Chapter 103: [103] "Test of fight"
1-1. Minute thirty-six.
The stadium’s atmosphere had instantly soured, from a celebration of their new lineup into grating anxiety. SC Corse, a relegation-battling side fighting for their very survival, had just equalized off a set-piece. It was the kind of goal that mocked the expensive football Valérie Laurent had tried to purchase.
Million of euros, pure pace, Serie A pedigree...none of it mattered if the ball trickled over the line.
The Corse players jogging back to their half had their chests puffed out, their body language entirely transformed.
"Reset!" Luc roared, clapping his hands together, the sharp smack echoing. "We don’t panic! We hold the ball and we go at them!"
Klaus Becker spat onto the grass. The German veteran didn’t like conceding, and he specifically despised conceding to teams he considered tactically inferior. Bense Baini patted Klaus on the shoulder, murmuring something to calm his midfield partner.
The referee blew the whistle to restart play.
SC Valois were with immediate control of the possession, but Corse’s defensive shape had evolved. They dropped even deeper, parking an impenetrable bus of nine men behind the ball. The 4-3-3 formation Henri had deployed relied heavily on the wingers isolating their fullbacks, but Corse simply refused to allow the isolation.
They double-teamed Gabriel on the right every time he received the ball, suffocating his explosive pace before he could shift into his gear. On the left, Sordell was growing visibly frustrated, throwing his arms up when the ball didn’t arrive exactly to his feet.
---
Minute thirty-nine.
Gabriel received a switch of play from Hugo.
The Brazilian winger tried to force it, attempting a flamboyant rainbow flick over the approaching Corse left-back. The defender didn’t bite. He simply stepped into Gabriel’s path...or he ’stood his ground’ as he told the ref, knocking the winger off balance and allowing a teammate to clear the ball into the stands.
Gabriel threw his arms up, appealing to the referee for a foul that was never going to come.
"Stop complaining!" Luc shouted at him, annoyed that he chose mid-match to attempt something that nobody had seen him do. Gabriel merely adjusted his bright boots, his face tight with annoyance.
Luc realized the pitch was locked. If they kept trying to force the ball down the wings, they were going to play right into Corse’s hands and run the clock down to halftime or the match might end in a humiliating draw.
He needed to shatter their center. He needed to be the battering ram.
Minute forty-one.
Baini intercepted a weak Corse clearance in the midfield. He took one smooth touch, killed the ball’s momentum and looked up.
Luc dropped deep, dragging the massive Corse right center-back with him. As the ball left Baini’s foot, Luc made his decision.
"TES," Luc thought. "Activate Predatory Aura."
[System Notification]
[Predatory Aura — Activated.]
[0 uses remaining.]
[Effect: You are now the absolute center of their defensive anxiety. They will overcommit to stop you.]
The shift in the atmosphere was instantaneous and entirely psychological. As Luc received the ball twenty-five yards from goal, with his back to the net, a sudden, irrational panic swept through the Corse defensive line.
To them, Luc Beaumont was no longer just a striker holding up play. He was about to go off at their goal.
The right center-back, who had been avoiding physical altercation for card related reasons, suddenly shoved his arm aggressively into Luc’s back. The left center-back, abandoning his zone marking, broke the defensive line and sprinted forward to double-team Luc. Even the Corse defensive midfielder panicked, dropping back to sandwich Luc in a desperate three-man marking.
They were absolutely terrified he was going to turn and shoot.
Luc felt the pressure of three grown men crushing him from all sides. He didn’t fight it. He embraced it. He shielded the ball with his body, letting their combined mass push against him, holding the ball for one agonizing, brilliant second longer than he should have.
He had dragged three men entirely out of position. The heart of the Corse defense was empty.
Hugo Blanc saw the play unfold before anyone else did. The seventeen-year-old prodigy didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward from the advanced midfield, making a fast, overlapping run straight into the massive pocket of space Luc had just manufactured.
"Now!" Hugo thought of shouted, but remembered...it was Luc.
Luc didn’t even look, cause looking would alert the defenders. He slipped the back of his right foot perfectly under the ball and executed a blind, reverse backheel pass through the legs of the center back.
The ball rolled smoothly into the vacated penalty area, perfectly weighted into Hugo’s path.
The Corse goalkeeper prioritised screaming at his defenders, rather than rushing off his line. Hugo took the ball in stride, opened his hips, and calmly slotted a side-footed finish past the keeper’s glove, kissing the inside of the far post before burying itself into the netting.
Brilliantly executed!! Goal!!
2-1.
Once more, the stadium erupted. Thirty thousand fans collectively exhaled, the suffocating tension of the last few minutes evaporating into pure joy.
Hugo sprinted toward the corner flag, a smile across his usually focused face. He didn’t celebrate alone. He turned around, pointing directly at Luc, waiting for his captain to arrive.
Luc caught up to him, wrapping the teenager in a tight embrace, ruffling his hair.
"Perfect run," Luc said into his ear over the deafening noise of the crowd.
"Perfect pass," Hugo fired back, catching his breath. "You dragged their entire backline with you. I could have driven a truck through that gap."
"That’s not even an exaggeration," Luc smirked, jogging back toward the rest of their teammates.
---
Minute forty-four.
Corse was rattled. Their center-backs were now second-guessing their positioning. SC Valois smelled blood in the water and immediately pushed for the kill before the halftime whistle could offer their opponents a reprieve.
Sordell received the ball on the left flank, executing a rapid, not entirely smooth step-over that finally broke the Corse right-back’s ankles. Sordell drove to the byline and fired in a cross, but it was deflected out by a desperate block.
Corner kick for Valois.
Hugo jogged over to the left corner flag, placing the ball carefully on the white painted arc. He raised his left hand, signaling the play.
The Corse penalty area was an absolute war zone. Amadou and Hernandez were wrestling with their markers near the penalty spot. Klaus was standing menacingly near the edge of the box, drawing two defenders entirely on reputation alone.
Luc stood near the back post, tightly marked by the massive Corse striker who had scored the equalizer. The man was holding Luc’s shirt, pulling him backward.
Luc looked at the clock on the stadium’s massive digital display.
44:30.
He didn’t want to go into the locker room at 2-1. He wanted to break their spirit so thoroughly that the second half would merely be down to game management.
"TES," Luc commanded. "First Touch Goal."
[System Notification]
[First Touch Goal — Activated.]
[0 uses remaining.]
[Effect: The next time the ball makes contact with your body at an attempt on goal, it will result in a goal.]
Hugo whipped the corner in.
It wasn’t his best delivery. The ball was slightly under-hit, driven with too much pace but lacking the necessary height. It whipped toward the near post, dangerously low, completely bypassing the towering frames of Amadou and Klaus.
It was coming in at an awkward height...too high to volley with a foot, too low for a traditional header.
Luc reacted anyway, whatever he threw at the ball would be a goal. He shoved the massive Corse striker off him with a brutal drop of his shoulder and launched himself toward the ball.
It was dangerous.
He was practically parallel to the grass when the ball reached him. He threw his head forward, snapping his neck to make contact.
It was a glancing head flick, the kind of connection that usually sends the ball skidding harmlessly out for a goal kick. But the System had been activated.
The moment the leather grazed Luc’s forehead, the ball’s trajectory altered with a vicious, physics-defying spin. It whipped upward, looping over the scrambling goalkeeper, kissing the underside of the crossbar, and slamming down across the goal line.
Goal!!!
3-1.
Stade Valois were in absolute pandemonium. It was a roar of sheer dominance.
Luc hit the turf, sliding on his chest, before rolling over and popping up onto his feet. He stood there, in front of the crowd, soaking in the absolute admiration of thirty thousand people.
He glanced toward the bench. Idriss was sitting still. The Ivorian wasn’t clapping. He was staring, realizing the impossible mountain he had to climb to ever claim the starting striker position.
Minute forty-five plus two.
The fourth official had raised his board, indicating two minutes of stoppage time. All Valois had to do was hold the ball, manage the clock, and walk into the dressing room with a comfortable two-goal cushion.
Klaus played a simple pass out wide to Gabriel Assis on the right flank.
Gabriel received the ball near the halfway line. He had Corse players ahead of him, entirely set in their defensive shape. The logical, professional decision was to pass backward to Kévin Aubert or cycle it inside to Baini.
Gabriel didn’t do the logical thing. He wanted a highlight.