The Football Legends System-Chapter 68: No, It’s Not Over Yet

Chapter 68 – No, It’s Not Over Yet

Napoli 2 – 1 Manchester United

(Aggregate: 4 – 3)

Extra Time – 105th Minute

The whistle blew for the break in extra time.

And yet... no one moved.

It was as if the air had thickened, turned heavy.

Nathan sat down slowly, legs folded beneath him, blades of grass brushing his fingertips. His chest rose and fell in long, strained exhales. Around him, teammates lowered their heads, some rubbing their faces, others just staring into space.

Silence—except for the constant roar of 60,000 Neapolitan voices echoing across the night.

His throat was dry. Sweat dripped off his chin. He could still hear Kvaratskhelia’s shot in his head—BOOM!—still see the ball slicing into the top corner like it was scripted.

He clenched his jaw.

"Is this the end?" he wondered.

A shadow moved beside him. Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

Valverde.

His face was red with effort, sweat trickling into his eyes, but his stare burned.

"No," Valverde said quietly. "It’s not."

Nathan looked up. The midfielder’s voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

"I’ll win it back for you," he said. "Trust me."

Nathan nodded slowly. "Then I’ll finish it."

Across the sideline, Amorim turned, barking orders at the fourth official.

"Zirkzee! Warm up!" he shouted. "This is the last chance. Make it count!"

The forward jogged down the line, rolling his shoulders, shaking out the stiffness in his legs.

And then—it began again.

The final fifteen.

Second half of extra time.

110th minute.

Napoli pressed , snapping at ankles, doubling every run. Their bodies screamed with fatigue, but they refused to give an inch.

The crowd was ravenous, every tackle, every clearance a celebration.

Nathan drifted between lines, scanning, searching—but the passing lanes were gone. Valverde and Thuram were marked tight. Roque couldn’t shake off Rrahmani.

United’s midfield pulsed with desperation. The ball zipped back and forth with urgency, but every forward surge felt like sprinting uphill.

"Is this all we have left?"

Then—

113th minute.

Kvaratskhelia received the ball again, near the left touchline.

He squared up to Wan-Bissaka. Faked inside. Then out. Then inside again—BOOM!

He darted past Valverde, surging toward the box.

But—

CRACK!

Valverde lunged in with a tackle!

Grass exploded off his boots as he slid in, body low, timing perfect.

Clean.

Kvara stumbled—ball gone.

Valverde popped up instantly, eyes locked forward.

He didn’t hesitate.

He ran.

One touch to control—then he burst past the halfway line, driving through the center with raw, explosive power.

Nathan chased alongside him, heart pounding, legs burning.

"One!" Valverde shouted.

A Napoli defender closed in.

Valverde chopped left—beat him.

"Two!"

Another came.

He faked a pass, slid right—gone again.

Then—tap!

A half-foot pass. Delicate.

Right into Nathan’s path.

Nathan didn’t slow.

He caught it mid-stride, the touch feather-light, and lifted his head.

Two defenders scrambled to recover—too late.

He saw Zirkzee.

And in that instant—Nathan felt it.

The angle. The speed. The pressure.

The pass came not from thought, but from instinct.

Tchk!

Outside of the boot, curling, slicing the defense in half.

Zirkzee didn’t even break stride.

One-on-one with the keeper.

Silence fell.

Then—

BOOOOM!!! freewebnøvel.coɱ

The net bulged.

GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAL!!!

Manchester United 2 – 2 Napoli

(Aggregate: 4 – 4)

Nathan screamed.

"YESSSSSSS!!!"

He raced toward the corner flag, arms wide, mouth open in an explosion of emotion. Zirkzee sprinted after him.

Valverde followed last, chest heaving.

They all collided—shoulders slamming, arms wrapping, voices screaming.

The red shirts poured in, a flood of energy, fists pumping, hearts surging.

Behind them, Amorim leapt with both fists in the air, finally showing something beyond stoic focus. He turned to his assistant, face flushed.

"That’s the one! That’s the one!"

Even the traveling fans, who had been buried in silence for most of extra time, erupted now. Flags waved. Drums pounded. Their chant broke the wall of Napoli’s home:

"UNITED! UNITED! UNITED!"

Back in position, the Napoli players stood stunned.

Kvaratskhelia bent over, hands on knees.

Di Lorenzo muttered curses into the grass.

Meret pounded the turf with his glove.

Nathan, breathing hard, took his place near midfield.

Valverde came to stand beside him.

Neither said a word.

They didn’t need to.

"We came back. Again."

"We’re still here."

———

The whistle’s echo hadn’t even faded before it was swallowed whole by the sound.

A detonation of red and white in the corner stands.Flags waving. Flares burning.

"UNITED! UNITED! UNITED!"

The English fans had found their voice again.

Meanwhile, the rest of the stadium stood in stunned disbelief. Napoli’s supporters were statues. Heads in hands. Eyes wide, mouths ajar. The scoreboard didn’t lie:

Napoli 2 – 2 Manchester United(Aggregate: 4 – 4)

The referee raised his arms.

"Penalty shootout!"

Silence.

Then movement—slow, dragging.

United’s players gathered around Amorim near the sideline. Some with hands on hips. Others with eyes low. Their bodies screamed fatigue.

Nathan stood at the edge of the circle, hands on his knees,. He could taste blood and sweat in his mouth. The air stung. The grass felt hot under his boots.

Valverde grinned, wiped sweat from his brow, and nudged him.

"We hit them back hard," he said. "Now let’s finish the job."

Nathan managed a nod. His breath came in short bursts.Haaah... haaah...

He didn’t need to answer.

This was it.

Fate, standing on the penalty spot.

—

On the pitch, the referee and officials began organizing the shootout. Goalkeepers were checked. Penalty spot cleaned. Coaches handed the final list to the fourth official.

Amorim stepped away from the huddle and walked down the line of players.

"You came here to make history," he said calmly. "Now it’s the moment of truth."

He looked each player in the eye.

Zirkzee. Valverde. Nathan. Thuram. Wan-Bissaka.

Then finally Onana. Luke Shaw, too, just in case.

Nathan felt his chest tighten. Not from fear. Not anymore.From weight.

The weight of history.

—

The shootout would be taken at the end nearest the traveling United fans.

Onana stood at the goal, alone for now. He bounced on his toes, muttering to himself, hands flinching in the air like a boxer.

"One or two..." he whispered."I’ll save them. Just need timing."

He clapped his gloves once.THWACK!

The penalty list flashed on the screen above the pitch:

ZirkzeeValverdeNathanThuramWan-BissakaOnana (if needed)Luke Shaw