Chapter 801: Injured!

A collective gasp echoed through the stadium.

Then—a hushed silence descended.

On the pitch, Hiro lay sprawled on the ground, clutching his leg, writhing in agony. Just beside him, Yang slowly collected himself, pushing up from the turf.

Fwee!

The whistle cut through the silence like a blade.

Then, at once, a cacophonous chorus of jeers rained down upon the stadium. The fans of red and white hurled curses, their voices thick with fury and outrage.

Before long, chaos descended on the field. The Madrid players lost their cool at the sight of their cherished playmaker crumpled on the ground. They surged forward, faces twisted with anger, demanding retribution.

The opposing players scrambled to form a wall around the man responsible—shielding Yang from the advancing storm.

From the sidelines, medics rushed onto the pitch, equipment in hand, their expressions grim and urgent.

Yang stood frozen, unable to react.

He could see his opponent—the one against whom he had been struggling, the one who had danced past him time and time again—now writhing in pain. He could hear his agonized groans cutting through the noise of the stadium.

I did this.

The tackle had been hard. He had felt the contact himself, the jarring collision of bone and muscle.

"Let’s get out of here..."

One of his teammates grabbed his arm, voice laced with concern and panic.

"You’ll get swarmed if you stand here like this."

Yang heard the words. But he couldn’t bring himself to react. He couldn’t even avert his gaze from the man he had just destroyed.

His heart began to throb, a sharp, aching pain that radiated through his chest. His complexion paled. His expression twisted in horror and regret.

I did this.

My desperation...

My recklessness...

I hurt him.

The weight of the realization crashed down on him like a collapsing building.

What have I done?

[Warning! Warning!]

[The host has sustained a serious injury.]

The notification blared, the panel flashing an urgent red. But Hiro couldn’t even bring himself to focus on the screen or the voice that flared in his ears.

The pain—the sharp, searing throb in his leg—made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. Each time he tried to endure it, a fresh wave of agony resonated through his body, interfering with his thoughts, clouding his mind.

His mental fortitude was tough—forged through countless battles. But even so, the pain was so agonizing that he couldn’t think straight.

"Hiro! Can you hear us?"

The voice was faint, almost inaudible. A sharp ringing buzzed in his ears, drowning out the noise circulating him. His vision blurred, the world losing its color, its light, its warmth.

He could see the ceiling of the stadium above him—a distant, hazy expanse. Blurred figures obstructed his view from time to time, their faces indistinguishable.

Then, slowly, things began to darken.

He felt as though he were drowning—sinking into an endless abyss, the faint trace of light growing further and further out of reach.

His breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps.

"It’s not looking good..."

One of the medics spoke, his voice laced with concern. Another signaled something using urgent hand gestures—a silent conversation that spoke volumes.

From the sidelines, Diego had been keener than ever, his attention fixed on the unfolding events. Holding onto his sinking heart, he had followed the procedure, awaiting the result.

Though he had witnessed the tackle firsthand—and somewhere, deep inside, a voice warned him to prepare for the worst—he still clung to the hope of a positive outcome.

But as he witnessed the gesture of the medics on the field, his heart plummeted.

The ground beneath him seemed to sink.

The world came collapsing around him as he stumbled, barely managing to compose himself. The worst possible outcome—the one he hadn’t even allowed himself to think about—had happened.

His face lost its color, his brows knitting into a deep frown.

But as devastated as he was, he couldn’t afford to remain affected for long. Despite the despair gnawing at his heart, he forced himself to compose his features, to steady his trembling resolve.

Then his gaze traced back to his bench.

The atmosphere was damp, heavy with concern. He could see it etched onto every face—worry, fear, uncertainty.

"Guiliano..." He called out, his expression complicated.

There was no response.

"Guiliano." He raised his tone, his voice much firmer than before.

This time, Guiliano responded. 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

"Yes... Coach!"

"You’re up."

Diego could see the concern on his face. Just like the rest of the players around him, his attention was fixed on the pitch—on the fallen figure of their star player. He was just as devastated as those around him.

But Diego had responsibilities he couldn’t hide from. Though his heart ached to see his best performer in such a miserable state, he had to think about the rest of the game. Even if it meant continuing without him, he had to consider the entire team.

He couldn’t afford to be consumed by concern for a single individual.

So he put his responsibilities before his emotions, and began planning for the remainder of the match.

His players understood his intention. Such things were common in the world of professional sport, after all—cruel, but necessary.

Though still visibly concerned, Guiliano rose from his seat. He unzipped his jacket, tossing it onto the bench with a deliberate motion. Then he inhaled a long breath, held it for a moment, and let it out in one slow, steady exhale.

The air escaped his mouth—and so did his concern for his teammate.

His knitted brows relaxed. His expression became calm, composed, and unreadable.

In that instant, it wasn’t just his expression that changed—but the entire aura surrounding him. Before, it had been turbulent, like a storm brewing on the horizon. Now, it had become tranquil—a still lake, deceptively calm, hiding depths unknown.

"Just what you expect of a top manager. The calm and the resolve with which he handles his team is just unmatched. Just a moment ago, you could see him shouting, pleading. But look at him now; there isn’t a man as calm as him in the entire field."

The commentator praised him as the screen flashed with Diego’s appearance.