Chapter 253: Five Finals [Pandemonium:7]

The score was level, but the game was anything but balanced.

Real Sociedad had their tails up. The equalizer had been gasoline poured onto a roaring fire, and now they pressed forward with unrelenting aggression.

Valencia, however, refused to fold. Their defense bent but did not break. Their midfield fought for every blade of grass. Their forwards lurked, waiting for their own chance to strike.

The next goal felt inevitable.

The only question was—who would get it first?

The atmosphere inside the Reale Arena was suffocating.

On the touchline, Imanol Alguacil paced like a man possessed. His shouts echoed over the roaring crowd, his hands slicing through the air as he urged his team to keep pressing.

On the opposite sideline, Rubén Baraja stood stone-faced, arms crossed, unreadable. But the way his fingers dug into his biceps? That betrayed the storm beneath.

Every duel, every tackle, every misplaced pass sent waves of emotion through both benches.

Marchena, Baraja’s assistant, was locked in a constant back-and-forth with the fourth official. "You see that? Do you see that? They’re getting every call!" he barked, pointing toward the pitch.

Meanwhile, Sociedad’s substitutes were on their feet, feeding off the crowd’s energy, ready to explode at any moment.

Then—Sociedad struck.

And it started with a single touch.

Deep in his own half, Martín Zubimendi received the ball under pressure. Hugo Guillamón was closing in, fast and aggressive, but Zubimendi didn’t flinch.

With a single turn, he shook Guillamón off, shifting his body just enough to shield the ball.

Then, a glance up.

A heartbeat.

And then—a pass.

A lofted ball, perfectly weighted, arcing through the air like a guided missile.

It soared over Valencia’s midfield, bypassing Sosa and Javi Guerra. The defenders turned, eyes wide, bodies tensing.

But it was too late.

Takefusa Kubo was already moving.

Kubo had been waiting for this.

His body coiled like a spring, his acceleration instantaneous. He left his marker behind in the first two steps, his stride eating up the distance between him and the ball.

The crowd felt it before it happened.

The anticipation. The sharp intake of breath.

The ball dropped perfectly into his path, like destiny pulling strings.

Cenk Özkacar sprinted desperately alongside him, muscles burning, heart pounding, knowing he was losing the race.

Kubo took one touch—a feather-light caress that didn’t break his stride.

Then another, drawing Mamardashvili out.

The Valencia keeper charged forward, his frame a towering wall, arms spread wide, eyes locked on the ball.

Kubo saw him coming.

The angle was tight. The pressure was suffocating.

But Kubo was ice-cold.

One flick.

A delicate, measured chip.

Not a blast. Not a panic-driven strike.

A simple, calculated lift.

The ball floated over Mamardashvili’s outstretched arms and the stadium held its breath.

Time slowed.

The ball hung in the air—suspended in a moment of cruel inevitability.

Then—net.

The ball kissed the back of the net, rolling gently into the goal before bouncing once, mocking the silence before the explosion.

Pandemonium

A single second of stunned silence before the stadium detonated.

A hurricane of sound ripped through the Reale Arena.

Kubo sprinted toward the corner flag, fists clenched, eyes wide with raw emotion. His teammates swarmed him, bodies colliding, voices lost in the deafening roar of celebration.

Behind them, the Sociedad bench erupted.

Imanol sprinted down the touchline, fists pumping. His staff roared in triumph. Substitutes leaped onto the field, hugging, and screaming.

The fans?

Madness.

Scarves whirled above heads. Flares ignited in the stands. Grown men clutched each other, shaking, screaming, crying.

The ground itself seemed to shake under the sheer force of unrestrained joy.

The scoreboard now read:

Real Sociedad 3-2 Valencia.

The silence on the Valencia bench was thunderous.

Baraja stood frozen, jaw tight, staring at the pitch.

Gayà slammed his hands on his knees, shaking his head in disbelief. Guillamón wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes darting toward his teammates, searching for answers that weren’t there.

Fran Pérez, still catching his breath, muttered, "Damn it…" before kicking at the turf.

On the sidelines, Assistant Coach Moreno turned away, rubbing his temples. "Unbelievable."

Then, the camera panned back to the bench.

To Izan.

Sitting, watching, absorbing.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and took a deep breath.

Baraja saw it.

He turned.

And their eyes met.

The storm wasn’t over.

...

The goal had done everything but demoralized the Valencia players.

Their midfield trio now consisted of Pietro who had come in for Sosa, Javi Guerra, and Pepelu who had also replaced Guillamon.

The trio worked like unleashed bulls, clearing balls and making threatening passes but Valencia couldn’t convert.

Real Sociedad on the other hand, had their lead but they wanted more.

The game was now chaos—fast, violent, breathless. Every duel felt like a battle within the war.

Every clearance, every interception, every moment carried the weight of something decisive.

Kubo, Oyarzabal, and Merino carved through the Valencia defense like a blade through the fabric.

On the other end, Diego López and Fran Pérez launched themselves forward, desperate to spark something—anything.

And then, in the 72nd minute, the match tilted on its axis.

Kubo had the ball again, terrorizing the right wing, a blur of white and blue. He cut inside, feinted past Gayà, and drove into the box.

Cenk Özkacar lunged, his leg pushing the ball away but simultaneously, Kubo went down.

The whistle behind them caused the players to turn towards the referee, thinking Kubo might have been offside but they saw the referee point to the spot.

For a second, nobody reacted. Then—outrage.

The Valencia players swarmed the referee. Disbelief on their faces, rage in their voices.

Gayà threw his arms up. "No way! He went down too easily!"

Özkacar, eyes wild, pointed at the turf. "I got the ball! I got the ball!" but the referee had made his decision.

Baraja was furious, storming toward the fourth official. "You’re ruining the game! That’s soft! That’s ridiculous!"

The Sociedad players? Ecstatic.

The stadium?

A furnace of pure, deafening euphoria.

Scarves waved, fists pumped as fans roared in celebration, the decision treated as a goal in itself.

Kubo picked himself up, grinning while Mikel Oyarzabal grabbed the ball. He didn’t think the call was right but there wasn’t much he could do.

Mamardashvili stood on his line, jaw tight, eyes dark, a man made of pure defiance.

The penalty was given.

The chance to end the game.

After getting rid of all the complaints, the referee joined Marmadashvilli and Oryazabal in the box.

Oyarzabal placed the ball on the spot.

One step back. Then two, his eyes never leaving Mamardashvili.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation. The chants of the home fans grew louder, faster, feverish.

Mamardashvili stretched his arms, bouncing on his toes, his frame massive in the goal.

The referee’s whistle pierced the night air.

Oyarzabal took his run-up, his heartbeat running amok at the chance to probably kill the game.

Halfway through the runup, Oryazabal looked like he had made his decision.

A strike—low and hard to the left.

But Mamardashvili exploded into action with godly instincts.

A full dive.

A desperate stretch.

Then came contact. Marmadashvilli felt his fingertips tip the ball and that was enough as the ball was pushed away.

The rebound fell loose—chaos.

The Reale Arena, which had been a roaring beast, froze in collective shock save for the ever-growing shouts of the Valencia fans who were ecstatic at their goalkeeper’s save.

Valencia scrambled the ball clear.

Then?

Bedlam.

"HE’S SAVED IT!" the commentator’s voice cracked, barely audible over the eruption of noise from the traveling Valencia fans.

"Giorgi Mamardashvili has kept Valencia alive! That is a MASSIVE moment!"

The other commentator chimed in, voice sharp with excitement.

"Do you know what? That could be a blessing in disguise for Valencia! Real Sociedad thought they had the game sealed, but now—NOW—the momentum shifts completely!"

And shift it did.

Valencia came alive.

Fran Pérez burst forward, driving down the right. The pass came inside. Javi Guerra touched it past his marker.

The Sociedad defense was retreating, legs heavy, minds shaken.

The ball found Pietro who was a short distance past the halfway line.

Trapping the ball carefully, he turned towards Real Sociedad’s goal with a swift motion.

He sliced through the midfield, carving Sociedad apart, a blur of orange.

Then, the killer ball—slipped through for Diego López, cutting between the center-backs.

The keeper charged out trying to intimidate Diego López but the forward didn’t hesitate.

A first-time strike, Low and Ruthless went past the keeper and Into the net.

The Anoeta rang with silence, the home fans finding it hard to believe what had happened.

Then?

The bench erupted. Players sprinted down the touchline. Diego López slid on his knees, fists clenched, screaming toward the night sky.

Pietro caught him in the celebration, arms wrapping around his teammate, the raw fire of a comeback burning in his chest.

And in the commentary booth, the words came fast, breathless.

"UNBELIEVABLE! Valencia have done it! From almost being finished, they’ve clawed their way back!"

His partner echoed the sentiment.

"The penalty save changed everything! This is why football is the greatest sport in the world! One second, you’re dead and buried—the next, you’re level!"

Baraja punched the air as his assistants, Moreno and Marchena grabbed each other, roaring in triumph.

On the other side, Imanol Alguacil stood frozen, hands on his head. Sociedad’s players looked at each other, stunned, shaken, desperate for answers.

But there were none.