The whistle blew.
At last, the referee pointed to the penalty spot.
The entire Al Thumama Stadium was on fire. Morocco’s red wall looked ready to collapse, while Portugal’s white-clad players surged like a wave.
Only I stood quietly at the edge of the penalty area.
No one knew what had just happened.
I bent down, picked a broken blade of grass from the pitch, and whispered so softly that only I could hear:
“Skill One: Mirror Flower, Water Moon. I am Goncalo Ramos now.”
“Skill Two: Diving Invulnerability. That penalty is ours, one hundred percent.”
“Skill Three: Saintly Saying. Ref, you should thank me for insulting you just now.”
I looked up at “Ronaldo,” who was carrying the ball toward the spot: the real Ramos.
He had taken my face, my name, and my body.
And now he was about to score the penalty that should have been mine.
Forty thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on him.
The corners of my mouth lifted slightly.
This was only the first match.
There was still a long story ahead.
From today on, the world would learn a new name for me.
They used to call me the “Diving Emperor.”
But after Qatar, call me...
The Supreme One of Football.
