My system allows me to copy talents

Beep!

The shrill sound of the whistle cut through the roaring crowd as the match resumed after the thunderous celebration.

With the score now level, the stakes felt even higher. Both teams threw their caution aside and charged headlong into the battle, like starved beasts scenting blood.

Every pass was sharper, every tackle harder as desperation laced the very air they breathed.

The title, the dream, was at stake— no one was willing to let go of the dream.

This desperation led the players to draw out the latent power hidden within.

The rhythm of the game turned brutal as both sides tested their strengths.

Crashes of shins, desperate slides, and last-ditch clearances painted the pitch with chaos. It was no longer just a match—it was war.

Fouls were no longer exceptions—they were expected. Even the fans roared with every collision. Their spirits rose to a never-before-seen level. Bodies collided like waves in a storm, and the whistle became as much a part of the soundtrack as the ball itself.

The tension didn’t increase just on the pitch. But it spread its wings far beyond the reach of the touchline. Even on the sidelines, the tension was equally strong.

Managers from both benches argued incessantly, shouting over one another, arms flailing like generals trying to command the chaos. They barked at the fourth official and waved invisible cards toward the pitch, protesting every call, every non-call.

Though it seemed like a normal reaction considering the importance of the match, the referee, however, was getting irritated.

The final strained him, and he gritted his teeth with every whistle.

The more the match drew closer to the end, the more his patience was tested. With every call, he found his patience thinning. On top of that, he had to hear the screams of the managers, too.

He was already having a hard time controlling the players. But the addition of the fans and the managers was making it even worse.

The screams of the managers were like fuel to the burning fire.

With every protest, he felt like his authority was being challenged.

‘Just who is the referee here?’ He gritted his teeth, his brows furrowing as he resumed the match after a heated drama.

He tucked his anger inside and continued with the game.

The match progressed with the same intensity.

In the 78th minute, Hiro darted into an open space, a blur of speed and intention. He slid the ball past one defender, only to be clattered from behind by Vittorio with a bone-jarring challenge. The crowd screamed in unison.

Hiro crumpled to the grass, clutching his ankle.

The tackle was rough, and the crowd had witnessed it. The intention behind the tackle was obvious, which made them even more furious.

“RED CARD!”

“That’s a clear foul…”

Jeers and complaints became loud as the fans roared to defend their prized possession. Restless and furious, the fans demanded the referee’s attention.

The referee rushed to the scene. He couldn’t help but worry about the matter becoming worse. He was aware of the intensity of the match.

Hence, to prevent the situation from escalating, he immediately rushed onto the scene.

Sure, like he had expected, the Madrid players were rushing to defend Hiro.

Now, if a fight were to break out, it’d have been quite difficult to handle. The pressure on him was huge. He could feel his stomach churning and his heart thumping.

He could also feel the thousands of eyes converged on him, awaiting his decision. If you’re not on *, you’re viewing a copy.

One wrong decision and the crowd might go insane.

This made it even more difficult for him to decide.

Nonetheless, he still had to make the decision. For a moment, as he swept his gaze around the scene, it felt like time had come to a halt.

He could hear his own breathing.

The commentators were eagerly awaiting his decision.

“Surely, that’s a red—he was the last man!”

The referee reached into his pocket.

Then…

Yellow Card!

Gasps of disbelief erupted through the stadium like a wave of thunder.

The Atlético bench surged to its feet. Diego Simeone, normally a storm contained in a bottle, snapped. He had been holding himself back from shouting. But this decision pushed him to his limits.

Hiro was the last man, and he was advancing to the goal.

If he hadn’t been tackled, he might have given them the lead. So, what was with his decision? Just a yellow card? Are you kidding me?

What in the world are you thinking?

He marched past his technical zone like a man possessed, veins bulging in his neck, voice hoarse with rage.

“ARE YOU BLIND?!” he bellowed. “THAT’S A RED! HE TOOK HIM OUT!”

The others around him were equally loud, vouching for a red card. But the referee had given his decision, and he wasn’t going to change it.

Diego continued to protest. The fourth official stepped in, trying to contain him. But Diego wasn’t listening.

Blinded by rage, he couldn’t bring himself to calm down. The world turned red, and he lashed out even more furiously.

Even so, the others around him managed to shut him up.

For a while, it seemed like he had calmed down. But just then, while returning, he kicked the water case hard to vent his frustration.

The case flew off the bench and slammed against the chair with a crisp sound of plastic against the concrete.

The water bottles it stored scattered around, some damaged and leaking.

As for the case itself, it broke.

The referee couldn’t ignore his violent reaction any longer and darted toward his side. Then… a flash of red.

The card soared into the air, fanning the flame. The world around him turned red as veins popped out of his forehead. He erupted like a volcano, threatening to punch the referee.

But the assistant managers restrained him.

“Diego, calm down… Don’t make matters worse than it is,” the assistant coach said as he clung onto Diego.

“Diego Simeone has been shown a red card! The Atlético coach is sent off in the 78th minute after an explosive protest against what many will call a highly controversial decision!”