The Football Legends System-Chapter 69: Everyone On The Brink
Chapter 69: Everyone On The Brink
Chapter 69 – Everyone on the Brink
The stadium trembled beneath them.
Sixty thousand voices buzzed like electricity in the air, rising and falling with each step, each breath, each heartbeat.
Penalty shootout.Sudden death inches away.
Napoli stepped up first.
1st – Victor Osimhen
Osimhen was pure power. Fury wrapped in speed. The kind of striker who didn’t ask questions.
He placed the ball down and backed away, bouncing lightly, gaze burning.
Onana crouched low, fingers twitching.
Whistle.
Osimhen ran—BOOM!
Shot low and hard to the left.
Onana lunged—fingertip on it—!
But the ball still snapped the net.
Goal.
1–0 Napoli.
The Neapolitan end erupted.
A wave of noise, flags, fists.
Onana slammed the turf once and stood up, nodding. No blame.
1st – Zirkzee
Coolness under fire. That was Zirkzee’s gift.
He strolled to the spot like he was about to take a Sunday stroll through the park.
Placed the ball. Stepped back. One glance. One breath.
Whistle.
Tch!
He rolled it gently to the right. The keeper dove the other way.
Goal.
1–1.
Zirkzee turned calmly, tapped his chest twice, and walked back without a word.
2nd – Elmas
No big steps. No flash.
Onana stood still, tracking every twitch.
The whistle blew.
Hup!
Elmas stutter-stepped—tap!
A tricky ground shot to the bottom left.
Onana dove early—wrong guess.
Goal.
2–1 Napoli.
The Italian crowd roared again.
But it wasn’t the same.
The thunder now had cracks.
Doubt, maybe.
2nd – Valverde
If there was one man who didn’t know the meaning of pressure, it was Valverde.
He placed the ball, hands relaxed.
Then he looked at the keeper like he was daring him to move.
Whistle.
He blasted it straight down the middle.
The keeper jumped out of the way.
Goal!
2–2.
"YESSSS!!" Valverde pumped a fist and marched back.
Nathan smiled faintly.
3rd – Kvaratskhelia
Kvara was a ghost again. Silent.. Dangerous.
He walked like he didn’t feel his legs.
But Nathan knew better.
This man was lethal.
He stepped up.
Whistle.
Kvara ran—twisted—
Fired high to the top right—
CRACK!!!
Onana launched—gloved it!!!
SAVED!!!
"YESSSSS!!" Valverde roared.
The red end of the stadium detonated.
Onana shot to his feet, pumping both fists. "LET’S GO!!" he barked.
Nathan felt a rush of adrenaline hit him like a tidal wave.
They had the edge.
It was right there!
Now—him.
3rd – Nathan
He walked slowly, each step heavier than the last.
The ball waited at the spot.
Nathan bent down, placed it carefully. The leather felt slick against his fingers.
His heart pounded in his ears.
He backed up. One, two, three steps.
The whistle came.
He ran forward—struck with the instep—
Clean hit.
Straight path—
Then—
TANGGGGG!!!
The crossbar rang like a bell. The ball ricocheted off and bounced out.
Nathan froze.
Time stopped.
He dropped to his knees.
No...
Not again...
The sound of the crowd blurred around him.
No cheers.
Just silence.
The cruelest kind.
Valverde ran over, grabbed his arm.
"Get up," he said firmly.
Nathan hesitated.
"You’re still in this," Valverde snapped. "We all are."
4th – Lozano
Napoli needed this.
Whistle.
Boom!
Hard shot to the right.
Onana dove the right way—fingers brushed it—
But it squeezed in.
Goal.
3–2 Napoli.
The tension twisted tighter.
4th – Thuram
Nathan watched him step forward, calm.
Thuram was all precision. No flair. Just cold calculation.
He placed the ball. Exhaled.
Ran.
Tap!
Bottom right, kissed the corner.
Goal.
3–3.
Thuram turned, face blank, and nodded once at the bench.
5th – Rrahmani
Napoli’s last man.
A center-back. Big frame. Nervous steps.
He placed it down.
Onana bounced lightly.
The whistle blew.
BOOM!
High shot, straight line—
Onana got his fingertips to it—
The ball deflected—
But still went in!
Goal.
4–3.
5th – Wan-Bissaka
He wasn’t a penalty taker. Everyone knew it.
But he was next.
Wan-Bissaka stepped forward slowly.
Just him and the ball.
He placed it, paused, then backed up.
Whistle.
One breath.
Hesitation.
Shot—
It hit the post—TCHANG!
Then bounced in!
GOAL!!
BOOM!!
The stadium froze.
Then—exploded!
4–4 after five kicks each.
Sudden death now.
Nathan exhaled sharply, the weight of everything crashing down on his shoulders.
He looked across the pitch.
Onana nodded to himself.
Valverde cracked his knuckles.
Thuram stood silent.
Wan-Bissaka just stared at the ground, barely blinking.
—
—
The sixth round began under a heavy sky.
Not in the clouds—those were clear, midnight black and blanketing Naples—but in the breathless, invisible tension that gripped the stadium like a vice.
No one moved.
Sixty thousand eyes locked on the penalty spot.
Ndombele stepped forward for Napoli, face grim, jaw clenched. He didn’t look left or right. Just down at the ball... then at Onana.
The keeper stood tall.
Waiting.
Tch...
The whistle pierced the air.
Ndombele ran up—inside of the foot—aimed low and clean to the right—
FWUMP!!
Onana launched.
THWACK!!!
Gloved. Blocked. Saved.
The ball skidded wide.
Stunned silence.
Then—
"LETTTT’S GOOOOOOOO!!!" Onana roared, arms flung wide as he dropped to his knees.
The crowd exploded.
Valverde spun, fists raised. Thuram slapped the air.
Nathan’s heart leapt—but didn’t soar.
Not yet.
It wasn’t over.
Still one to take.
Luke Shaw walked slowly to the spot.
One hand on his hip, the other dragging across his face, wiping sweat.
He’d taken penalties before.
But not like this.
Not with the world watching from a knife’s edge.
He placed the ball. Looked at the keeper.
Napoli’s goalkeeper—Meret—who had looked shaky all night, now stood tall.
Eyes blazing.
Whistle.
Shaw ran.
Shot left—sharp, low—!
CRACK!!
Saved.
Meret dove full-stretch and smothered it.
Gasps. Groans. Screams.
The Napoli end erupted.
Meret bellowed, veins bulging, fists pounding his chest like a warrior reborn.
Shaw stood frozen, hands on hips, lips tight.
No one spoke.
Valverde blinked in disbelief. Nathan rubbed his hands over his face.
Now it was Napoli’s turn—again.
7th Kick – Anguissa
A midfielder.
He marched to the spot.
Ball placed.
Whistle.
BOOM!
He struck with violence—straight, fast, chest-height.
Onana read it.
He dove—
TCHAK!
Gloves on it—
But—
The ball slipped under him and trickled in.
GOAL.
5–4 Napoli.
Nathan.
No...
Not like this...
Onana stayed on the ground, staring at the grass.
The ball had brushed him.
Inches away.
He’d done everything—except stop it.
Anguissa didn’t celebrate.
He just turned and walked back.
Now—
Dalot.
No instructions.
No hesitation.
Just a quiet voice behind him:
"Go... take it."
Nathan turned to see Amorim, eyes locked on the full-back.
Dalot nodded once and stepped forward.
Not the flashiest.
Not the loudest.
Nathan held his breath.
The stadium had gone dead silent.
Dalot placed the ball. Backed up.
One deep inhale.
Eyes closed.
Then—open.
The whistle.
He charged.
THUMP!!!
Outside of the foot—rocket!
BOOOOOOOOOM!!!
Top right corner.
GOAL.
5–5.
The Manchester United corner erupted.
Flares. Screams. Arms raised to the heavens.
Valverde tackled Dalot from the side, shouting in his ear. Zirkzee threw his arms around them both.
Thuram stomped toward the bench, pumping both fists.
Nathan didn’t cheer.
He stared at the referee.
Something was off.
He wasn’t calling for the eighth kick.
Instead—
He jogged toward the center circle.
A brief huddle with the VAR official on the sideline.
More glances. Gestures.
Then—
The referee turned to face the pitch, raised his arm—
And declared:
"Penalty shootout ends.Manchester United wins—5 to 4 after 7 kicks each.More saves."
...
...
The world paused.
Nathan blinked.
Valverde tilted his head. "Wait, what?"
Onana sat up, confused.
"More saves," the assistant coach echoed.
"Three from us. Two from them..."
It sunk in.
It was over.
THEY HAD WON.
"YEEEEEESSSSSS!!"
"WE WON!!!"
"COME ONNNNNN!!!"
Pandemonium.
Zirkzee leapt into the air, screaming. Valverde dropped to the grass and punched it.
Nathan fell back, hands over his face, chest heaving.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes before he could even stop them.
They did it.
He looked up to the night sky, blinking away the blur of emotion.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
"Thank you..."
All around him—chaos.
Thuram tackled Wan-Bissaka. Dalot was mobbed by the bench. Amorim lifted both arms to the crowd, then turned to his staff and shouted something lost in joy.
And in the center of it all—
André Onana.
Lifted high by three teammates.
Arms wide.
Laughing through tears.
He had saved them—again and again.
Nathan pushed himself up.
Walked slowly toward the keeper.
They met near the penalty spot—where it had all begun.
No words.
Just a hug.
A long, tight, exhausted embrace.
"You saved us," Nathan said quietly.
Onana smirked. "About time I earned my paycheck."
Nathan laughed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t proud.
Just... relief.
The match had stripped them bare.
Every emotion, every mistake, every burst of fire inside them had spilled onto the pitch.
And now, all that was left—
Was silence.
And victory.
The players regrouped.
Some knelt, heads in hands. Others danced with fans in the far corner.
The Napoli players collapsed where they stood. Di Lorenzo cried. Kvaratskhelia sat, numb.
But on the other side—Manchester United had done the impossible.
