Chapter 277: [277] "NEJI PART 3"

The ball collided with the instep of Luc’s right boot.

It did not bounce, neither did it even attempt to roll up his shin. The lateral spin did not grip the leather of his cleat and tear away as Luc feared.

The system engaged, erasing all momentum, and gravitational force stored within the ball. The ball hit his laces and died instantly, dropping straight down to rest perfectly and motionlessly on the blades of grass, mere inches in front of his planting foot.

The Phocéen center-back, anticipating a heavy touch or a chaotic bounce, leaned the wrong way.

With the ball sitting still on the turf, Luc did not need to adjust his stride or take a secondary touch to settle it. He rotated his hips, generated torque through his core, and unleashed a brutal strike with his left foot.

The ball rocketed off his boot.

It surged through the sprawling bodies in the penalty area, slicing through the humid air. The Phocéen goalkeeper, caught flat-footed by the impossible first touch, barely managed to twitch his gloves before the ball slammed into the top right corner of the net.

The mesh rippled.

Goal!!!

1-0.

The deafening roar of Stade Phocéen was severed as if a cable had been cut. Total silence gripped the arena. The home supporters stared at the pitch, struggling to comprehend how a chaotic, deflected cross had been converted into a clinical strike in the span of two seconds.

In the far corner of the stadium, the small pocket of SC Valois away fans erupted, their cheers ringing loud and clear in the vacuum of the home crowd’s shock.

Luc turned away from the net. He walked back toward the halfway line, his face a mask of cold intensity.

Thirty-three goals.

The margin between him and Fresko had expanded by one, to a three goal difference.

Bachra arrived first to celebrat, leaping onto Luc’s back, screaming something in Spanish. Sordell came over, slapping Luc hard on the shoulder. Hugo and Cillian met them near the center circle, the midfield duo offering sharp nods of validation.

"The touch," Hugo noted, walking backward as the referee signaled for the players to return to their halves. "The dropping ball with that much spin... doing that in one motion is insane."

"I don’t play your typical bland brand of football, Hugo," Luc replied, adjusting the captain’s armband on his bicep. "My play is worldclass ."

Near the center spot, Fresko stood with his hands resting on his hips. The Phocéen striker watched Luc jog back into position. Fresko’s expression remained unchanged, but his jaw flexed. The gauntlet had been thrown down mere minutes into the match.

The referee checked his watch, blew the whistle, and the match reset.

Phocéen took the kickoff.

The dynamic of the pitch altered instantly. The probing chess match of the opening three minutes was discarded. Stade Phocéen trailed by a goal in front of their own supporters. The luxury of patience was gone.

Neji stepped forward to take control.

The Phocéen central midfielder received a backward pass from Fresko. Neji did not sprint. He did not engage in unnecessary physical exertion. He moved with a gliding, effortless grace that made the chaotic speed of the surrounding match look frantic.

He received the ball, keeping his head up, his eyes scanning the Valois defensive structure.

Hugo Blanc stepped up to press, closing the passing lane to the Phocéen left flank. Neji did not force the pass. He dragged the ball backward with his sole, rotated his body ninety degrees, and clipped a clean twenty-yard pass over Cillian Doyle’s head to a dropping winger.

The Phocéen possession engine engaged.

They did not hold the ball in their own half. They advanced it through a sequence of rapid, one-touch triangles that cut through the initial Valois press. Neji operated as the fulcrum. Every attacking sequence originated from his boots, circulated through the wide channels, and returned to him for the next distribution.

Cillian was tasked with disrupting that rhythm.

The Irish midfielder threw his massive frame around the center of the pitch. He chased Neji, attempting to impose his physical strength, trying to barge the playmaker off the ball and shatter the Phocéen tempo.

But Neji was something worse than a ghost.

Every time Cillian arrived to deliver a shoulder charge or a standing tackle, the ball was already gone. Neji processed the pressure before it arrived. He utilized single-touch passes, laying the ball off to his supporting midfielders and immediately drifting into the space Cillian had just vacated.

Minute ten.

Neji received the ball near the center circle. Cillian charged, closing the distance in three heavy strides. Neji faked a long diagonal pass, dropping his shoulder. Cillian bit on the feint, planting his foot to block the lane. Neji tapped the ball in the opposite direction, evading the Irishman, and played a piercing vertical pass through the lines to Fresko.

Amadou Fall had to execute a desperate, sliding interception to clear the danger, putting the ball out for a throw-in.

Cillian stood near the halfway line, his chest heaving. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, glaring at Neji, who was already jogging into a new pocket of space to offer an outlet for the throw-in.

"You can’t chase him like that, Cill," Hugo instructed, walking past the exhausted Irishman. "He is utilizing your momentum to create new passing angles. You have to hold your zone. Force him to carry the ball."

"Fuck! He doesn’t even carry it!" Cillian shot back, frustration bleeding into his thick accent. "He pings it before I get within two yards of him. If I sit back, he picks our backline apart."

"Bro, just hold the zone," Hugo repeated, his tone flat and uncompromising.

Phocéen took the throw-in. The ball found Neji’s feet.

Cillian tried to adhere to the instruction. He held his position, anchoring the space in front of the Valois center-backs. He watched Neji survey the pitch.