The Mestalla had entirely surrendered to the visiting fans from Madrid.
The home supporters were either sitting in stunned, vacant silence, or they were already marching out of the stadium.
When a stadium holds fifty thousand people, leaving right at the final whistle means fighting through gridlocked traffic for two hours. Better to beat the rush and head home early to drown your sorrows.
Down on the pitch, the Atlético players felt completely at home.
Every time they touched the ball, a synchronized roar erupted from the away sector.
Operating under that adrenaline-fueled atmosphere, everything Atlético tried seemed to work flawlessly.
On the opposite side, the Valencia players were psychologically broken.
When the mind breaks, the body follows. Their legs felt like they were filled with concrete.
Up in the press box, the local Valencia journalists were holding their heads in their hands.
Judging by the trajectory of the season, Valencia was hurtling toward a catastrophic, end-of-season collapse.
Eliminated from the Europa League.
And in La Liga...
Losing third place to Atlético was bad enough. But now, their grip on fourth place was crumbling. Málaga was practically breathing down their necks.
If they got overtaken by Málaga at the final hurdle, this season would go down as an absolute humiliation.
They had held third place for months. At one point, they were twelve points clear of fourth.
If they collapsed now and failed to qualify for the Champions League, the backlash from the Mestalla faithful would be biblical.
Many journalists glanced anxiously at the jumbotron.
There were twenty minutes left.
Mathematically, it wasn't time to surrender.
In football, until the final whistle blows, miracles exist. Scoring three goals in twenty minutes sounds impossible, but it has happened.
The Valencia players understood this. They were elite professionals.
They compartmentalized the despair and desperately tried to mount an offensive wave.
But...
Atlético Madrid's confidence was currently operating in a completely different stratosphere.
Because they were playing with zero fear, their counter-attacks became razor-sharp. They were attempting—and completing—audacious skills they would never try in a tense 0-0 match.
78th minute.
Koke drifted inside from the flank and initiated a dazzling solo dribble into the penalty area. Desperate to stop him, Valencia defender Jérémy Mathieu launched a clumsy, lunging tackle and took Koke out at the knees.
The referee blew the whistle instantly and pointed directly to the penalty spot.
"PENALTY! Atlético Madrid win a penalty, and Valencia suffer another devastating blow!"
"Just as Valencia was starting to build momentum, they are hit with the ultimate punishment!"
"If this goes in, Valencia are down four-nil on the night!"
The broadcast cameras zoomed in on Unai Emery.
The Valencia manager just stood there, violently shaking his head in absolute disgust.
Mathieu was currently in the referee's face, screaming that it was a dive.
But the television replay was completely unforgiving. Koke knocked the ball away, and Mathieu's trailing leg swept cleanly through his ankles.
It was an undeniable penalty.
After a minute of futile protesting, the Valencia players finally accepted reality and backed away.
Radamel Falcao picked up the ball.
He was the undisputed primary penalty taker.
But instead of walking to the spot, Falcao turned around and shoved the ball directly into Carter's chest.
"Carter! You take it!"
"Me?" Carter blinked, genuinely surprised.
He was technically a defensive midfielder. Even though he had recently unlocked a massive arsenal of attacking weapons, penalties were universally reserved for strikers. It was basic football psychology: strikers need goals to maintain their confidence.
"Yes, you." Falcao grinned, ruffling the teenager's hair. "Go get your hat-trick!"
Carter was already sitting on two goals.
One more, and he would take the match ball home.
"Alright then."
Carter didn't act humble. A penalty was the easiest goal in football.
He tucked the ball under his arm and walked toward the spot.
"Wait, Shane Carter is taking the penalty?!"
The commentators were stunned.
"Does he even have a record of taking penalties? I don't think he's ever taken one professionally. But if he buries this, he secures a hat-trick! It would be the second hat-trick of his professional career, the first being that legendary performance against Real Madrid at the Bernabéu."
As the commentators debated, Carter placed the ball carefully on the chalk.
Standing on the goal line was Diego Alves. The man who had acted as an impenetrable brick wall in the first leg.
Typically, elite goalkeepers rigorously study the penalty habits of their opponents.
If Falcao stepped up, Alves knew his tendencies.
But Carter?
This was completely blind territory. Carter had no professional penalty record for Alves to analyze.
Alves stood perfectly still, spreading his arms wide, mentally committing to a side and praying for luck.
Carter took a few measured steps backward.
The referee blew the whistle.
Carter didn't attempt a stutter-step or any psychological mind games.
He took a rapid, powerful run-up and violently lashed his right foot through the ball.
He didn't aim for the corners. He aimed for the absolute roof of the net.
The ball exploded off his boot like an artillery shell.
Even though Alves guessed the correct direction, it was mathematically irrelevant. No human being could react fast enough to stop a strike with that much velocity into the top corner.
A penalty kick is entirely a test of psychology.
For a professional footballer, striking a stationary ball accurately into a specific corner of the net is remarkably easy in a vacuum.
The reason players miss penalties is because the suffocating pressure of the moment destroys their mechanics.
Carter did not feel pressure.
He was completely devoid of nerves.
"BURIES IT! FOUR-NIL!"
"Atlético are up four-nil at the Mestalla! Valencia have completely capitulated!"
"Carter secures his hat-trick! He has absolutely owned this semifinal!"
"Atlético Madrid are officially marching to the Europa League Final!"
"Think about where this club was in December! Who could have predicted this miraculous resurrection under Diego Simeone?!"
The broadcast booth was euphoric.
Inside the Mestalla, the home stands were practically empty.
For the remainder of the match, Atlético dropped into a deep, comfortable block.
Up 4-0 on the night and 5-2 on aggregate, there was zero reason to continue attacking.
Atlético and Valencia weren't blood rivals. There was no need to humiliate them further and risk a frustrated Valencia player breaking someone's leg out of spite.
Valencia attempted a few desperate, pride-saving attacks in stoppage time, but their spirit was entirely broken.
In the ninety-fourth minute, Carter received the ball near the touchline. He casually shielded it from a Valencia defender, running down the clock.
Before the defender could even try to tackle him, the referee blew the whistle three times.
Peeep. Peeeep. Peeeeeeeep.
"Full time! It is all over!"
"Atlético Madrid annihilate Valencia 4-0 at the Mestalla, advancing 5-2 on aggregate! They are going to Bucharest!"
As the commentator's voice echoed through the broadcast, the away sector erupted into a frenzy.
The television cameras instantly locked onto Shane Carter.
He was laughing, embracing his teammates as the bench cleared and flooded the pitch.
This season had been a tale of two entirely different clubs for Atlético.
In 2011, they were a broken, dysfunctional mess.
In 2012, under Simeone, they were reborn into a terrifying monster.
They had essentially locked up third place in La Liga, and now, they were heading to a European Final.
If they could defeat Athletic Bilbao and lift the Europa League trophy, it would be the ultimate fairytale ending.
After all, even the most delusional Atlético fan didn't expect them to actually challenge Real Madrid and Barcelona for the La Liga title.
Winning a European trophy was the absolute zenith of their realistic ambitions.
As the celebrations roared around him, the familiar mechanical chime echoed in Carter's mind.
[Ding! Match concluded. Calculating performance...]
[Match Intensity: High. Match Rating: Outstanding.]
[Ding! Match Settlement Reward Acquired: Valencia Legendary Player Module Chest.]
Open it.
[Ding! Congratulations! You have acquired: S-Tier Player Module - Pablo Aimar: The Agile Clown!]
The Agile Clown?
Carter pulled up the item description.
[The Agile Clown: Pablo Aimar is renowned for his supernatural dribbling fluidity. He possesses an incredibly rapid stride frequency and excels at utilizing highly flexible, unpredictable changes of direction to break defensive lines. His movements are inherently agile, seamless, and lightning-fast.]
Pablo Aimar...
Wait, isn't that Lionel Messi's absolute idol?
Carter processed the implications. The module was entirely focused on extreme, localized agility and low-center-of-gravity dribbling.
He felt a sudden, intense rush of warmth flood through his nervous system and muscular structure.
If he combined Pablo Aimar's supernatural agility and stride frequency with Zinedine Zidane's god-tier ball retention and spatial awareness...
His dribbling capacity was going to become genuinely horrifying.
Am I actually going to approach Messi's level of dribbling efficiency? Carter thought, a surge of adrenaline hitting him.
It was a shame the match was over.
There were no defenders left on the pitch for him to test his newly mutated agility against.
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