In the 60th minute, Argentina made their first substitution of the match.
Sergio Agüero, just 17 years old, replaced Oberman up front.
It was a bold, unmistakable signal from Francisco Ferraro: Argentina wasn't here to play cautiously—they were going all in.
Once again, they had been pushed into a corner.
And once again, they were refusing to back down.
With the lead still 2–1 in China's favor, the second half was starting to mirror the first—but with a critical difference.
Argentina had urgency.
China had fatigue.
The Chinese team dropped deeper and deeper, retreating into a compact shape in their own half. Their plan was simple: protect the lead and wait for a counter.
But unlike the first half, those counters were becoming fewer. The midfield was losing its sharpness, and the spaces were closing fast.
Agüero immediately injected energy.
Despite his small frame, he moved like quicksilver—tight turns, fast bursts, always dragging defenders out of position. Within minutes, he received the ball on the right side of the box, turned on a dime, and unleashed a low shot.
It whistled past the far post by inches.
The Chinese crowd gasped.
On the sideline, Coach Krautzun reacted swiftly. Hao Junmin, exhausted, was withdrawn. Zhao Xuri came on, a taller, more defensively-oriented midfielder.
It was clear: China was digging in.
But the pressure was growing.
Argentina dominated possession. Their movement was sharper. Every second ball seemed to fall at their feet.
And then, in the 78th minute, they broke through.
Messi started the move just outside the penalty arc, drifting left to receive a diagonal pass. His first touch was velvet—absorbing the pass in stride, he cut inside and suddenly exploded forward.
Two Chinese midfielders moved to close him down, but he weaved between them with such balance and acceleration that they were left flat-footed.
In an instant, he was through.
Feng Xiaoting stepped up, trying to time a clean challenge. But Messi kept the ball glued to his foot. Feng hesitated, then lunged—
Too late.
Messi slipped past him, breaking into the penalty area.
In a desperate lunge, Feng swung his leg again—this time, catching Messi's trailing foot just as the Argentine shifted his weight for a final touch.
Messi tried to stay up, stumbling forward two more steps—
—but he lost control of the ball, his body pitching forward, and finally crashed to the ground.
The referee immediately blew his whistle, pointing to the spot.
Yellow card to Feng Xiaoting.
"Penalty! Messi wins a penalty in the 78th minute!"
"Feng Xiaoting is booked for the challenge!"
"Once again, Messi's brilliance breaks through—two defenders beaten, and a clean angle carved into the box!"
The Chinese players looked devastated. Some with hands on their heads, others with eyes shut, unable to believe what just happened.
Zabaleta picked up the ball and handed it to Messi, tapping his shoulder like a general sending his ace to the front line.
Messi placed it carefully on the spot.
The stadium held its breath.
He didn't pace back. No theatrics.
Just three small steps.
He opened his body—
—and calmly rolled the ball low into the bottom-right corner, sending the keeper the wrong way.
Goal.
Argentina 2 – China 2.
"And he scores! Cool as ice! Messi levels it in the 79th minute!"
"That's the second equalizer for Argentina. China's lead… gone again!"
The blow was crushing.
Twice they had led.
Twice Argentina had come back.
And this time, it felt heavier.
You could see it in the players—the weight in their shoulders, the slowness in their walk back to the center circle.
This wasn't just physical fatigue now.
It was mental.
...
...
Argentina made their second and third substitutions of the match.
Fernando Gago, the deep-lying playmaker, was withdrawn. In his place came Lucas Biglia, a more robust, defensively-minded midfielder. It was a tactical shift—control gave way to containment.
At the same time, Emilano Armenteros came on for Archubi on the left flank.
If Biglia's introduction was a nod to structure, Armenteros was pure threat.
Fast, aggressive, and blessed with a sharp delivery from wide areas, Armenteros immediately signaled a change: Ferraro wanted to stretch the Chinese right, overwhelm it, and break through with speed and width.
Coach Krautzun didn't wait to see the impact—he reacted immediately.
Zhou Haibin, exhausted after a relentless shift, was replaced by Wang Hongliang, a midfield workhorse known for his grit.
Wang entered the field with one task already ringing in his ears.
He sprinted toward Yang Yang, chest heaving, sweat already rolling down his brow.
"The old man sent me with a message," he said between breaths. "He said you don't worry about defense. You attack. Stay up front. If you're there, we can hold."
He pulled Yang Yang into a brief embrace, firm and energizing.
"Let's go."
Yang Yang said nothing. Just nodded, clapped him on the back, and turned away with fire in his eyes.
Among all his teammates, Wang Hongliang stood out to Yang Yang—not for fame, but for discipline.
At only 1.74 meters, stocky and dark-skinned, Wang wasn't born with flash or flair. No standout pace, no height, no one-skill trick to make him famous.
But he lived in the gym.
While others rested, Wang trained. Every rep, every drill. He carved himself into a compact tank of a midfielder. What he lacked in talent, he made up for with relentless practice, intelligent positioning, and fearless tackling.
Krautzun had once planned to start both Wang Hongliang and Wang Shouting as the team's double pivot, but injuries derailed that vision. Only Wang Hongliang recovered in time, but by then, the squad was already clicking—and he had to wait his turn.
Until now.
And like always, when the call came, he delivered.
The Chinese midfield reformed, now anchored by a three-man engine:
Wang Hongliang, Zhao Xuri, and Cui Peng.
The front line remained unchanged.
But the body language on the pitch shifted. Everyone, sensing Yang Yang's looming threat upfield, pushed harder.
Yang Yang himself was omnipresent—dropping into the left channel, drifting centrally, supporting the press, and always looking for the space to strike again.
Gao Lin roamed tirelessly, bodying Argentine defenders and hounding their buildup from the front.
Chen Tao, noticing Armenteros probing the left, worked double-time to cover deep on the right side, plugging the potential leak before it broke open.
The game slowed—but it didn't breathe.
Argentina pressed.
China resisted.
The ball rarely left the Chinese half now. But they weren't panicking.
They were absorbing.
Waiting.
The gap in skill was still there.
But the gap in resolve?
That was shrinking by the minute.
China held the line.
For now.
...
...
The match remained locked in stalemate. On the pitch, the rhythm slowed under the weight of fatigue and tactical caution. But in the stands, the tension only grew heavier—especially for the Chinese supporters.
Among them, Wei Zhen, Wei Zheng, and Su Wenhong sat in deep anxiety, eyes fixed on the field, unable to relax.
This kind of scenario felt far too familiar.
Moments like this—close games, late pressure, Chinese teams leading or holding on in crucial tournaments—had played out again and again over the years.
And all too often, the ending had been heartbreak.
"It's happened too many times," Wei Zheng muttered, not even turning his head.
For decades, Chinese football had suffered from an uncomfortable reputation. When the moment of truth came, when the result was in the balance, there was always the fear that the team would falter.
Once or twice, it could be attributed to talent gaps. But when it kept happening?
It pointed to something deeper: mental fragility, the inability to remain composed when it mattered most.
"Look at Yang Yang," Wei Zheng said with concern, breaking the silence again.
Su Wenhong didn't respond right away. He didn't want to agree—but he also couldn't deny it.
"He carried this team to the final by himself," he finally said. "Whatever happens, that alone is remarkable. I just hope he still has enough left in him to finish the job."
Wei Zhen gave a slow nod. "It's obvious what Argentina's doing now. They've brought on Biglia to work alongside Zabaleta. They're taking turns shadowing him—sometimes both at once."
Yang Yang was the only true threat in China's attack. Everyone knew it—fans, coaches, and most importantly, the Argentines.
"He's being marked tightly. Two-on-one, every time he touches the ball. They're doing everything they can to shut him down."
Wei Zheng sighed. "How do you even play like that? It doesn't matter how good you are—no one can keep their rhythm when they're double-teamed the entire match."
"Even someone like Ronaldinho would struggle in this situation," Wei Zhen added. "Yang Yang's already scored twice. The defenders aren't taking any more chances."
It was true. The game had shifted into a tactical deadlock—Yang Yang vs. Messi, two stars at the center of the storm.
They had each scored a brace.
They were each marked tightly, pressed hard, studied carefully.
But the difference was clear: Argentina's supporting cast was more technically skilled. Their ability to absorb Messi's pressure and still function gave him more room to breathe.
China didn't have that luxury. Yang Yang carried a heavier burden.
"This is football," Wei Zhen said softly. "It's never fair. But you play anyway."
There was a brief pause, until Su Ye spoke up quietly, but firmly.
"No matter what happens," she said, her voice steady, "he's still the strongest hero we have."
The others looked at her—Wei Zhen, Wei Zheng, and Su Wenhong—and none of them disagreed.
No one could.
Out there, on that pitch, Yang Yang was still running, still moving, still trying to peel away from his markers. He wasn't slowing down, even as two defenders clung to him like shadows.
He was still trying to make something happen.
Trying to change the ending.
And if that kind of fight didn't make someone a hero—what did?
...
...
As the match edged into the final minutes, Yang Yang could feel the weight of every stride. His physical strength had been steadily draining, minute by minute, but he never stopped moving. He didn't bother counting the distance he had covered — it didn't matter. At this point in the game, what mattered wasn't meters run or heat maps. It was whether he could find a single decisive moment.
Zabaleta and Biglia continued to mark him with relentless discipline. The two Argentine midfielders alternated in pressing and covering, their coordination refined through countless matches. Zabaleta stayed tight to him, always close enough to obstruct, and Biglia hovered nearby, ready to collapse on him if he managed to turn. Yang Yang had no room to breathe, let alone operate. Whenever he received a pass, the ball would be immediately contested. If he didn't act quickly, it was gone.
So he adapted. He ran. He dragged them left and right, deep and wide, using every ounce of stamina to pull them out of position. He wasn't just trying to escape — he was wearing them down. This was a test of endurance as much as it was a battle of tactics.
By the eighty-fifth minute, he began to sense a shift. Zabaleta's pressure wasn't as tight as before. His steps were heavier, his reaction a fraction slower. It wasn't much, but it was there — a crack in the armor.
Yang Yang had pushed his own body far past comfort. His movement across the left channel and central corridor had been constant, but he didn't relent. Biglia, now more central in his positioning, was no longer pressing as aggressively on the flanks. The result was a slight opening — small, but real.
Yang Yang knew the risk. Under normal conditions, if he received the ball in that space, he wouldn't have time to turn. One defender would press immediately, and the second would arrive within seconds. In most situations, the only choice would be to play backward and recycle possession.
But he wasn't playing a normal match. He was playing the World Youth Championship Final.
And so he kept running, gambling on fatigue and timing. Gambling on the possibility that when the ball came again, Zabaleta might not reach him in time. That if he could just receive facing forward once — just once — there would be a window.
He believed the chance would come.
As he pressed forward, Yang Yang lost track of the clock. He stopped thinking about the score or the weight of the moment. His thoughts narrowed, his senses sharpened. His body ached, but his mind burned with focus.
He didn't need to see everything. He could feel it.
At that moment, Argentina pushed into the Chinese half. Armenteros received the ball on the left flank near the thirty-meter line and attempted a long switch across the pitch.
But Wang Hongliang was there. He stepped into Armenteros's space and used his body to block the swing. The ball deflected sharply off his shin and flew back toward midfield, cutting through the center.
Cui Peng, clearly running on empty, reacted first. Though nearly out of strength, he chased it down and managed to reach the ball before anyone else. He took a steadying touch, then looked up.
He saw only one option.
Yang Yang.
The Ajax forward was already on the move, curving his run from the left inward across the top of the arc. He pointed ahead, demanding the pass in front of him.
Cui Peng tried to deliver it, but his technique, affected by exhaustion, failed him. The ball came off as a difficult half-volley — waist-high and floating.
Yang Yang clicked his tongue in frustration but didn't slow. He surged ahead, knowing Zabaleta would already be closing in. The Argentine defender was late, slower than before, but he was still dangerous. He angled to Yang Yang's side, not directly at the ball, expecting the Chinese forward to try and bring it down and turn.
Zabaleta's intention was clear: wait for the touch, then make contact — clean or foul, it didn't matter.
And just as before, Biglia was already cutting in from the side, ready to collapse the moment Yang Yang held the ball.
It was a trap, perfectly timed.
But Yang Yang had seen everything unfold a split-second earlier, his God's vision mapping it all in real-time. He recognized the shape of the trap, and he knew what would happen if he played it safe.
He'd done it too many times — receive, get surrounded, pass backward.
But this time, there wouldn't be another chance.
He didn't have the luxury to play it safe.
As the ball from Cui Peng dropped into his path, Yang Yang made his move without hesitation.
He didn't try to bring it down. He didn't waste time cushioning the pass. Instead, he reached out with his right foot and flicked it upward, lifting the ball gently over the oncoming turf — a delicate first touch that sent it bouncing forward into space.
At the same time, he stepped across Zabaleta, angling his run and using his body to shield the defender. The timing was precise. Zabaleta, already late to react, was thrown off rhythm by the physical block and stuttered in place for half a second.
That hesitation was all Yang Yang needed.
He accelerated around Zabaleta's side and took off down the left channel, surging toward the edge of Argentina's box. The ball skipped along with him, never far from his stride.
Biglia, alert and more central, immediately shifted over, closing the angle from the opposite side. He pressed quickly, trying to pin Yang Yang near the sideline.
But Yang Yang had expected him.
He reached the corner of the penalty area and touched the ball forward. As it bounced, he shaped his body as if preparing to whip a cross toward the byline, planting his left foot and leaning his upper body to sell the move.
Biglia bit on the feint.
He lunged forward to block the supposed cross — and in that exact instant, Yang Yang pivoted sharply, pulling the ball back under his foot and stopping dead near the edge of the box.
For the first time, he had space.
Just a sliver, but it was enough.
Biglia scrambled to recover, but Yang Yang was already stepping over the ball, faking left, dragging it right. A clean cutback beat Biglia once more, and he drove diagonally across the top of the box, toward the arc.
Palleta, Argentina's central defender, anticipated the cut and moved to intercept.
But Biglia, still chasing from behind, had no way of knowing Palleta had stepped up — and the two nearly collided as Yang Yang suddenly stopped again, shifted the ball laterally, and slipped a pass through the narrow gap between them.
He didn't linger.
He exploded past Biglia's shoulder, making a diagonal run into the left side of the penalty area.
The ball had traveled no more than ten meters, but it had landed at the feet of Chen Tao, who had already been watching Yang Yang's run unfold.
Reading the play, Chen Tao timed it perfectly.
One touch.
A diagonal pass across the defense — a low, curling ball into the space near the left post.
It was measured. Crisp. Perfect.
Biglia, realizing too late, spun and lunged into a desperate sliding tackle. He knew he wouldn't get there in time. It didn't matter. Foul or not, red card or not, he had to try.
But Yang Yang was already there.
He didn't take a touch.
He didn't slow down.
He met the pass in full stride and struck it first-time with his left foot, sending the ball rocketing toward the far post.
The shot was clean, blistering, and precise — arcing across goal, curling just inside the right upright and slamming into the side netting with such force that it seemed to snap.
Ustari, to his credit, had reacted instantly and dove at full extension. His fingertips brushed the ball — but the speed and placement were too much. He only managed to deflect it slightly, redirecting it into his own net.
The net rippled.
The crowd erupted.
For a moment, Yang Yang stood frozen.
Then, as the whistle blew to confirm the goal, his legs moved on their own. He burst into a sprint, arms wide, mouth open in a triumphant roar. He dashed toward the sideline, past the bench, past the coaching staff, past teammates who were already on their feet.
He ran straight to the section of the stadium where his family and friends were seated.
They were all standing — his parents, Su Ye, Uncle Shen Ming, and others — eyes wide, hands covering mouths, overwhelmed with emotion.
Yang Yang reached the touchline, raised his arms high toward them, laughed with sheer joy, and then collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed.
...
"Yang Yang! Hat trick!!!"
The national television commentator's voice cracked with raw emotion.
"I really can't hold it in anymore. Please forgive my loss of composure—
but I just can't help it.
What we're witnessing tonight will go down as one of the greatest match in the history of Chinese football!"
"This isn't just a sporting triumph. This will be remembered in the annals of Chinese history—because tonight, the world saw what Chinese football can be. And at the center of it all... is Yang Yang!"
"Argentina was relentless. Every time they went behind, they found a way to claw back. They were resilient, determined. But then Yang Yang answered—again!"
"To be tied twice, and still deliver this—
this is a miracle!"
"Three to two! China leads again!"
In the stands, Yang Yang's mother burst into tears as she watched her son collapse to his knees in celebration beneath their section. Her sister and niece, along with Ye Qingqing, were also weeping—overcome by the intensity of the moment.
None of them truly understood football tactics or systems.
They didn't need to.
The thunderous energy in the stadium, the relentless shifts in momentum, and the sheer fight of it all had moved them beyond words. They could see what this goal meant—not just for Yang Yang, but for every Chinese player and supporter.
Even the men—Yang Yang's father, Su Wenhong, and the Wei Zhen brothers—who had tried to stay stoic throughout the match, now stood with reddened eyes and clenched fists. When the ball hit the back of the net, all of them roared as one, voices hoarse with pride and disbelief.
Su Ye sat frozen.
She didn't know when the tears had started to fall, only that now they streamed silently down her face.
Through her blurred vision, everything faded—
the roaring fans, the coaches, even the celebrating players.
All she could see was Yang Yang, kneeling in front of them, head tilted up toward the stands, arms stretched wide.
He was surrounded by teammates and staff, but none of them mattered.
In her eyes, only Yang Yang existed—radiant, burning, unforgettable.
He had promised to carry the team.
He had said he would score again.
He had done it.
He had done it again.
...
"Yang Yang isn't getting up... He's still on the ground."
"Referee Terje Hauge has jogged over to check on the situation, and the Chinese players are starting to back away to give him space."
"We're getting confirmation now—Yang Yang is cramping."
"This is truly rare—possibly even the first time we've ever seen this from him. But it speaks volumes about the sheer intensity of his performance tonight, and just how much he's poured into this match."
"Some Argentine players are approaching the referee to protest. They believe Yang Yang is deliberately wasting time."
"Referee Hauge has responded, indicating he will add extra time to compensate—but for now, Yang Yang needs to be treated."
"The Chinese team doctor is sprinting onto the pitch. You can see how anxious the bench is. Everyone is watching with concern."
"We don't yet know if Yang Yang will be able to continue, but either way, there's not much time left in this match. What's important now is that the rest of the team holds firm and protects this scoreline."
"Only by doing so can they truly honor what Yang Yang has given tonight."
"He's done everything a player possibly can—pushed himself to the very limit. Now, it's up to his teammates to carry it across the finish line."
...
...
The match resumed.
Yang Yang remained by the touchline, his face pale, both legs still cramping painfully. Every second ticked by with unbearable tension.
The fourth official raised the board: five minutes of stoppage time.
A collective gasp swept through the stadium — Argentina had been compensated generously.
China pulled back immediately.
All ten outfield players, along with goalkeeper Yang Cheng, retreated deep into their own half. It was no longer about control — it was about survival.
Argentina threw everything forward.
Messi, stationed on the left, drove at the Chinese defense the moment he touched the ball. In the 93rd minute, his aggressive run won Argentina a dangerous free kick near the left corner of the penalty area.
It was a final chance — and it was deadly.
At that very moment, Yang Yang stepped back onto the pitch.
The fans exploded in fresh applause. It was as if the soul of the team had returned.
The referee took advantage of the dead ball to allow his re-entry, and Yang Yang, stiff-legged and wincing, jogged slowly back into the penalty area, shouting hoarsely:
"Hold on! Everyone—hold on!"
Argentina lined up for the free kick.
Amenteros stood over the ball.
Messi, Aguero, and Biglia waited near the edge of the box — not crashing in, but lingering in ambush.
Everyone in the stadium held their breath. Even Ustari, Argentina's goalkeeper, had raced the length of the pitch to join the attack.
It was clear: this was Argentina's last bullet.
In the box, chaos reigned. Pushing, shoving, frantic shouting — the referee had to whistle to calm the players before the delivery.
And then—he blew the whistle.
Amenteros launched the free kick.
The ball arced high, curling viciously over the Chinese wall...
"Argentina sends it in—bending—"
"It clears the wall—"
"But it's too high! Too much weight!"
"It sails over the crossbar and straight behind the goal!"
The stadium erupted in a roar.
"Missed it! Amenteros skies it! The final chance goes begging!"
"The pressure was enormous, and in trying to get the perfect arc, he lost control!"
China had survived again.
Only seconds remained.
Argentina scrambled back into position. Messi shouted for the restart. The urgency in his voice echoed across the pitch.
Feng Xiaoting glanced at the bench and signaled — slow it down.
Goalkeeper Yang Cheng took his time lining up the goal kick.
The referee had seen enough. He pulled out a yellow card — a warning for time-wasting.
"Yellow card for Yang Cheng!"
"But it doesn't matter anymore—"
"Because the referee has just blown the final whistle!"
"The game is over!"
"WE ARE WORLD CHAMPIONS!"
"CHINA—IS WORLD CHAMPION!"
The stadium erupted into deafening, uncontrollable chaos.
"Congratulations to the Chinese National Youth Team! Congratulations to Yang Yang! Congratulations to Coach Klauchen and all these incredible young players!"
"This is the greatest night in the history of Chinese football!"
"We've done it—we've finally won a world title!"
"This is not just a victory for one team—it's a victory for an entire nation!"
"A victory for Yang Yang!"
"A victory for every boy who ever dreamed of seeing China rise on the world stage!"
...
Patreon (for support only, story stays free):patreon.com/MTLstoriesedits