Ralls stepped forward.
The ball was struck with precision and power. It curled over the wall, dipping fast toward the top-right corner. The Leicester keeper flew full stretch and just got his fingertips to it.
Saved.
Groans rippled from the Cardiff fans—so close, just inches from glory.
But Cardiff didn't retreat.
Firdaus signaled from the sideline, calling for a higher line. "Step up! Press! Don't let them breathe!"
The players responded immediately.
Cardiff began swarming Leicester's backline, forcing hasty clearances and poor touches. The pressure intensified with every passing second. Siopis, tireless as ever, read the movement like a conductor—intercepting a loose pass, taking one touch, then releasing it quickly to Ralls, who in turn fed Grant on the left.
Grant, fearless, took on Ricardo Pereira, his boots skimming the wet grass. He dropped a shoulder, cut inside, and whipped in a low cross. Ojo came flying in at the near post, connected cleanly—
—but the ball flashed just wide of the post.
Hands flew to heads. Firdaus exhaled through gritted teeth.
They were close. Dangerously close.
Leicester adjusted.
Firdaus noticed the subtle shift immediately. Their wide men began tucking in, compacting the middle. From a 4-2-3-1, they morphed into a flat 4-4-2. It was a protective shape—designed to shut down space.
Firdaus opened the system overlay.
[Leicester Formation Change Detected]
[Player Focus: Maddison Dropping Deeper, Launching Counters]
[Alert: Central Compactness Critical]
He turned to Riza. "Time to close that pocket. Pull Ralls slightly deeper. Push Wintle up in his place."
Riza nodded, relayed the message.
The midfield adjusted. Ralls swept tighter across the back four. Wintle began initiating higher triggers, pressuring Maddison the moment he received the ball.
Firdaus paced the technical area, his mind juggling tactical scenarios. Style no longer mattered. This was survival—and the hunt for that single fatal mistake.
He turned briefly to the crowd and felt the energy rising again—chants growing, scarves waving. There was belief.
Ojo began to shine.
His speed terrified the Leicester backline. In the 78th minute, he picked up the ball near the halfway line, turned on the jets, and cut inside between Faes and Castagne. With a quick shift onto his right, he unleashed a thunderous shot that whistled inches past the post.
Firdaus clapped his hands. "Again! Pressure them! Every ball matters!"
The Cardiff fans roared in support, transforming from hopeful to electric, singing louder with every minute.
Just three minutes later, Ojo was at it again. Ng spotted him peeling away and hit a diagonal ball into space. Ojo brought it down with a velvet touch, muscled off his marker, and surged toward the box.
He squared it across goal.
Grant arrived. The net beckoned. He struck—only to see the ball balloon agonizingly over the bar.
Firdaus dropped his head for a second, covering his mouth.
"Next one," he muttered, barely audible.
Grant threw his hands up in frustration but nodded at Ojo with gratitude for the delivery.
Then came Leicester's moment.
In the 84th minute, Maddison finally found space. One quick turn and he threaded a ball through the defense.
Daka latched onto it, beating the offside trap. The away fans gasped, rising in anticipation.
One-on-one.
The stadium held its breath.
Alnwick rushed out, timing his approach perfectly. Daka struck low—
—but Alnwick threw his body down, blocking the shot with his legs.
The ball rebounded wildly and was cleared by Kipré.
The Cardiff fans erupted, voices layered with relief and disbelief. A chant for Alnwick echoed from the Canton Stand.
Firdaus turned to the bench. "We hold," he said. "But we don't stop hunting."
He issued one final tactical shift: Siopis dropped into a holding role, anchoring in front of the center-backs. Ojo and Grant stayed high, primed for the kill.
The rhythm slowed, tension coiled like a spring—Cardiff's trap was set.
In the 88th minute, it came.
Leicester overcommitted. Maddison, under pressure, played a backward pass without looking. Tielemans tried to recover it, but Siopis slid in and snatched the ball with perfect timing.
He didn't delay. One touch forward, then another—and he was gone.
He drove through the middle, eyes scanning.
Ralls ran parallel and took over, slipping a perfectly weighted through ball down the left.
Ojo took off.
The entire stadium rose.
He beat one. Then another.
The turf opened ahead of him.
He was in.
One-on-one with the goalkeeper.
He steadied himself, heart thumping in his ears.
Firdaus stood frozen.
Ojo locked eyes with the keeper.
Drew his foot back—
To be continued...
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