My Ultimate Gacha System

71' - 75' |

The match had settled into a rhythm that felt almost rhythmic in its predictability, Atalanta circulating the ball in patient arcs while Cremonese chased without conviction, their legs heavy and their defensive shape collapsing further with each passing minute.

Seventy-third minute: Pasalic played a diagonal ball toward Muriel's run down the right channel, but the Colombian striker was caught half a yard offside and the flag went up immediately, and he raised his hand to acknowledge the call before jogging back to reset.

74' |

Meïté received the ball in midfield thirty yards from his own goal, his first touch heavy as fatigue affected his control, and the ball bounced two feet away from him into space that Pasalic read perfectly.

The Croatian midfielder stepped in with a clean standing tackle, his timing precise as he won the ball without fouling, and it rolled free toward the center circle where Demien was already positioned and facing forward.

Pasalic laid it sideways with one touch, simple and effective, and Demien's first touch cushioned it as he turned toward goal, his body opening up to face Cremonese's tired defense.

Meïté recovered desperately, lunging from the side with his studs raised, and he clipped Demien's ankle just as he took his first step forward, the contact clear and cynical, and the referee's whistle blew immediately.

FWEEEEEET!

Free-kick, twenty-five yards out, central position.

The referee reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow card, holding it high toward Meïté who didn't protest because he knew exactly what he'd done, his second foul of the half and both deliberate attempts to stop Atalanta's momentum.

Commentary

"Free-kick in a dangerous position here, Marco. Twenty-five yards out, central, and Walter's already walking over to place the ball. This could be five-nil."

"Meïté had no choice but to bring him down—Walter was turning toward goal with space ahead. That's his second yellow-card foul of the match. Cremonese are just trying to survive at this point."

Demien walked over and placed the ball himself, his movements deliberate as he marked the spot with a divot in the turf, pressing it down with his right boot until the ball sat perfectly on the grass.

He took three measured steps back, his eyes scanning the defensive wall that was forming five yards out—Bianchetti in the center, Vásquez to his left, Lochoshvili to his right, Pickel anchoring the far side—and he took one deep breath to steady his pulse, his chest rising and falling once before his focus narrowed completely.

The wall jumped early, trying to disrupt his run-up, their bodies rising and falling in a coordinated attempt to throw off his timing, but Demien had already seen it coming because defenders always jumped too soon when they were desperate.

75' |

He struck it clean with the inside of his right boot, his standing foot planted firmly twelve inches to the left of the ball, and his right boot swept through with controlled power that made the contact sing, and the ball lifted immediately over the jumping wall.

The trajectory was perfect—climbing over Bianchetti's outstretched arm by six inches—and then the dip activated viciously, Curve Run Timing (Epic) bending the ball's flight path a full yard from right to left as it descended toward the goal.

Carnesecchi had set up slightly right of center, his positioning designed to cover the near post and force Demien to go far, but the curve was too much, too late, and when he dove full-length to his right his fingertips were still two feet from the ball when it buried itself in the top-right corner.

The net rippled from the force, bulging and snapping taut, and the placement was so perfect that even with the correct dive Carnesecchi had no chance.

5-0.

「Goal #2 registered | Mission: 4/3 involvements (overachieved)」

「Final match rating: 9.8」

「Post-match rewards enhanced」

The panel appeared for two seconds, the green text confirming everything, then vanished as Demien turned toward the corner flag.

Commentary

"WALTER STEPS UP... CURLS IT OVER THE WALL—TOP CORNER! HIS SECOND OF THE GAME, FIVE-NIL NOW, AND THE GEWISS IS IN FULL VOICE!"

"WHAT A STRIKE! Look at the technique, Luca—over the wall with perfect lift, then it dips and swerves late! Carnesecchi got the dive right but the placement was just too good. Demien Walter has put on an absolute masterclass today!"

Curva Nord

The stadium erupted as one, twenty-three thousand people rising with a roar that physically shook the concrete stands, and the drums exploded into non-stop thunder that didn't pause or break, just sustained percussion driving the celebration forward.

"DEA! DEA! DEA! DEA!"

The chant was unified and powerful, scarves whirling overhead in massive circles of black and blue, and the concrete stands vibrated from the combined weight of bouncing supporters who'd waited ninety minutes to see this kind of dominance.

"WALTER! WALTER! WALTER! WALTER!"

Individual voices started calling his name, scattered at first but building quickly as the chant spread from section to section, and within thirty seconds thousands of voices were screaming his name in recognition of two goals and three assists that had destroyed Cremonese completely.

Demien sprinted toward the corner flag, his celebration understated compared to his teammates who were chasing him down, and when they caught him it was Højlund who arrived first, jumping on his back with both arms wrapped around his neck.

"TWO BANGERS!" the Danish striker screamed directly into his ear, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise. "YOU'RE UNREAL!"

Pasalic piled on next, then Boga, then Muriel, all of them swarming him in a mass of black and blue shirts, and when they finally separated Demien just clapped once before turning back toward the center circle because the celebration felt excessive when the match was already won.

Touchline

Gasperini allowed himself a rare smile, his arms uncrossing for the first time in twenty minutes as he clapped three times—sharp and controlled—before turning to his assistant.

"Two goals, three assists," the assistant said quietly, making a note on his tablet. "Complete performance."

Gasperini nodded once, his expression satisfied but measured, because there were still fifteen minutes left and games could change quickly if concentration dropped.

76' - 87' |

The final twelve minutes felt more like a training exercise than competitive football, Atalanta keeping possession without urgency while Cremonese dropped all ten outfield players into a desperate shell behind the ball, and every clearance was hoofed long and straight back to Musso or Tolói who just started the cycle again.

Boga and Muriel took over in the attacking third, keeping possession in the corners like a casual rondo—a stepover here, a nutmeg there, a few shared grins on the pitch that showed how comfortable everyone felt with the five-nil cushion.

The possession stat on the big screen climbed past eighty-seven percent, the highest of the match, and the clock ticked down without a single real threat from the visitors who looked broken physically and mentally.

No urgency left from either side, just pure enjoyment from Atalanta's perspective as they toyed with a team that had been shattered since halftime.

Eighty-third minute: Boga received on the left wing and beat Zortea with a sharp turn, his movement casual but effective as he drove toward the byline, and his low cross was aimed toward Muriel at the near post but Vásquez read it well and slid in to clear before the Colombian could connect, the ball spinning out for a throw-in that nobody rushed to take.

87' |

Gasperini turned toward the bench and called out a name.

"ALEKSEY!"

Miranchuk stood immediately from the bench, pulling off his warm-up jacket and jogging toward the touchline where the fourth official was waiting, and the substitution board went up showing the numbers: 28 OFF, 18 ON.

Commentary

"Final change for Atalanta here—Walter coming off, Miranchuk coming on. Well-deserved rest for the young midfielder after a masterclass performance."

"Standing ovation coming from the Gewiss, and rightly so. Two goals, three assists—Walter's earned this reception."

Demien saw the board go up and jogged slowly toward the touchline, his legs heavy and his kit soaked completely through with sweat, and the moment he crossed the halfway line heading off the pitch, the Gewiss Stadium rose.

Eighty percent of the crowd stood immediately—maybe nineteen thousand supporters on their feet—and warm applause rolled in from all four stands, building into a steady wave of noise that grew louder with each step he took toward the sideline.

The lower Curva Nord ignited first, two thousand voices starting the chant in perfect unison.

"WAL-TER! WAL-TER! WAL-TER! WAL-TER!"

It spread like wildfire across the blue-and-black sea of supporters, three thousand voices joining, then four thousand, then five thousand, until the entire stadium was chanting his name in recognition of a performance that would be talked about for weeks.

Commentary

"Listen to this ovation for Demien Walter as he comes off in the eighty-seventh minute. Two goals, three assists, man of the match performance, and the Gewiss Stadium is showing their appreciation. What a display from the eighteen-year-old."

"Incredible, Marco. Genuinely incredible. At eighteen years old, to dominate a Serie A match like this—controlling the tempo, creating chances, scoring from open play and a free-kick—this is the kind of performance that announces a player to Europe."

Demien raised one flat hand in simple acknowledgment as he reached the touchline, no fist-pump or theatrics, just a calm gesture toward all four stands before he turned to clap Miranchuk who was jogging on in his place.

The Russian midfielder high-fived him as they passed, their exchange wordless, and the crowd cheered the substitution even louder because everyone understood what they'd just witnessed.

Demien reached the bench and grabbed a jacket, pulling it on over his soaked shirt, and he sat down in his assigned spot while the "WAL-TER!" chant lingered in pockets around the stadium, refusing to die completely even as play resumed.

Commentary

"Seventy-nine minutes for Walter today. Final stats: two goals, three assists, ninety-five percent pass completion in the final third, seven chances created, nine of eleven duels won. Those are world-class numbers, Luca."

"And he's only going to get better. That's the frightening thing for Serie A defenses—he's still developing physically, still learning tactically, and he's already doing this. Atalanta have found something special here."

90+1' - 90+4' | Final Whistle

The fourth official raised his board showing four minutes of added time, and Boga forced one last corner in the ninety-first minute just to waste seconds, deliberately overhitting his cross so it sailed out for a goal kick that Carnesecchi took as slowly as the referee would allow.

Ninety-second minute: Cremonese tried one final attack, Dessers receiving long and flicking it toward Tsadjout, but Djimsiti headed clear without being challenged.

Ninety-third minute: Atalanta circulated possession in their own half, De Roon to Scalvini to Tolói and back to Musso, the goalkeeper holding the ball for six seconds before rolling it out to restart.

Ninety-fourth minute: The referee checked his watch one final time, and when the ball went out for an Atalanta throw near halfway, he raised the whistle to his lips.

FWEEEEEEEEEEET! FWEEEEEEEEEEET! FWEEEEEEEEEEET!

FULL TIME: ATALANTA 5-0 CREMONESE