My Ultimate Gacha System

19' - 28' |

Cremonese restarted with something that looked like urgency but felt like desperation, Dessers tapping the ball to Castagnetti who immediately played it long toward Valeri on the left wing, but the pass was overhit and the ball sailed harmlessly over the touchline for an Atalanta throw.

Hateboer collected it and played inside to De Roon without hesitation, the cycle beginning again.

They'd been forced to open up slightly now, their defensive block stretching by five yards to chase the game, and that was exactly what Gasperini wanted because space meant opportunity and opportunity meant goals, and from his position in the technical area he could see the cracks forming in Cremonese's structure like fault lines spreading through concrete.

Commentary

"Cremonese have a decision to make now, Marco. Do they continue sitting deep and hope nothing else goes wrong, or do they push forward and risk getting destroyed on the counter?"

"They're in an impossible position, Luca. One-nil down, bottom of the table, and facing an Atalanta side that's averaging over three goals per match. If they open up, Walter and Lookman will tear them apart. If they stay deep, Atalanta will eventually break them down anyway."

22' |

Demien dropped between the lines again, receiving from Scalvini with his back to goal, and the familiar weight of Lochoshvili's shoulder pressed against his spine immediately because the Georgian defender had made it personal after that blind back-heel at eighteen minutes.

But this time when Demien felt the pressure building, he didn't try to turn, didn't try to force anything through the crowded midfield, he just let the ball run across his body and played it sideways to Koopmeiners with his left foot, recycling possession with the kind of patience that frustrated defenders more than any dribble could.

The Dutchman took one touch and switched it forty yards to Hateboer on the right flank, and the wing-back drove forward immediately because Valeri had been caught narrow, his positioning poor as he struggled to track both the overlap and cover the channel.

Touchline

Gasperini's fist pumped once as he watched the play develop, his tactical adjustments beginning to pay dividends because Cremonese's wing-backs were stretched too thin now, trying to defend width they couldn't possibly cover with just five backs and four midfielders.

"JOAKIM! EXPLOIT THAT SPACE!" he shouted toward Mæhle on the opposite flank, his voice carrying across the pitch, and the Danish wing-back nodded once before pushing higher up the left side, pinning Sernicola deeper.

His assistant made another note on the tablet: 23' - Cremonese's wide areas vulnerable, wing-backs isolated.

24' |

Atalanta's rhythm was building now, the passes coming quicker and sharper as confidence spread through the team, and Demien touched the ball three times in the next ninety seconds—all simple, all effective, all moving Atalanta closer to the breakthrough that felt inevitable.

First touch at 24:15: received from De Roon, played immediately to Lookman on the left, one-touch recycling that kept the tempo high.

Second touch at 24:48: dropped to collect from Tolói under pressure, rolled it five yards backward to Koopmeiners before Meïté could arrive.

Third touch at 25:32: received between the lines, turned Vásquez with one movement, drove forward three yards before laying it off to Malinovskyi on the right wing.

The Ukrainian winger cut inside immediately, his left foot striking a curling shot from twenty yards that Carnesecchi tipped over the bar with full-stretch fingers, and the Gewiss Stadium groaned collectively because that was close, that was very close, and the pressure was mounting with every passing second.

Curva Nord

The slow hand-claps had stopped completely now, replaced by sustained chanting that built and built without breaking, and the drums thundered beneath the voices like a heartbeat driving Atalanta forward.

"A-TA-LAN-TA! A-TA-LAN-TA! A-TA-LAN-TA!"

Twenty-three thousand voices unified in rhythm, scarves raised overhead in waves of black and blue, and the noise pressed down on Cremonese's players like a physical weight that made every defensive action feel harder, every clearance less certain.

26' |

Malinovskyi's corner was cleared by Bianchetti's towering header, the ball bouncing to De Roon thirty yards from goal, and the captain controlled it with his chest before playing it wide to Hateboer who had reset his position on the right touchline.

The Dutch wing-back took one touch to steady himself, then looked up and saw Muriel making a diagonal run toward the near post, his movement intelligent as he dragged Vásquez slightly out of position, and Hateboer drove forward three yards before whipping a low driven cross toward the six-yard box.

Vásquez read it desperately, throwing himself in front of Muriel with his body fully extended, and the ball deflected off his thigh and spun behind for another corner, this time on the left side.

Demien's POV

Left-side corner. Lookman's over there. Short routine? Yeah. Drag them out, create space.

He walked slowly toward the flag while the crowd's noise swelled around him, his mind already running through the pattern they'd drilled in training, and he placed the ball carefully in the arc before signaling to Lookman with one raised hand.

The Nigerian winger jogged over and stood five yards away, his positioning perfect, and Demien could see Lochoshvili watching him from the edge of the box, the Georgian's body language screaming that he knew something was coming but couldn't figure out what.

Commentary

"Short corner here from Atalanta. Walter and Lookman over it together. They've been dangerous all match, Marco, and Cremonese will be worried about this delivery."

"Watch Walter's movement after he plays it short, Luca. That's where the danger comes—he's got a knack for finding space in the box after releasing the ball."

28' |

Demien tapped the ball five yards sideways to Lookman with the inside of his right foot, then immediately spun and accelerated into the space Lookman had just vacated, his run sharp and direct toward the edge of the box, and Lochoshvili had to make a choice—stay with his zonal marking or follow the runner—and he chose wrong, committing to follow Demien and abandoning his position.

Lookman's first touch was already redirecting the ball back into Demien's path with perfect weight, a simple one-two executed with training-ground precision, and the ball rolled straight back to Demien just outside the box with three grey shirts closing fast but none close enough to block the shot.

First touch.

Demien's right foot cushioned it inside with the instep, opening his body toward goal as his weight transferred forward, and the ball sat up perfectly for the strike, and he could see Carnesecchi already starting to shift his weight toward the near post because that's where most right-footed players would aim from this angle.

Second touch.

He leaned back slightly, his standing foot planted firmly twelve inches to the left of the ball, and his right boot swept through with the inside curve, striking through the ball's equator with the kind of contact that made his foot sting even through the leather, and Curve Run Timing (Epic) activated instantly.

The ball started its flight outside the near post, maybe two feet wide of the upright, and Carnesecchi committed to his dive immediately, his body launching left with both arms fully extended, but then the curve took over—vicious and late—and the ball bent inward through the air like it was on a string being pulled, and it arrowed into the top far corner with pace that made the net bulge and snap taut.

Carnesecchi was still diving the wrong direction when it hit the back of the net, his fingers grasping at air two yards from where the ball actually went, and the placement was so perfect that even if he'd stayed rooted to his line he wouldn't have reached it.

2-0.

Demien's POV

First touch killed it dead. Second touch felt like the ball was on a string. Top bin. Clean.

「Goal #1 registered | Mission progress: 2/3 involvements」

「Chances created: 3/5」

「Final-third pass accuracy: 12/13 (92%)」

The system panel appeared and vanished in half a second, and Demien turned toward the corner flag with both arms raised as the Gewiss Stadium detonated around him.

Commentary

"SHORT CORNER ROUTINE... WALTER GETS IT BACK... TWO TOUCHES AND HE BENDS IT INTO THE TOP CORNER! ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL FROM THE EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD—TWO-NIL ATALANTA!"

"THAT'S WORLD-CLASS TECHNIQUE! The curve on that shot, it starts outside the post and just BENDS back in at the last second! Carnesecchi had no chance whatsoever, that's pure quality from Demien Walter!"

Curva Nord

The entire section detonated like a bomb had gone off, twenty-three thousand people rising as one with a roar that physically shook the concrete stands, and the drums exploded into non-stop thunder—BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM—establishing a rhythm that spread through the entire stadium within seconds.

"DEA! DEA! DEA! DEA!"

Four massive synchronized claps matching the drums, the whole place bouncing on every beat, scarves whipping in massive circles overhead, and the noise level climbed past anything they'd produced in the first twenty-seven minutes because this wasn't just a goal, this was dominance, this was a statement that Atalanta were different class.

"CHI NON SALTA GRIGIOROSSO È!"

The chant started in the north stand and spread like wildfire— twenty-two thousand seven hundred home supporters bounced in unison while the three hundred Cremonese fans in the away section stayed seated with arms crossed and faces like thunder, the contrast brutal and unforgiving.

Demien sprinted toward the corner flag where his teammates were already chasing him down, and Lookman arrived first, jumping on his back with a scream of celebration, then Koopmeiners piled on, then Højlund, then Malinovskyi, all of them swarming him in a mass of black and blue shirts while the stadium noise washed over everything like a tidal wave.

When they finally separated, Højlund grabbed Demien's face with both hands and shouted something that was lost in the crowd noise, but the expression said it all—that was fucking beautiful—and they jogged back toward their positions while Cremonese's players stood frozen in their defensive shape, shoulders already sagging under the weight of two-nil down away from home.

Touchline

Gasperini allowed himself a tight smile, his arms still crossed but his satisfaction visible in the slight nod he gave toward his assistant, and he clapped twice—sharp and controlled—before shouting toward his defenders.

"STAY FOCUSED! DON'T DROP OFF!"

Because two-nil was comfortable but not safe, not with sixty-two minutes still to play, and the last thing he wanted was his team relaxing and allowing Cremonese a lifeline back into the match.