As the match entered the 75th minute, it was Charlton who began to sit back and defend.

    After all, they had already taken the lead—and now it was about holding onto it. They adopted a more composed and cautious approach in the ensuing play. However, suddenly Alan Curbishley frowned on the sideline, clearly sensing something.

    City were beginning to look reckless in their pursuit of an equalizer.

    When the ball went out of play again in the 77th minute, Robertson wasted no time. He immediately brought on Trezeguet to replace Larsson—and then, in a surprising move, swapped Zambrotta for Shevchenko.

    City went all out with their last two substitutions!

    The team had been overturned and was suffering a morale-crushing comeback. All knew that City was being pushed to the edge. At this moment, the coach needed to salvage not just the game but also the team’s morale—and perhaps even his own authority and trust as head coach.

    Now, John Robertson could only take a daring risk.

    Trezeguet was stationed at the forefront, Shevchenko moved to the right, and Henry drifted to the left. Behind the strikers was Neil Lennon, while Van Bommel and McNamara stayed deeper, allowing Roberto Carlos and Cafu to push forward freely.

    Robertson kept it brief as he laid out the tactical adjustments for the front two, emphasizing that while the overall strategy wouldn’t change entirely, the three players up front needed to synchronize their movements and work seamlessly with Roberto Carlos and Cafu.

    In other words, City would maintain a balanced 6-attack, 4-defense shape in both offense and defense.

    The match soon resumed, and with a one-goal lead, Charlton expectedly played it safe.

    The rhythm of cheers from Charlton Athletic fans resonated through the stands, as Carl Moran’s "Blazing Squad" was drowned out by the wave of support from the thousand Charlton visiting fans present.

    On the field, in the 79th minute, Lennon gained possession and passed decisively to Henry on the left flank.

    Henry cut inside and launched a long-range shot that sailed just over the crossbar, sending a shiver down Charlton’s defense.

    By the 83rd minute, Lennon passed, Henry connected with Trezeguet, and the two executed a quick one-two. Henry pushed into the penalty area, only to have the ball intercepted.

    In the 85th minute, once again Henry cut inside, Trezeguet returned the pass, and Henry went for another long-range shot, which was saved by Mike Salmon.

    Something strange was happening.

    In the 4-4-2 system, Henry had seemed almost invisible. But in the 4-3-3, just ten minutes after the restart, he had undoubtedly become the main figure for Manchester City.

    He had already registered three shots and three breakthroughs, while also creating a decent headed opportunity for Trezeguet!

    Thierry Henry’s technical prowess during these brief moments was on full display—his skillful dribbling, penetrating runs, and clever passes.

    Holy shit.

    Even Robertson realized it wasn’t that Henry was bad, but probably that he didn’t suit the 4-4-2 system!

    The City attack was now increasingly focused on intensifying down the left flank, causing Charlton’s defensive line to inevitably shift and tilt toward the right. Henry naturally became a pressing concern for Charlton’s defenders.

    Containing him and limiting his movement became their top priority.

    This, in turn, allowed Trezeguet and Shevchenko to stay more patient and wait, giving them plenty of space to operate.

    Richard observed every movement of Henry and grew excited. This was it! The beautiful, elegant play of Thierry Henry in full flight.

    Although his team was trailing, City showed no signs of despair. Instead, they displayed resilience and determination, fighting for every opportunity and demonstrating a commendable spirit in the face of adversity.

    Henry tirelessly orchestrated attacks from the midfield and the left flank, circling like a banner of hope that seemed to inspire all his teammates.

    When Henry found himself cornered on the left, Richard glanced up at the scoreboard: 88th.

    His expression turned solemn—he knew the decisive moment was drawing near.

    Charlton fans erupted in cheers as Henry lost possession on the flank.

    Steve Brown cleared it with a booming kick, and the exhausted Peter Garland waited in position to collect the ball.

    Alan Curbishley had already prepared a substitution to waste time, waiting for a dead-ball opportunity.

    But just as Garland was about to control the ball, a figure burst onto the scene—Lilian Thuram, full of fresh energy!

    The fatigued Garland was shoved aside as Thuram powered a header forward.

    Henry, who had just lost the ball and intended to chase it back, suddenly stopped.

    The ball was coming to him!

    What happened next was sheer genius.

    As the ball bounced forward from Thuram’s header, Henry darted toward it, and Phil Chapple wasn’t the only one tracking him — Kevin Nicholls was also trailing close behind, anticipating that Henry would try to control and receive the ball.

    But just when Nicholls thought he had read the situation, something unexpected happened.

    Henry didn’t touch the ball at all.

    Instead, he let it bounce in front of him and twisted his body sharply — a sudden, deceptive turn that made it seem as if he was about to take control. But it was all a feint.

    By using only his body movement and letting the ball run, Henry completely sold Nicholls, who was tricked into reacting early.

    Thanks to the momentum from his run, Nicholls’s body couldn’t keep up with Henry’s sudden movement — and that was all Henry needed.

    In that instant, Henry exploded into a sprint.

    A non-touch feint executed with perfect timing, positioning, and body language to beat his marker one-on-one.

    Henry took the ball in stride and turned sharply, surging forward. First, Phil Chapple tried to close him down after Nicholls, but Henry ghosted past him with a subtle shift of weight.

    Now the Charlton defensive line began to retreat—Steve Brown and Dean Chandler were the last men standing, desperately trying to hold their ground.

    But it was too late.

    With Trezeguet and Shevchenko lurking nearby, the entire defense was distracted. Like it or not, the only two anchors at the back were now forced to face Henry one-on-one.

    Dean Chandler was the first to engage. He stepped up quickly to close down the Frenchman, but Henry dipped his shoulder and cut inside, completely wrong-footing him. The young Charlton defender went sprawling to the turf—a moment of pure humiliation.

    Now clean through on goal, with only Steve Brown to beat, Henry showed ice-cold composure. He didn’t blast it. He didn’t panic.

    He shifted slightly to the right, drawing both Brown and Mike Salmon, the goalkeeper, in that direction.

    Then, with his right foot, he subtly rolled the ball back across to his left side, opening his body, and calmly slotted the ball into the far corner with his weaker left foot, sending Brown and Salmon the wrong way with the coolest of finishes.

    "OH MY WORD—THIERRY HENRY! He’s taken them all on—one, two, THREE defenders left for dead—and then delivered the coolest finish you’ll ever see. He’s made it look so easy!"

    "GOAAAALLLL!!!" Seeing the ball fly into the Charlton goal, Richard suddenly didn’t care about anything else. He jumped out of his chair and pumped his fist in the air.

    "Unbelievable! That guy is really like a snake!" Even Mylvaganam couldn’t help but clap his hands in admiration.

    After the ball hit the back of the net, the stadium erupted.

    Henry didn’t scream. He didn’t even smile at first. Instead, he turned away from the goal with calm, deliberate steps—like an artist admiring his finished masterpiece. As his teammates rushed toward him, he kept walking, ignoring the chaos behind him.

    Then, with the crowd roaring and cameras flashing, he slowly turned his back to the stands.

    With both hands, he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and tugged it slightly outward—just enough to make the name visible.

    "HENRY. 12"

    He jabbed a single finger at the letters stitched across his shoulders. Not in arrogance, but in defiance.

    A message: ’Remember the name.’

    Only then did the fire burst out of him. He turned back toward the fans, roared with clenched fists, and punched the air as his teammates finally caught up—swarming him in celebration.

    And in that moment, the comeback was no longer just a scoreline. It was a statement.

    Manchester City 2 – 2 Charlton Athletic.

    While everyone agreed that everything would settle into extra time, something unexpected happened.

    One minute before the final whistle, both teams had noticeably eased the tempo. Everyone expected the match to drift toward extra time.

    The psychological toll was visible; legs were heavy, minds were tired, and the intensity had dropped.

    Manchester City were calmly circulating possession when the ball came to Roberto Carlos on the left flank. Instinctively, he spotted Henry—lurking just outside the penalty area, dangerously still, like a coiled spring waiting to strike.

    With one swift motion, Carlos curled a precise pass toward Henry.

    Henry received the ball with his back to goal, positioned near the edge of the box. Defender Phil Chapple was right on his shoulder, closing down space quickly, ready to block any attempt—but Henry held his ground.

    With a deft first touch, he flicked the ball up off the ground using the inside of his right foot, lifting it just high enough to clear the turf.

    As the ball rose, Henry pivoted sharply on his right heel, spinning away from Chapple, who was left off-balance and struggling to react.

    With the ball now descending, Henry didn’t hesitate—but suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder, causing him to stumble and lose his balance to one side.

    With no other choice, Henry—being dragged off balance—was forced to look for an alternative option. And then he saw it.

    Roberto Carlos. Already sprinting, already prepared.

    Henry twisted his body and, just before falling, flicked the ball sideways with the outside of his boot. The pass was light, yet perfect.

    The ball bounced once.

    Then again.

    And Roberto Carlos met it in full stride, launching himself forward like a missile. His left leg wound back—and then, with the explosive power he was famous for, he struck the ball with his laces.

    BOOM.

    The shot roared like a rocket. A blur of speed, spin, and venom.

    Mike Salmon in the Charlton goal barely had time to react. He had been in a relaxed state, expecting the referee to blow the final whistle—certainly not a sudden bazooka shot. Before he could even move, the ball had already flown past him.

    A bazooka of a goal, fired at the death.

    3–2. Manchester City. The comeback complete.

    "WE ARE GOING TO WEMBLEY~!!!"

    Fans leapt from their seats, scarves flew, strangers hugged, and the sound—it was deafening. A thunderous explosion of joy and disbelief.

    Some fans fell to their knees, others clutched their heads in stunned awe. The City bench cleared, players and staff sprinting down the touchline, arms raised, mouths open in mid-scream.

    On the pitch, everyone rushed toward Roberto Carlos from all directions, but he had already torn off his jersey and roared in excitement, sprinting toward the nearest stand and pumping his fists in the air before being mobbed by his teammates. Sёar?h the Novёl?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    "OH MY WORD! ROBERTO CARLOS HAS JUST SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE!"

    "He struck it like his life depended on it! Manchester City—dead and buried just 30 minutes ago—have TURNED. IT. AROUND!"