Chapter 134: [134] "The environment mutates"
The right center-back didn’t react. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hear Morel over the crowd noise...it was a profound, cognitive failure induced by the system. The warning simply didn’t process in his brain. He kept his eyes locked on the ball, oblivious to the danger shifting behind him.
Morel blinked, genuine confusion splashing across his bearded face. He waved his arms frantically at his left-back to slide over and cover the gap. "Slide over! The gap!"
The left-back ignored him, continuing to mark empty space on the flank.
The entire Bretagne defensive unit had suddenly become a collection of isolated individuals, devoid of any cohesive structure.
Luc exploited instantly.
He peeled off the shoulder of the center-back, drifting into the massive pocket of space that had opened up precisely because the defenders weren’t talking to each other.
Baini, operating with his usual gritty vision, spotted the run. The Moroccan launched a beautifully lofted, perfectly weighted pass over the fragmented defensive line.
The ball dropped into the penalty area.
Luc was completely alone. Morel realized the danger too late, desperately sprinting back to intervene, but the gap was too wide.
Luc didn’t wait for the ball to hit the grass, number 24 was a foot away. He adjusted his footing flawlessly, reading the trajectory of the descending leather. He planted his left foot into the turf, locking his core, and launched his right boot through the air.
He caught the ball perfectly on the full volley.
The strike rocketed past the stunned Bretagne goalkeeper and slammed down into the back of the net.
Goal!!!!!
4-1.
Luc Beaumont ran towards the corner flag and tapped the crest on his chest.
Twenty-four.
He was alone at the top.
The Bretagne defenders finally looked at each other, throwing their arms up in confusion, arguing over who had blown the assignment. Morel stood near the penalty spot, shaking his head in disbelief at the sudden, catastrophic breakdown of his defensive line.
[System Notification]
[League Goals Scored: 24]
[You are the undisputed top scorer in Ligue Alpha.]
The final few minutes of stoppage time were a mere formality. Valois passed the ball around the perimeter, draining the clock while the away team waited for the inevitable release of the final whistle.
When the referee finally obliged, blowing three sharp blasts to signal the end of the match, the stadium erupted in a final wave of triumph.
Piii. Piii. Piiii.
Fulltime. SC Valois 4, Sporting Bretagne 1.
Luc shook hands with Morel, offering a brief nod of respect to the veteran who had made him fight for every inch of grass, before walking toward the tunnel. The freezing rain that had started at halftime had stopped, leaving the night air clear and sharp.
He pulled the wet jersey over his head, the exhaustion of the ninety minutes finally seeping into his bones. But the nagging hunger that had plagued him all week was finally satiated.
He had taken the throne. And he was finally ready for his birthday dinner.
[System Notification]
[Calculating simultaneous fixture results...]
[Correction.]
[League Goals Scored: 24]
[Fresko’s game just ended in a 2-1 win. He is on 25 goals.]
[Fontaine hat-trick. He is on 23 goals.]
Luc Beaumont stopped walking.
He was halfway down the tunnel of Stade Valois already, the deafening roar of the home crowd still vibrating through the soles of his cleats. The sweat was drying on his skin, chilling him in the drafty corridor. Just seconds ago, he had felt the high of conquering the mountain. He had broken Morel’s defensive cage. He had secured the 4-1 victory. He had taken the throne.
TES’ blue text hung in the air in front of his face.
His reign as the top scorer had lasted just as long as it took for the final whistles to blow in the other stadiums across the country.
"Twenty-five," Luc whispered to himself, the sound instantly swallowed by the echoing footsteps of his teammates pushing past him toward the dressing room.
Fresko hadn’t just scored one, he had scored a brace to win his match for Phocéen. And Olivier Fontaine who was supposed to be out of the conversation following the aftermath of the Cup humiliation, had responded with a hat-trick of his own.
Three strikers.
Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three.
It was an anomaly. In any normal season of Ligue Alpha, twenty-four goals by late February would guarantee a player the Golden Boot with enough goal cushion. But this wasn’t a normal season... apparently.
Every time Luc leveled up, the environment around him mutated to match his output.
"Captain, you coming?" Cillian Doyle called out, pausing near the dressing room doors. The Irishman was coated in mud, grinning from ear to ear. "Klaus is already threatening to throw Bachra into the ice bath if he doesn’t stop talking about his assist."
Luc blinked, dismissing the system interface. He forced the tension out of his jaw and nodded. "Yeah. I’m coming."
He walked into the locker room, but the celebratory atmosphere felt entirely different to him now. He had spent ninety minutes fighting a war of attrition, only to realize the finish line had been moved another mile down the road.
---
Monday morning.
The Paris Royal headquarters was a monument to corporate perfection. Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished marble floors, and an aesthetic that projected absolute, unshakeable European dominance.
But inside the PR and Media Relations office, the atmosphere was frantic.
Chloé Martin sat at her sleek, minimalist desk, staring at the dual monitors in front of her. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
The GQ cover featuring Luc Beaumont and Fresko had dropped days ago, and the fallout was catastrophic for her department.
The "New Kings of Paris" narrative had instantly gone viral, entirely bypassing the existence of the man who had carried the league’s marketability on his back for half a decade.
Valérie Laurent had orchestrated a masterpiece of media warfare, and Chloé was tasked with cleaning up the aftermath.
She pulled up the official Paris Royal social media accounts. She had spent the entire night agonizing over the exact phrasing, the exact imagery needed to remind the sponsors and the fans that their franchise player was not dead.