Chapter 111: [111] "Paris Royal Part 7"
Fontaine timed his run with terrifying, mechanical precision, staying onside by a fraction of an inch. He brought the ball down with a first touch that... almost...defied physics, killing the momentum of the pass with the outside of his right boot, dropping the ball dead onto the grass right in front of him.
Amadou Fall lunged in desperately, trying to block the inevitable shot.
Fontaine didn’t even look at the goal. He opened his hips and unleashed a venomous, curling strike that wrapped itself around Amadou’s outstretched leg.
Blažek dove at full stretch, his fingertips brushing the leather of the ball, but the sheer pace of the strike was too much. The ball slammed into the side netting, rattling the frame of the goal.
Goal.
2-2.
The stadium erupted into absolute delirium. The concrete shook. Flares were lit instantly, blanketing the stands in thic red smoke.
Fontaine didn’t run to the corner flag. He turned around, his face completely devoid of emotion, and pointed two fingers at his own wrist, tapping it methodically.
Tick. Tock.
The psychological blow was devastating. Valois had fought, bled, and suffered for nearly an hour, and the Fontaine had simply erased their hard work with two swings of his right boot.
Luc looked at his teammates. Amadou was staring at the grass, his shoulders slumped, mentally replaying the fraction of a second where he had lost Fontaine. Owusu was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Even Klaus looked frustrated, barking at Baini for not closing Bastien down faster.
The fragility of the team was showing. The egos were beginning to crack under the unrelenting hostility of the Parisian empire.
[System Notification]
[CRITICAL ALERT: Morale Dropping.]
[Locker Room Cohesion fluctuating.]
[Captain’s Aura is stabilizing the bare minimum, but a fracture is imminent without a momentum shift.]
"Hey!" Luc roared, his voice cutting through the ringing ears of his defenders. He jogged straight into the penalty area, grabbing Amadou by the shoulders and physically hauling the eighteen-year-old upright. "Look at me! Look at me!"
Amadou blinked, the despair in his eyes meeting the absolute, burning intensity of his captain’s gaze.
"He is a hundred-million-euro striker," Luc said, his words sharp and deliberate. "He is going to score goals. That is his job. Your job is to make sure he doesn’t get a third! You are Amadou Fall! Remember you do not put your head down!"
Amadou’s jaw tightened. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and gave a single, sharp nod. The Captain’s Aura flared, washing away the teenager’s anxiety and replacing it with raw defiance.
Luc turned to the rest of the squad. "We are tied! It is zero-zero as far as we are concerned! We do not sit back and wait to die! We go at them with everything we have!"
The referee blew the whistle to restart the match.
---
Minute sixty-one.
The momentum was entirely with Paris Royal. They smelled blood. They pressed the Valois kickoff immediately, swarming the Valois midfield like a pack of wolves. Baini was forced to play a desperate, hacking clearance just to get the ball out of their half.
The ball sailed aimlessly toward the center circle, where the two Paris Royal center-backs comfortably collected it, recycling possession and starting the assault all over again.
Luc was isolated up top, starved of service, spending his time chasing shadows as the Parisian defense pinged the ball around him with arrogant ease. He checked the stadium clock.
62:45.
If they didn’t break this rhythm, Paris Royal was going to score a third. It was a mathematical certainty. The pressure was too immense, the waves too constant. Valois needed a miracle, or they needed an executioner.
Luc chose the latter.
"TES," Luc thought, his eyes narrowing on the Paris Royal defensive midfielder who had just received the ball. "Activate the final Predatory Aura."
[System Notification]
[Predatory Aura — Activated.]
[0 uses remaining.]
[Effect: You are the absolute center of their defensive anxiety. The gravity of your presence is overwhelming.]
[Warning: This is your final predatory aura. Make it count.]
The effect didn’t require Luc to touch the ball. The system weaponized his mere presence on the pitch.
As the Paris Royal defensive midfielder looked up to scan for a forward pass, his eyes dragged toward Luc. Instead of seeing a lone, isolated striker, he felt an overwhelming, irrational spike of panic...a deep, psychological dread that if he didn’t place his pass perfectly, the American was going to collect it and destroy them.
The midfielder hesitated, second-guessing his passing lane. He took an extra touch.
That was all Klaus Becker needed.
The German veteran surged out of the Valois defensive block like a heat-seeking missile. He didn’t just tackle the midfielder aimlessly, he stole the ball cleanly with a brilliant, sweeping interception, immediately turning defense into attack.
"Hugo!" Klaus roared, slipping a vertical pass straight through the disorganized center of the pitch.
Hugo received the ball on the half-turn. The teenager’s vision was entirely clear, the Paris Royal midfield caught completely out of position by their own player’s hesitation. Hugo drove forward, the 4-2-3-1 snapping into its lethal attacking shape.
Gabriel Assis, his lungs burning, found a reserve of pure adrenaline and sprinted down the right flank, screaming for the ball. On the left, Idriss mirrored the run, crashing inward toward the penalty spot.
But Hugo didn’t pass wide. He looked straight down the center.
Luc was making his run.
The Predatory Aura was pulsing at maximum intensity, almost running out. As Luc charged toward the penalty area, the sheer psychological gravity of his presence shattered the Paris Royal backline. The left-back abandoned Gabriel. The right-back ignored Idriss. The two massive center-backs stepped up wildly, entirely consumed by the desperate need to stop Luc Beaumont.
It was a four-on-one defensive collapse. A black hole of panic.
Hugo slipped a delicate, perfectly weighted through-ball directly into the eye of the storm.
Luc arrived at the top of the eighteen-yard box, the ball rolling smoothly into his path. Four deep blue jerseys converged on him simultaneously, a swarm of sliding cleats, shoving shoulders, and desperate tackles aiming to wipe him out.
Luc didn’t pass to the wide-open Gabriel. He didn’t lay it off for Idriss. He didn’t need to.
With absolute, ice-cold composure, Luc dropped his right shoulder, faking a heavy touch to the outside.