My Ultimate Gacha System

Saturday, September 7th, 2022 Gewiss Stadium, Bergamo Serie A - Matchday 4 Atalanta vs Cremonese

3:00 PM - Kickoff

The whistle blew sharp and clean.

The system panel materialized instantly, text appearing in clean white against blue.

「MATCH MISSION: BREAK THE BUS」 「Objective A: 2+ goal involvements」 「Objective B: 90%+ final-third pass accuracy」 「Objective C: Create 5+ chances」 「Reward (all three): 30 TP | 50 MP」 「Fail any → 0 rewards」

Demien dismissed it with a thought as he touched the ball square to De Roon, the panel vanishing.

0' - 5' |

De Roon's first touch cushioned the ball, he played it immediately back to Tolói, Cremonese dropped straight into a terrified 5-4-1, the two wing-backs—Sernicola on the right and Valeri on the left—barely ten yards off their own box with five defenders forming a wall across the eighteen-yard line while four midfielders collapsed inward.

Atalanta pinged it side to side in big, slow arcs.

Tolói to Djimsiti, Djimsiti to Scalvini, Scalvini back to Musso, Musso forward to Tolói again, forty yards from Cremonese's goal with nothing but grey shirts packed tight refusing to budge.

By the third minute the possession board read 87%.

Demien kept sliding between Tolói and Scalvini, his position fluid, always looking for pockets between Cremonese's lines, every time the ball reached him three grey shirts collapsed—Lochoshvili on his left hip, Vásquez closing from the right, Meïté sitting five yards behind both ready to sweep.

He took it on the half-turn near halfway, felt Lochoshvili's shoulder against his back, rolled it five yards sideways to Koopmeiners before Vásquez arrived.

The cycle repeated.

Koopmeiners back to De Roon, De Roon square to Hateboer, Hateboer inside to Scalvini, Scalvini to Musso, the ball never staying in dangerous areas, just moving in wide circles while Cremonese's block stayed disciplined.

Nothing fancy yet, just patience, just waiting.

Commentary - Sky Sport Italia

"Cremonese have come for a point and nothing else, Marco. They're happy to let Atalanta have the ball as long as it stays forty yards from goal."

"Absolutely. Look at that shape—five at the back, four in midfield, one striker who's basically playing as an eleventh defender. This is survival football."

Curva Nord

A low hum filled twenty-three thousand home supporters, scattered voices trying to start chants that didn't catch, a few pockets began the slow hand-clap—clap... clap... clap—impatient but not angry yet.

The away section in the far top corner—three hundred Cremonese fans—tried a weak chant: "Forza Grigiorossi!" but it died quickly, drowned out.

At five minutes Demien dropped again to receive from Tolói, three grey shirts collapsed before he even controlled it, he took it with his back foot shielding while his eyes scanned—Lookman wide left but marked, Malinovskyi wide right but doubled, Højlund central but Bianchetti tight.

He rolled it backwards to Scalvini.

The cycle began again.

8' |

Musso collected a weak Cremonese clearance that Dessers had headed straight to him under Tolói's pressure, the goalkeeper took two quick steps before rolling it short to Scalvini.

Scalvini didn't hesitate, his right foot met the ball first-time, clipped it thirty yards diagonally into Tolói's feet on the right flank.

Tolói cushioned it beautifully against his chest, the ball dropping dead, looked once toward the far touchline before lifting a forty-five-yard diagonal that hung in the September air.

Three seconds of flight.

Demien had already peeled away from his three markers the moment Tolói's foot struck, his acceleration sharp, his eyes tracking the arc, he arrived at the edge of Cremonese's box with Vásquez scrambling behind.

The ball dropped onto his chest.

First touch cushioned it dead, killing all momentum.

Second touch—outside of the right boot, a thirty-eight-yard switch that curved through the air with backspin, dropped onto Lookman's left foot at the back post.

Lookman had ghosted in unmarked while Cremonese's defenders watched Demien receive, the Nigerian met it on the full volley, his left foot connecting clean, striking through with power.

Too much power, not enough placement.

The ball screamed a yard wide of Carnesecchi's far post, crashed into the side netting.

Demien's POV

Flight was perfect, weight was right, Ademola caught it too clean—needed to guide it not blast it, still our best chance.

Commentary

"Walter with the change of play—INCH-PERFECT! Lookman at the back post—he should score! Hit it too cleanly, just wide!"

"What vision from the eighteen-year-old though, Luca. He sees that run developing before Lookman makes it, the weight on that pass is sublime."

Curva Nord

Twenty-three thousand people rose when Lookman's foot connected, the intake of breath sharp, then groans mixed with sarcastic applause when it missed.

"Ooooohhhh! Dai Ademola!"

A few voices clapped anyway, appreciating the pass.

The away section breathed relief, three hundred Cremonese fans grateful.

13' |

Atalanta continued patient buildup, the ball circulating from Musso to the back three to midfield and back, Cremonese kept their shape disciplined refusing to bite.

At thirteen minutes Scalvini saw an opportunity—Meïté received from Castagnetti near halfway with his back to goal, his first touch was heavy, the ball bounced three feet away, Scalvini exploded forward to intercept.

He won it cleanly, timing perfect, immediately played it vertical into Demien's feet just inside the Cremonese half.

Demien's first touch controlled it, his body beginning to turn toward goal, his weight shifting forward.

Then Lochoshvili arrived from behind—no attempt to play the ball, no pretense of legitimate challenge, just straight through the back of Demien's right calf with studs fully exposed, the impact sharp and deliberate.

Demien went down hard, momentum carrying him forward, rolled once across the turf before stopping.

He pushed up immediately, jaw tight, didn't even look at the referee ten yards away waving play on.

He stared at Lochoshvili for one cold second—long enough to mark him, long enough to make sure the Georgian knew he'd felt it—then turned and jogged away without a word.

No foul called, no card shown, nothing.

Commentary

"Lochoshvili has NO interest in the ball there. That's a yellow card all day—Walter's taken a bad one and nothing's given."

"Shocking, Marco. Look at the replay—he's nowhere near the ball, just through Walter's calf. Should be a booking."

Curva Nord

The entire section erupted in whistles, sharp and piercing, twenty-three thousand voices protesting.

"ARBITRO! MA CHE COSA!"

Scattered shouts in Italian, frustration spilling, a banner waved harder—black and blue stripes with "DEA" in massive letters.

The away section tried another chant, got drowned out immediately.

Demien tested weight on his right leg—sore, the impact clean and deliberate, but nothing damaged, just bruised—he reset position.

18' |

The goal came from simplicity.

Musso's goal kick soared high into Cremonese's half, the ball climbing into September sky before descending forty yards from goal.

Bodies converged near halfway—Cremonese defenders trying to win it, Atalanta attackers competing—Tolói climbed highest above two grey shirts.

His forehead met the ball perfectly, contact clean, redirected it with a controlled flick-on that sent it dropping thirty-five yards from Cremonese's goal.

Demien had two men on him before the ball landed—Meïté pressing from directly behind, breath hot on his neck, Lochoshvili closing from the left, physical as always.

Back to goal, surrounded, pressured.

But he'd already heard Koopmeiners' footsteps five yards ahead, the Dutchman's run perfectly timed, movement intelligent, attacking the space between Cremonese's midfield and defensive lines.

The ball dropped.

Demien didn't look, didn't turn, didn't try to control—just flicked a blind back-heel first-time with his right foot, the ball rolling through his legs into the exact space Koopmeiners was attacking.

Weight was perfect.

Koopmeiners took one touch with his right to control, head already up, eyes scanning Cremonese's line, saw what Demien had seen three seconds earlier—Højlund making his run, Vásquez half a step too deep, space behind opening.

He lofted a thirty-yard ball with his left, trajectory high and arcing, floating over Cremonese's frozen back five who'd dropped too deep and couldn't recover.

Højlund had timed it perfectly, got half a yard on Vásquez, acceleration sharp, the ball dropped over his right shoulder while he sprinted full speed.

First touch—chest, killing the bounce completely, ball sticking like glue.

Second touch—opened his body, took it slightly wider to create angle.

Third touch—slid it low and hard across Carnesecchi, perfectly placed inside the far post.

1-0.

The net rippled, the Curva Nord exploded, Højlund wheeled away toward the corner flag with arms spread wide.

Demien's POV

Heard Koop's steps, pattern recognition—his timing, his positioning, space opening, back-heel felt clean off the instep, ball rolled exactly right, Rasmus killed the touch and finished like training.

「Assist #1 registered | Mission progress: 1/3 involvements」

The system line appeared briefly, vanished immediately.

Commentary

"Tolói with the header—Walter doesn't even LOOK! Blind back-heel finds Koopmeiners, lifts it over the top—Højlund with the run, takes it down, FINISHES! ATALANTA LEAD! GORGEOUS football!"

"That back-heel from Walter, Marco—he doesn't turn his head, just KNOWS Koopmeiners is there. Elite spatial awareness from eighteen years old. Elite vision, elite execution, Højlund's finish is clinical."

Curva Nord

The entire section detonated.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOL!"

Twenty-three thousand voices screaming as one, physically loud enough to hurt, then drums kicked in—BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM—establishing rhythm immediately.

"DEA! DEA! DEA! DEA!"

Four massive claps synchronized with drums—clap-clap-clap-clap—entire stadium bouncing on every beat, concrete stands shaking under combined weight.

Then the chant changed.

"CHI NON SALTA GRIGIOROSSO È!"

Whoever doesn't jump is grey-and-red!

Twenty-two thousand seven hundred jumped in unison, stadium physically vibrating, scarves waving in massive circles, flags bouncing with rhythm.

Three hundred Cremonese fans stayed seated, arms crossed, faces bitter, the contrast brutal.

Højlund sprinted toward the corner flag, slid on his knees, teammates chasing—Lookman jumping on his back, then Koopmeiners, then Malinovskyi, all piling on.

Demien jogged toward them with a small smile, accepting high-fives from De Roon and Hateboer, allowed himself one moment of satisfaction—one assist down, at least one more to go—before turning back toward center circle.

The mission counter sat quietly in the back of his mind: 1/2 involvements, 2/5 chances created, final-third passes 8/8 (100%).