The Crucible's roar had settled into a sickening, rhythmic pulse, like a massive heart beating only for the home side. Nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. That was how long it had taken for Wuhan Steel to draw blood, and the taste of it—metallic, cold—was still sharp in the mouths of every Jinjiang player as they trudged back to their positions. Liu Gang's celebration had rolled on and on, a red-and-black tide crashing against the advertising hoardings, and even now, as the referee forced the restart, the Wuhan fans refused to let the volume drop. They sang for steel and fire and the breaking of bones, and the stadium shook with it.
Kai sat forward on the bench, elbows on knees, fists clenched so tight the knuckles had gone white. The blue and silver bib felt suddenly heavier, as if someone had sewn lead weights into the seams. He watched Holt clap his gloved hands together once, twice, then plant them on Carter's shoulder as the keeper bounced on his toes, trying to shake the goal out of his system. "Next play," Holt barked, voice hoarse, not loud enough to carry over the crowd but enough for the back line to hear. "Next play, we reset." Carter nodded, but his eyes were still wide, pupils black and fixed, like a startled horse.
The restart came and Wuhan were on them again before the ball had even settled. Popov took the kick, a clipped ball toward Lei, but Petrovic was already there, chest out, thigh like a railway sleeper, killing the pass dead. Lei tried to spin away, felt the studs rake his ankle, and went down hard. No whistle. The referee waved play on, and the Crucible loved it. The ball spilled wide, snapped up by Wuhan's right-back, a tattooed colossus named Sun Zhi, who hammered a first-time cross toward the far post. Rojas ghosted in between Ruiz and Min-ho, neck craned, eyes following the arc. The header cracked off the underside of the bar and cannoned straight down, inches over the line according to the assistant, but Carter had clawed it out in desperation. The stadium erupted in appeals, arms waving like wheat in a storm, but the flag stayed down.
"Get out!" Holt screamed, sweeping the loose ball upfield with the outside of his boot. It landed at Farsi's feet, the Moroccan's back to goal thirty yards out. Two Wuhan defenders collapsed on him instantly. He tried to shield, elbows up, but they bullied him off it, and the red wave surged again. Kai felt his heart in his throat, the same helpless surge he'd felt as a kid watching Phoenix United lose on the cracked concrete, only now the stakes were higher than a free lunch from Li's bakery. He glanced along the bench—Deng stood motionless, arms folded, eyes tracking every blade of grass, every staggered step. When the ball rolled out for a throw, the coach turned his head fractionally, met Kai's gaze, held it for half a second. The message was unmistakable: Watch. Learn. Be ready.
Minutes bled together like watercolor in rain. Twenty-five gone. Twenty-eight. Every Jinjiang clearance was a temporary reprieve, every Wuhan corner a siege engine. The noise never dipped; it only changed shape—drums, whistles, a low growl when Jinjiang dared string two passes. Lei tried again, a brave carry through midfield, but Petrovic was simply too big, too clever. The Serbian pivoted, hip-checked Lei off balance, and threaded a disguised ball between Diallo and Holt. Rojas was already sprinting, but Ruiz hurled himself across the turf, toe poking the ball out for a corner. He stayed down a beat, wind knocked clean from his lungs, and Holt dragged him up by the scruff of the neck. "Breathe," Holt commanded. "Breathe and stay alive."
The corner was a nightmare—whipped in flat and fast, curling toward the near post. Carter came, fists clenched, but Wuhan's giant center-half, Tang Lin, rose above him like a crane over a pond. The header thumped against the crossbar, bounced straight down, and this time Carter could only paw at it. The ricochet fell kindly to Rojas, who swiveled and smashed it high into the roof of the net before Ruiz could lunge again. The stadium exploded. 2-0. Thirty-two minutes.
Kai's stomach dropped clean through the bench. The blue-and-silver pocket in the upper tier was silent now, flags limp, voices lost to the red hurricane. Holt punched the post of the goal in frustration, then turned to rally the defenders. Kai watched Zhang Lei wipe sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, the gesture slow, deliberate, almost resigned. Deng, though, showed nothing. He simply beckoned Liu with a flick of two fingers. The assistant coach jogged over, and they exchanged a rapid-fire string of instructions, heads close, eyes scanning the pitch. Liu nodded, then turned back to the bench. Kai felt the air shift, a subtle crackle of possibility.
Play resumed, and Jinjiang finally found a sliver of space. Popov, grim-faced, intercepted a lazy square ball and slid it into Lei's feet. Lei didn't hesitate—one touch, then a threaded pass between the lines. Farsi peeled off Tang Lin's shoulder, chested the ball down, and drove toward the box. A Wuhan defender lunged, missed, and Farsi was through, the keeper rushing out. The Crucible held its breath. Farsi struck it early, low, aiming for the far corner. The keeper got a toe to it, deflecting it just wide. Jinjiang's first corner of the match. Kai leapt to his feet, heart hammering, but Holt's header flashed over the bar and the roar redoubled, mocking.
Back the other way. Wuhan's rhythm was relentless; each turnover was a trigger. Petrovic collected the ball thirty-five yards out, turned, and spotted Rojas darting behind Holt. The pass was inch-perfect, a laser threaded between center-back and full-back. Rojas took it in stride, one touch, another, then cut inside. Min-ho threw himself across, but Rojas was too quick, too clinical. He curled a shot toward the top corner. Carter flew, fingertips grazing leather, but the ball kissed the post and rolled across the line. 3-0. Thirty-eight minutes. The Crucible became a furnace of sound and red smoke. Kai could feel the heat on his face even from the bench.
He could see the numbers on the digital clock ticking higher, each second a small betrayal, and still the siege rolled on. Carter parried another low drive, Ruiz blocked a follow-up with his gut, Holt cleared a third effort off the line while sprinting backward. Every save was greeted by a louder howl, every block by a sharper whistle. By forty-two minutes the Jinjiang legs were heavy, lungs burning, shirts clinging like wet paper. Kai watched Lei bend over, hands on thighs, sucking air that tasted of smoke and rubber pellets. Petrovic strolled past the halfway line, hands on hips, almost casual, then suddenly burst forward again, as if the game had just started.
Forty-four. A hopeful punt from Popov found Farsi's chest on the edge of the center circle. Tang Lin crashed in from behind, shoulder to spine, ball and man flying. The whistle stayed silent; Wuhan broke four-on-two. Rojas laid it wide to Liu Gang, who squared first time. The shot came screaming across the six-yard box, missed everyone, kissed the outside of the far post and spun harmlessly behind. Carter collapsed against the upright, chest heaving, gloves pressed to his face. Holt crouched beside him, speaking low, steady, but the captain's own breath came in short, sharp gasps.
Forty-five on the dot. One last corner, one last cross. Sun Zhi trotted over, ball tucked under his arm, crowd roaring its approval. He raised it high, waited for the whistle, then whipped it in. Tang Lin rose again, but Holt met him in the air, a collision of skulls and forearms. The ball skewed off Tang's shoulder, dropped to the edge of the box. Petrovic met it on the half-volley, struck it cleanly, and Carter threw himself sideways, fingertips brushing leather, the ball skimming past the post by inches. The stadium gasped, then groaned, then remembered to cheer. The referee glanced at his watch, blew once, sharp and final, and the sound was swallowed by the roar before it had even finished echoing.
Three-nil. The scoreboard glowed like a wound. The Crucible was still shaking, still singing, still burning. Jinjiang players stood scattered across the half they had spent defending, shirts dark with sweat and dust, faces streaked with grime and disbelief. Carter dropped to his knees, Holt bent double, hands on thighs, staring at the turf as though it might open and swallow him whole. Kai stayed on the bench, the blue-and-silver bib still draped across his thighs, untouched. He watched the numbers stay lit, watched the Wuhan players jog toward the tunnel with fists raised to their supporters, watched the red smoke drift lazily across the grass like the aftermath of a battle. He felt the pulse in his ears, the acid in his throat, the weight of a promise he hadn't yet been asked to keep.
Somewhere above, the travelling Jinjiang fans lowered their flags, a small island of quiet in a sea of red. The whistle had cut the game in half, but the storm was far from over.