Chapter 188: [188] "Robotic precision"

The ball had popped loose, stopping dead in a puddle just three yards away.

The teenager reached it first. To avoid wasting precious time, he didn’t take a touch to settle himself or look back to Klaus for support. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the pitch with terrifying, robotic precision.

In the fraction of a second that Aquitaine had been transitioning from attack back to defense, their backline was horribly exposed. The central center-back had pushed up to support the midfield possession, leaving a gaping, unprotected void in the heart of the pitch.

Idriss Konaté saw the tackle Hugo had brilliantly made. The Ivorian striker instantly recognized the transition. He didn’t ask for the ball to feet. He turned his shoulders and launched into yet another sprint, cutting diagonally across the remaining wide center-back, isolating the defender in a footrace.

Hugo calculated the variables in an instant. He remembered the earlier pass in the fourth minute and how the ball had died in the waterlogged grass, causing Idriss to slip and lose possession.

The teenager adjusted. He didn’t play a soft, delicate through ball this time.

He planted his left foot firmly into the grass, ensuring his balance, and drove his right instep through the center of the ball with venomous force.

It was an unbelievable pass.

The ball stayed perfectly flat, skimming just an inch above the wet grass. The sheer velocity of the strike countered the friction of the ground, allowing the leather to slice through the puddles without losing an ounce of momentum. It passed by the scrambling Aquitaine midfield entirely, splitting the gap between the retreating center-backs with surgical and devastating accuracy.

Idriss Konaté didn’t have to alter his stride. The pass arrived perfectly into his path, leading him directly toward the penalty box.

The Aquitaine center-back desperately tried to recover, pulling at Idriss’s shoulder.

Idriss ignored the tug. The Ivorian striker lowered his center of gravity, using his frame to completely shield the ball, discarding the defender with a heavy shrug that sent the Aquitaine player stumbling into the turf.

Idriss breached the eighteen-yard box. He was entirely alone with Vasseur.

The Aquitaine captain rushed off his line, spreading his arms and legs to close the shooting angle, making himself as large as possible.

Idriss didn’t try to chip the keeper. He didn’t attempt a delicate finesse shot into the bottom corner either. The striker could only channel frustration and lost playing time from sitting on the bench watching Luc score. He unleashed violence upon the ball.

He swung his right boot, striking the ball with terrifying power.

The shot rocketed past Vasseur’s left ear before the goalkeeper could even register the strike. It slammed into the roof of the net with a sound that reverberated through the stadium.

Goal.

2-0.

The silence that fell over the Union Aquitaine stadium was something out of a different realm. The drums stopped. The chants died in the throats of the ultras. The only sound was the shout of Idriss Konaté as he sprinted toward the corner flag, ripping his jersey over his chest and throwing it into the rainy sky.

Hugo Blanc stood near the center circle, his kit ruined by the mud. He didn’t celebrate wildly. He only nodded, watching the ball settle in the back of the net.

Luc laughed out loud in his living room, clapping his hands together.

"Unbelievable," Luc breathed. "He adjusted the weight of the pass for the mud. Brilliant."

The broadcast commentators were in complete disbelief.

"A defensive masterclass turns into an offensive execution!" the anchor shouted, his voice cracking slightly over the audio feed. "Hugo Blanc, known exclusively for his elegance, gets his hands dirty with a critical tackle and immediately provides a world-class assist. Idriss Konaté finishes with authority. SC Valois is dismantling Union Aquitaine on their own pitch!"

The referee issued Idriss a mandatory yellow card for removing his jersey during the celebration, but the striker didn’t care. He accepted the booking with a massive grin, pulling the wet fabric back over his head.

Two goals up away from home in a knockout fixture. Without their captain. Without their top scorer. The statement being broadcast to the rest of Ligue Alpha was terrifying. SC Valois was not a one-man team.

---

Union Aquitaine restarted the match in a state of profound shock.

The 2-0 deficit in the twenty-fourth minute had completely broken their tactical resolve. The manager on the touchline was screaming frantically, waving his arms, demanding his players push higher, press harder, do anything to alter the momentum of the slaughter.

Desperation replaced strategy.

Aquitaine threw bodies forward with reckless abandon. They abandoned their three-man backline, pushing the wide defenders into the midfield to create massive numerical overloads. The match became an end-to-end sprint.

SC Valois remained composed. Klaus and Baini absorbed the frantic pressure, tackling cleanly and clearing the ball wide to Dário and Bachra to relieve the tension. The defense held firm.

But desperation breeds unpredictability.

Minute twenty-nine.

Aquitaine launched a desperate, towering long ball from deep inside their own half, through the entire midfield. The ball hung in the air, drifting toward the Valois penalty area.

Amadou Fall backpedaled, his eyes locked on the trajectory. The center-back planted his feet to execute a clearing header, but the muddy turf betrayed him. His cleats slipped a fraction of an inch, throwing his timing off.

The ball glanced awkwardly off the side of his head, skewing backward instead of forward.

It was a catastrophic clearance. The ball dropped loosely into the massive pocket of empty space between the Valois defensive line and the center circle as Valois were pressing high.

Tomáš Blažek, the Valois goalkeeper, had recognized the high defensive line Henri was employing. To prevent Aquitaine from exploiting long balls over the top, Blažek was operating as a sweeper-keeper. He was currently standing nearly thirty-five yards off his own goal line, a highly aggressive position designed to intercept through passes.

But now, he was completely exposed.

An Aquitaine central midfielder, who had been jogging back toward his own half, saw the botched clearance drop onto the grass. He saw the Valois goalkeeper stranded in no-man’s land.

The midfielder, operating on pure instinct and the adrenaline of a two-goal deficit, accelerated toward the loose ball.

He was easily forty-five yards away from the Valois goal.

The midfielder planted his left foot into the mud, drew his right leg back, and struck the ball on the full volley with immaculate technique.

The connection was perfect.

The ball launched into the rainy sky, tracing a massive, high-arcing parabola directly toward the Valois goal.

The broadcast camera snapped away from the midfielder, panning wildly to track the flight of the ball.

Blažek realized his error instantly. The goalkeeper turned and initiated a desperate, frantic sprint back toward his own net. His boots slipped on the wet grass, his arms pumping wildly as he tried to cover the thirty-five yards of open ground.

Luc’s entire body tensed on the sofa. He dropped his coffee mug onto the table, his eyes wide, tracking the trajectory of the shot on the screen.

The ball reached its apex high above the penalty area and began its rapid, terrifying descent.

Blažek was sprinting blindly, glancing over his shoulder. The goalkeeper launched himself into the air, throwing his body backward, fully extending his right arm toward the crossbar in a desperate bid to tip the ball over the frame.

The ball was dropping. Blažek’s gloves were swipinh through the air.

The camera angle cut sharply to the net, losing the trajectory in the rain for a fraction of a second. The stadium crowd inhaled a massively, the silence stretching into an agonizing eternity.

The ball descended toward the white paint of the crossbar, the outcome hovering unknown in the night air.