A few days ago, Ho-young had absorbed Xabi Alonso's talent like a sponge.
He was not yet at Alonso's level, but after several days of pass tutoring, he had developed a sense that exceeded expectations.
Moreover, his outstanding ball control and kicking ability created tremendous synergy.
This was the result.
"A ground pass sent in one motion toward the far post!"
It split the gap between Zambrotta and Thiago Silva and arrived at Gonzalo Higuaín, who had broken the offside trap.
And then.
Tap.
"Higuaín shows a composed first touch!"
Argentina's elite finisher, Gonzalo Higuaín.
The moment he saw Dida rushing out, he gently pushed the ball to the right.
Cristiano Ronaldo was waiting there.
The goal was completely open.
If he missed from there, he would not be Ronaldo.
Thud!
"Gooooooal!"
"Cristiano Ronaldo buries it!"
It was Real Madrid's second goal, scored in just the 20th minute of the first half.
"Waaaaaaah!"
"Goal! Gooooal!"
"This is insane! Madrid are insane tonight!"
"To the semifinals!"
"Vamos!"
"Ronaldo!"
"Vamos!"
"Gonzalo!"
"Vamos!"
"Young!"
The home fans screamed until their throats were raw.
Anyone watching might have thought it was a Champions League final winner.
That was how electrifying the moment was.
They still needed one more goal to complete the comeback, but now there was hope.
No, it was beyond hope.
It was conviction.
"Real Madrid are playing on a completely different level from the first leg."
"This proves that Real's tactics revolve around Ho-young. He is showing exactly what a playmaker is tonight. He creates something from nothing. His ability to build attacks has reached its peak. No amount of praise is excessive."
"And when did his long passing become this good? It feels like there are two Xabi Alonsos on the pitch, one in midfield and one higher up. It is astonishing. How far will he develop?"
"That was brilliant."
"What chemistry. That could be a goal of the tournament."
Clap.
Ronaldo spread his arms, high-fived Higuaín, and bumped chests with Ho-young as they celebrated.
"Heh. Milan look like they have been shot in the head."
"Higuaín, do not relax. We need one more. Did you forget?"
"Of course not. But I am not worried anymore. If we keep this up, we can score one or two more like crazy."
Momentum is like a wave.
Once it rises, it surges until the wind dies down.
That was Real Madrid now.
The defensive wall Milan had built collapsed, and gaps were appearing everywhere.
If there was a moment to strike, it was now.
"There is still plenty of time."
The scoreboard showed only the 21st minute.
The match felt strangely slow.
"Still only 20 minutes?"
Leonardo lowered his head.
It felt like forty minutes had already passed, yet barely twenty were gone.
That showed how intense the game had been.
The result was poor, but his players had fought hard.
"This is my mistake."
Leonardo quickly acknowledged his error.
He had believed this defensive approach would work against Real Madrid, but it had not.
"We misjudged how to deal with Ho-young."
As a former scout with a keen eye, Leonardo could gauge a player's potential and condition at a glance.
He had not underestimated Ho-young.
That was why he had prepared a more tailored strategy than in the first leg.
But it had backfired.
The initial premise was wrong.
Ho-young was known for his football intelligence and tactical understanding.
Tonight, he was conductor, spearhead, and workhorse all at once.
It even felt like this.
Real Madrid were playing not with eleven men, but thirteen.
"What a foolish thought."
Leonardo realized it too late.
Veteran experience alone was not enough to withstand this.
It would have been better to push forward with younger attackers like in the first leg and strike on the counter.
Opening space and responding with flexible tactics would have been wiser.
"Hoo."
He felt dizzy.
Nausea rose in his stomach.
But the match was not over.
"Focus, even now."
Leonardo kept thinking of countermeasures.
It was too early to give up.
With 70 minutes left, Milan still had opportunities to recover.
A change of perspective was needed.
"Whatever we do, there is no way to completely stop Ho-young."
Targeting him directly was a waste of time.
It might be better to avoid being dragged along and instead impose Milan's own game.
"Yes. We play our way. If we cannot stop Ho-young, we exploit the rest."
Football is a game played by 22 men with one ball.
No matter how good one player is, if the other ten fail, the team loses.
And.
"There is still a hidden card."
The match had only just begun.
"32 minutes into the first half, Milan drop deeper and tighten their defense. It seems they intend to hold on until halftime."
Milan had chosen the second half as their decisive period.
To succeed later, their veterans had to endure now and drain Real's stamina.
"But there is no guarantee the same mistake will not happen again. Real Madrid could create chances at any moment."
That was true.
No one is a robot.
Mistakes are inevitable.
Still, Milan minimized errors by using both body and mind to withstand Real's relentless pressing.
Thud!
Physical clashes erupted all over the pitch.
Real sought to open attacking routes whenever they gained possession, while Milan refused to concede space.
For ten intense minutes, the two sides burned stamina in a tug-of-war.
"Watch Ho-young's passes!"
"If he dribbles, do not dive in. Block the shot!"
"Stay focused!"
"When they pass, mark the receiver immediately!"
"Keep pressing Xabi Alonso!"
Pirlo and Seedorf cut off Alonso's space, suffocating Real's lungs.
But when one area is sealed, another opens.
"Ho-young!"
"Close him down!"
"Stop him!"
Thud!
Whenever Ho-young looked ready to receive the ball, Gattuso charged without hesitation, forcing physical contact.
Each shoulder collision felt like bone scraping bone, but Gattuso endured through sheer fighting spirit.
In that aspect, no one surpassed him.
Compared to playing with a torn cruciate ligament, this was nothing.
"Let us see who goes down first."
"Come on, kid!"
As a through pass came his way, Gattuso grabbed Ho-young's shirt and drove his shoulder in.
Thud!
"Ugh."
"Argh!"
It resembled a battlefield.
"Monster. He is like a rock."
Gattuso was taking more punishment, but he did not lose focus.
When Ho-young slipped free again, Gattuso even drove his elbow into his side.
It was cunning and rough.
Crack.
"Ugh!"
Referees can only see from certain angles. With intent, fouls like that can slip by.
It was a trademark of Italian football.
Often it was difficult to judge whether it was a foul or acceptable contact.
But tonight's referee, Howard Webb, had sharp eyes.
Whistle.
"WHY!"
"Gattuso, your shirt will tear at this rate. That is too rough."
"Hoo. I just got carried away. I understand. Let it go this time."
Gattuso studied the referee's expression.
"He did not see the elbow."
Fortunately.
Webb was stricter than expected for an English referee known for leniency in physical play, but stopping the flow occasionally was not bad.
"Be careful. Next time it is a booking."
"No problem. I will be careful."
That resolve did not last five minutes.
Thud.
Whistle.
"Gattuso finally receives a yellow card."
"He charged straight into Ho-young. That was inevitable."
For Gattuso, it was the best decision.
Ho-young had received the ball near the halfway line, with Ronaldo and Zhirkov breaking on both flanks.
If he had not stopped it there, it would have become dangerous.
Technically, physically, and in stamina, Gattuso was inferior.
So he resorted to brute force.
"It was a reasonable choice. He took the yellow but prevented a chance."
"Exactly. With Real's finishing in this form, they cannot allow clear opportunities. It was a bold decision."
"Hoo…"
Gattuso exhaled heavily.
He had rarely felt this way in his life.
He had faced El Fenómeno Ronaldo, Maestro Zidane, and Ronaldinho.
He had been beaten by them, but he had never felt intimidated.
He had even nearly thrown a punch at Ronaldo once.
But now he felt powerless.
It was humiliation.
"Yes, it is like that time."
May 2005.
In the Champions League semifinal against PSV, when he faced Park Ji-sung.
The feeling was similar.
That day, Park had torn Milan apart with tireless energy and stamina.
A player who understood the meaning of sacrifice.
And now.
"I see that face in him."
And strangely, he also saw a glimpse of that damned Juventus player Nedvěd.
He simply did not tire.
"Where did this monster come from?"
After being battered this hard, he should have shrunk back.
Instead, Ho-young looked even more energized.
At this rate, it felt like his own mentality would break first.
It was torment.
Slap.
Gattuso slapped his own face.
Shock therapy.
"Get it together. You are Gattuso."
Yes. He was not one to collapse.
He was a raging bull.
Just then.
"Ramos sends it forward in one motion. Ronaldo controls with his chest."
"Cristiano Ronaldo faces Maldini with a step-over."
Ronaldo's signature heel chop.
He cut sharply inside with his heel and advanced toward midfield.
Then he looked at Ho-young.
"A pass to Ho-young! He charges forward!"
"Gattuso tries to follow!"
Thud!
Once again, Ho-young won the physical duel.
And then.
"Run!"
His pass split the defense.
A killer ball threading between Thiago Silva and Maldini into the box.
"Ho-young's killer pass!"
"Ronaldo is through!"
Tap.
Ronaldo's eyes darted for a split second.
Then he struck without hesitation before Dida could react.
As expected.
Thud!
"Gooooal!"
"Cristiano Ronaldo scores his second! Ho-young's assist shines!"
"Uoooooh!"
Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner after completing his brace.
Ho-young remained where he was.
He circled around Gattuso, throwing playful uppercuts in the air.
"That is it. Just like that!"
Seeing that, Gattuso finally snapped.
"Argh!"
His mentality was on the verge of collapse.
He grabbed both of Ho-young's arms.
He did not dare strike him, fearing another booking.
But then.
"Loser"
Ho-young mouthed the word provocatively.
Gattuso exploded.
"You bastard!"
He spat harsh words in his face.
And his mentality shattered.
[Fighting Spirit of the Raging Bull (SU)]
"Got it."
Now, only victory remained.
(To be continued.)