The second half thundered forward.
Blue and gold crashed again and again, bodies colliding like waves against a cliff, neither side breaking, neither side willing to yield.
Lincoln's lines bent but did not snap. Every tackle scraped the grass, every clearance bought only a breath. The crowd roared with each clash—half triumph, half terror—as the storm swelled heavier and heavier.
And then, in the center of the chaos, it began.
Leo.
His steps no longer dragged. His chest rose, steady, measured. The haze in his golden eyes flickered—then burned.
Not fully. Not yet. But little by little, the Maestro's trance returned.
It was like watching a conductor lift his baton, the silent promise that the orchestra would follow.
Every touch of his boots had weight.
Every glance carried direction.
Even before his rhythm was complete, the midfield began to tilt back toward Lincoln.
