It must have been a good omen that he slept so well last night, as Coach Laurent couldn't stop smiling.
They were only up by a single goal, but the key point was that Korea showed no sign of a comeback.
One more goal, then lock the defense. That would be enough.
As the second half began, France came out in a flat 4-4-2 formation.
The idea was clear: utilize their pacey wingers to bombard the flanks with cross-heavy attacks.
Although it was a basic formation with clear weaknesses, Coach Laurent had prepared his tactical setup in such detail that those weaknesses were turned into strengths.
Korea responded with a 4-3-3 setup aimed at counter-attacking, but they couldn't gain any tactical advantage and ended up conceding the wings to France.
That was a critical mistake.
Manager Park Kyung-woon, who had bet everything on tactics, was now pacing with a furrowed brow on the sideline.
The match became frustrating.
Though it appeared both teams were sharing possession evenly, with each side taking turns on the ball, in practical terms, France was dominating.
But slowly, something began to change.
Korea's attack began to come to life.
And it started with Ho-young.
Thud!
As soon as Ho-young took control of the ball and started to dribble, a rough challenge came flying in from the flank.
It was Moussa Sissoko again.
Since the second half had started, Sissoko had been hounding Ho-young every time he moved into attack, using his massive frame to pin him down.
This time was no different.
Sissoko quickly charged in and initiated contact.
The reason was obvious.
As long as he didn't use his hands or do anything blatantly dirty like headbutting, the referee wouldn't blow his whistle.
That had been the case all along.
It was how France had beaten Germany 2-0 in the second group match.
Blatantly biased officiating on home turf.
Sissoko had been taking advantage of it from the start, doing things no professional athlete should.
He trusted the referee would be lenient toward the host nation and repeatedly committed subtle fouls.
Excessive contact was just the start. His physical challenges often crossed the line into what should have been bookings.
Yet all Sissoko had received was a single yellow card in the match against Germany.
It was unsportsmanlike, even dirty, but to put it mildly, it was cunning.
After all, exploiting home advantage was also a form of skill.
And Sissoko knew how to use that skill to perfection.
Even now.
Wham!
Frustrated that the game wasn't going his way because of Ho-young, Sissoko lost his temper and lashed out.
But then.
"…?!"
Ho-young didn't fall.
'What the hell?'
Sissoko had expected him to topple, but Ho-young regained his balance like a punching bag bouncing back.
'Why?'
It didn't make sense.
He hadn't used his full strength, sure, but it should've been enough to knock someone off their feet...
'Why is he so sturdy?'
The reason was simple.
Ho-young had obtained [Natural Muscles (B-)] from Mamadou Sakho.
That talent had made his body significantly tougher.
Sissoko, unaware of this, couldn't hide his surprise.
You should've hit me with full force. Let's see what you've got.
Ho-young's expression said it all.
"What, punk?"
The real battle had begun.
It was like a rabbit and a leopard had met on the pitch.
The agitated black leopard was hell-bent on chasing down the rabbit's tail.
But Ho-young wasn't about to let that happen.
Even though Sissoko was four years older and physically far superior, Ho-young had something Sissoko didn't.
Unlike the technically lacking Sissoko, Ho-young had mastered his fundamentals.
That was where the biggest gap was, and his versatility and football intelligence widened it even further.
It wasn't that Sissoko was stupid.
He just never needed to think during a match, thanks to his overwhelming physicality.
That habit had been ingrained in him from a young age, and now he was paying the price.
Sissoko completely lost track of his role and focused solely on stopping Ho-young.
Exactly what Ho-young wanted.
As he bought time, Suk Hyun-jun and Lee Chung-yong made their move.
Rip!
The equalizer came midway through the second half.
'Yes, this is Brazilian football!'
Flexibility that loosened up tight tactics.
It was one of the things Ho-young had learned in Brazil over the past two years.
30 minutes into the second half.
Coach Laurent's voice grew louder.
"Sissoko! Get your head straight! Don't fall for his tricks!"
While Sissoko was obsessing over Ho-young, the pressure from France's first and third lines had significantly weakened.
That was why Korea's passing flow and attacking rhythm started to improve.
Sissoko was supposed to support both lines, but with his attention fully on Ho-young, the whole balance collapsed.
Problems began to pile up.
At this rate, they were in real trouble.
'What the hell happened in that locker room? The game has completely flipped.'
Sissoko had bragged that he could shut down Ho-young with his eyes closed.
'I warned him not to get careless. What an idiot.'
Laurent couldn't help but feel frustrated watching Sissoko getting played.
"Sissoko! Stick to your position!"
"I got it already!"
Laurent kept yelling, but it only worked momentarily.
Even if he wanted to sub Sissoko out, he couldn't.
There was no one else who could replace a box-to-box midfielder.
That's how crucial Sissoko's role was.
And this wasn't a training match or friendly, it was the final.
Subbing him out now would be pointless.
'There's no defender who can stop Ho-young.'
At least, not in the French squad.
Anyone else would only make things worse.
'No one has the pace to keep up with him.'
Ho-young's talent over the past few matches had been among the best in the entire tournament.
On top of that, he had a good-looking face and interview skills to match. His star power was undeniable.
'I don't know who his club manager is, but they've got a gem on their hands.'
Just for a moment, Laurent found himself envying São Paulo FC's manager.
"Just a bit more!!"
As the clock ticked past the 45th minute and stoppage time began to wind down, the Korean players' voices rang out on the field.
'Yeah, just a little more...'
Ho-young believed in the ten teammates around him.
They had supported him all the way to this point.
But this time was different.
Until now, he had pulled the cart from the front. Today, it felt like he was pushing it from behind, with all ten teammates riding on it.
Grinding it out.
Sacrificing.
Constantly searching for a way through.
Like ants creating a path to victory.
"Hoo..."
"You bastard. You think you can escape my pressure like that?"
He couldn't understand most of what Sissoko was saying as he mumbled through his breath...
No, even if he understood French, he wouldn't have had the energy to process it.
He felt like he was dying.
He was physically a step below Sissoko.
That's why he had to keep moving.
His head was pounding, his throat was dry, but he endured.
He'd played in tougher games before.
And finally.
'This is it.'
Smack!
As Ho-young danced around the midfield, shaking off Sissoko, Lee Chung-yong suddenly made a surprise run into the final third.
Four Korean attackers surged forward.
Only three defenders remained.
Ho-young's eyes scanned the field quickly.
His body exploded into motion like lightning.
It was the last chance. He ran with everything he had.
It was the 48th minute of the second half.
"!!"
Ho-young burst forward like a rocket. Sissoko tried to keep up, but within seconds, he was left behind.
'What the hell? How is he faster with the ball than without it?'
In that moment, Sissoko realized.
Ho-young wasn't a rabbit. He was a tiger in a rabbit's disguise.
But by the time he realized it, it was already too late.
The tiger had gone wild.
And then.
'It's open.'
With brilliant off-the-ball movement, the tiger opened up multiple attacking routes.
"Huff..."
Ho-young exhaled deeply and sprinted across the field at full speed once again.
His target was the final third, but his path was unpredictable.
Like a dandelion seed floating in the wind, he darted around with no fixed direction.
France's defenders were drawn into the chaos.
That was when it happened.
"!"
Lee Chung-yong broke down the left flank along the touchline and looked inside.
A sharp, low cross came flying in.
Ho-young's eyes turned forward.
'Too narrow!'
There was no shooting angle for a first-time finish.
Mamadou Sakho had already closed in near Ho-young's feet.
Sakho's eyes were confident.
He was sure he had blocked it. That he had cut it off.
But he was wrong.
Slip.
Ho-young didn't go for the ball. He let it roll past him.
Toward Suk Hyun-jun, behind him.
'Hyung-jun!'
A perfect, unmarked chance.
Suk Hyun-jun controlled the ball and prepared a powerful right-footed shot.
But then, disaster struck.
Smash!
"Aagh!"
Piiiii!
The referee's whistle cut through the chaos.
It was Sissoko's tackle from behind.
An 80kg frame crashing in with a back-tackle, full of malicious intent.
Despite the home advantage, the referee had no choice but to pull out a red card.
He had already let Sissoko off several times.
There was no way he could ignore this one.
The crowd erupted in protest, but even they knew.
It was the right call.
"You've got to be kidding me!"
Sissoko shouted in frustration as he stormed off to the bench.
Meanwhile, Suk Hyun-jun, writhing in pain, was stretchered off the field.
Thankfully, it didn't seem to be a serious injury, but further checks were needed.
"Damn it."
Ho-young's lips trembled.
If only he hadn't let the ball through to Suk Hyun-jun, this might not have happened...
That thought dug into his mind, but Ho-young shook it off.
Then he walked up to Kim Shin-woo.
"Hyung, I'll take it."
49th minute of the second half.
Regret?
Worry?
There was no room for such emotions now.
If he truly cared about Suk Hyun-jun, then the only way to repay him was to convert this goal.
Ho-young stepped back to measure his run-up.
Six steps.
Roughly 17 meters to the goal.
The crowd's angry jeers pierced his ears, but Ho-young's mind was calm.
"Hoo."
Aside from his breathing, he heard nothing.
Like being in his own isolated world, the only thing in his vision was the round ball.
No staring contest with the goalkeeper.
No nerves.
Just a cold gaze locked onto the ball as he began his run.
One step.
Two steps.
Three...
"...!"
He widened his stride just slightly to throw off the keeper's timing.
In that split second, he struck a quick, precise curling shot with the inside of his foot.
The net rippled instantly.
It was the winning goal, scored by the football prodigy.
"Waaaaaaahhhh!"
The stadium erupted as his teammates' cheers filled Ho-young's ears.
And then, something unexpected flickered before his eyes.
[Precise and Clean Free Kick (B-) ↑]
An unexpected bonus.
His free kicks, which had previously only relied on toe kicks, had evolved.
A charming smile formed on Ho-young's lips.
A stark contrast to the stunned look on Sissoko's face as he sat in the stands.
Exactly 10 seconds later.
Piiiii!
France's final night came to an end.
2-1.
South Korea were crowned champions of the Montaigu Tournament.
(To be continued.)