Space opened in an instant, and Real Madrid's wings spread wide.
Zhirkov and Ronaldo pushed deep down both flanks, while Higuaín lurked on the line, ready to break the offside trap.
Four attackers against four defenders.
An attacking unit with an average age of 22 against a defensive line averaging 33.
"Young is driving forward! He still has not released the ball! How far will he go?"
"Gattuso and Ambrosini are chasing to cover, but it is not enough. Milan must stop him earlier. Is Thiago Silva stepping out?"
Thiago Silva had focused entirely on Ho-young's dribble.
Before kickoff, Leonardo had told him this.
"If Ambrosini and Flamini are beaten, and even Gattuso is beaten, you step out as the second line of defense. Try to understand what Ho-young is thinking and how he will act. If you can predict that, you can buy time. If you are lucky, you might even cut out the ball. Nesta will be preparing another defensive measure behind you."
In other words, Thiago Silva's role was that of a gambler.
The probability of winning the ball through pure skill was too low, so that option was discarded.
Ho-young's ball control was beyond imagination.
It was better to gamble.
Predict his next move and respond in advance, even if it only bought time.
And now was that moment.
Thiago Silva's eyes narrowed.
Tap, tap.
It was when Ho-young pushed the ball slightly ahead.
"Hup!"
As if he had anticipated it, Thiago Silva sprang forward without hesitation.
From this distance, he could certainly cut the ball.
The ball Ho-young had pushed forward was closer to Thiago Silva.
He only needed to stretch his leg.
The problem was.
Tap, tap.
For every one step Thiago took, Ho-young took two.
"…!!"
Reaching the ball first, Ho-young spun urgently with superior flexibility, rotating his body 270 degrees.
"There it is! Ho-young's trademark!"
With a Marseille turn, he opened space on the opposite side and accelerated.
Nesta, who had been marking Higuaín, shifted his target, but Ho-young's dribbling speed was far beyond what a thirty-four-year-old defender could match.
The gap was immense.
Stride after stride, Ho-young surged forward and reached the edge of the penalty area.
About thirty meters out.
Still, the space in front of him made it a perfect shooting opportunity.
At that moment, Maldini suddenly cut across from the right to cover.
But Ho-young remained calm.
"Top right."
Swish.
Without a moment's hesitation, he set up to shoot.
With perfectly balanced two-footed ability, he could strike from any angle.
No reason to hesitate.
"Inhale."
He drew in breath, maximized his leg strength and striking power, and drove through the ball with his left foot.
A vicious no-spin shot.
Boom!
And then.
Clang!
It flew in perfectly.
"Gooooal! An astonishing long-range strike! It was a cannon shot!"
"Ah…"
Brazilian legend Dida could not move a single step.
He stood frozen, only watching the net ripple.
It was beyond his ability to react.
The shot was so powerful that the vibration seemed to spread across the pitch.
"What did I just witness…"
Twenty-eight years into his professional career.
He had never experienced such a strike.
And the real problem was that this was only the beginning.
Early April.
The cold had long passed, yet the Santiago Bernabéu felt as if an icy wind had swept through it.
Fans, home and away alike, struggled to calm the goosebumps rising on their skin, while commentators continued their astonished outbursts.
Online, it was the same.
As journalists hurriedly posted breaking news, portal sites were flooded.
[What was that just now?]
└Looked like a UFO flew by.
└I am not exaggerating, the ball was in before I could blink.
└Missed it live because I blinked.
└190 km per hour? Felt like it.
└Even Yashin could not have saved that.
└He is insane. A crazy Asian living in Spain.
└You only realized that now?
└Not crazy, he is an alien. What was that? I have goosebumps.
└Here come all the Ho-young fans online. Stop overreacting. Makes me sick.
└Culé detected.
└Culé or not, he must be doping. Does that even make sense? At sixteen, and this level? At twenty he will score from the halfway line?
└Feels like he actually might.
It was not exaggeration.
The players who witnessed it firsthand were already shaking their heads in disbelief.
It was the kind of goal worthy of the FIFA Puskás Award for the most beautiful goal of the year.
"Wow. What are you?"
Higuaín stared at Ho-young as he returned with the ball.
"See? I told you we could do it. We can come back. Winning mentality, you know?"
"Damn, youth really is different."
It was odd coming from twenty-two-year-old Higuaín, but it was not wrong.
Energy seemed to radiate from Ho-young.
Not only Higuaín, but Zhirkov, Ronaldo, and Xabi Alonso felt it too.
Just one goal.
A wonder goal that changed everything.
And then.
Whistle.
As Milan's Mancini rolled the ball for the restart, Ho-young spoke.
"Get that Ferrari ready."
"Just say the word."
If they could complete the comeback tonight, Ferrari or Rolls-Royce, anything was fine.
"With Ho-young's opener, Real Madrid are chasing AC Milan. The aggregate score is 4-2."
"Milan circulate the ball and reorganize defensively. Their strategy was shaken by the goal, but they remain solid. They just need to avoid another mistake."
There was no real flaw in Milan's defense.
If anything, it was excellent.
They were on a nine-match winning streak in Serie A, pushing Inter closely.
Their condition was strong.
It was the same today.
"Gattuso looks shaken but refocuses. He exchanges steady passes with Pirlo to escape Real Madrid's press."
"Exactly. Milan's defensive strategy has not changed. They conceded one goal, but with two more chances ahead, they are concentrating on defense. That is the mark of veterans."
"Indeed. AC Milan may well be the most veteran squad in the world, judging by the average age."
AC Milan.
With organization and discipline, each player fulfilled his role without gaps, increasing possession.
"Mancini! Seedorf! Drop deeper and help Pirlo and Gattuso!"
Leonardo shouted at the top of his lungs.
Mancini and Seedorf abandoned thoughts of counter-attacking and joined the defensive effort.
"Yes, just hold it like this."
Leonardo swallowed nervously.
If they avoided another mistake like before, they could reach the semifinals.
No matter how much momentum Real had gained, Milan still held the advantage.
A team with Milan's experience was unlikely to repeat the same mistake.
However.
"Widen your vision! Stay calm and find the passing lanes!"
The problem was that even a small probability of error remained.
Fernando Gago and Xabi Alonso pushed higher with intense pressing.
At the center of it, Ho-young and Higuaín ran tirelessly, forcing Milan's back line into hurried circulation.
As time passed, the tempo accelerated further.
Then.
Boom!
Unable to withstand the pressure, Flamini sent an inaccurate long ball toward the opposite flank.
"Zhirkov and Mancini contesting on the right."
"Ah! Ho-young steps in!"
Zhirkov recognized Ho-young's intent and immediately surged down the flank.
Meanwhile, Ho-young went up for the aerial duel and won it.
Mancini was not particularly strong in the air, and he had no choice but to concede the headed pass.
"Forward!"
Thud.
Xabi Alonso received the header and glanced toward the left flank.
Zhirkov was sprinting like a madman, hair flying.
Boom!
"The ball finds Zhirkov! Real Madrid have another chance!"
"Zhirkov cuts inside!"
But then.
Tap.
"A clean interception from Zambrotta!"
Italy's legendary right-back Gianluca Zambrotta succeeded in cutting out Zhirkov's run with a sliding tackle.
That was the problem.
Roll, tap.
The ball stopped at someone's feet.
Not in red, but in white.
"…!"
Zambrotta rubbed his eyes, but it was real.
After winning the aerial duel, Ho-young had arrived before Mancini and claimed the loose ball.
"When did he…"
"Zambrotta scrambles up and charges at Ho-young!"
"Mancini presses from behind!"
Ho-young remained calm.
He chipped a lofted pass to Zhirkov, neutralizing both defenders, then received the return pass and escaped the front and back pressure cleanly.
At that moment, tens of thousands of spectators rose to their feet.
Near the left touchline.
From 46 meters out, Ho-young's right foot struck through the ball.
It was not an ordinary pass.
The Earth-Splitting Long Pass of El Pulmón, recently acquired.
It cut across nearly fifty meters toward the opposite post.
(To be continued.)