Chương 232: the counter attack (232)
A triumphant roar echoed through the stadium, bouncing off the stands and vibrating through Nakada as he watched the celebration erupt around him.
But as the cheers reached a crescendo, a flicker of something other than victory crossed his face.
It wasn't disappointment, nor was it fatigue. It was a steely determination, a burning fire that refused to be extinguished by the momentary triumph.
He turned, his back momentarily to the jubilant scene, and began walking towards the center circle. With each step, a low murmur escaped his lips, barely audible above the fading crowd noise. It was a single phrase, repeated with unwavering conviction, "This isn't over yet."
The words held a weight that transcended the immediate celebration. While his team had conquered the first hurdle, etched a temporary victory onto the scoreboard, Nakada saw beyond the present moment.
He envisioned the long stretch of field lying ahead, the battles yet to be fought, the goals yet to be scored.
His gaze, devoid of the fleeting thrill of victory, scanned the field, already strategizing, already identifying the next challenge.
The lead they held, comfortable as it might seem, was just a stepping stone, a temporary advantage in a game of constant movement, of ebbs and flows.
The celebration may have been for the team, but the responsibility, the burning desire to secure absolute victory, rested solely on his shoulders. He was the leader, the strategist, the one who wouldn't allow complacency to fester within his ranks.
Nakada reached the center circle, his expression resolute, his eyes burning with the unsatiated hunger for complete domination. He raised his hand, silencing the last embers of celebration within his team.
As they turned to him, their faces flushed with the adrenaline of the goal, he met their gazes one by one, his voice low and yet carrying the force of a storm, "This isn't over. The job isn't done. Let's finish this."
The whistle shrieked, a sharp cry that pierced through the celebratory haze surrounding Nakada and his team. The momentary lapse in focus, the echo of Nakada's ambitious words still hanging in the air, proved costly. Manchine, awoken from their momentary stupor, seized the opportunity.
From the backfield, Chris Prince, the world's second-best player, orchestrated the counter-attack with the calmness of a seasoned general. His precise pass found Nagi, the prodigy, who received the ball with a predatory glint in his eyes.
Nagi, unlike his usual methodical approach, unleashed a burst of raw power, leaving a defender grasping at air. He wasn't just fast; he was a blur of untamed fury, carving a path through the opposing midfield like a heat-seeking missile.
But Nakada's team, still adjusting to the shift in momentum, managed to recover and throw a defender in Nagi's path. However, this was merely an obstacle, not a roadblock. With a deceptive flick of his foot, Nagi sent the ball soaring over the defender's head, a perfectly weighted pass aimed at the streaking red figure of Chigiri.
Chigiri, the silent speedster, was already in motion before the ball even left Nagi's foot. He was a blur of blue, defying the laws of physics as he devoured the space between him and the ball. It was a symphony of speed and precision, a silent storm leaving defenders in its wake.
As Chigiri received the ball, his eyes narrowed, his focus laser-sharp. He wasn't just competing against the defenders; he was competing against himself, pushing his limits, striving to become an unstoppable force. With a final burst of speed, he broke through the final line, leaving the goalkeeper stranded.
In that split second, the stadium held its breath. Would Chigiri, fueled by his inner fire, claim the goal? Or would Nakada's team, shaken but not defeated, find a way to thwart the counter-attack?
The answer, like a thunderbolt, arrived in the form of a thunderous roar.
As the stadium held its collective breath, Chigiri's shot rocketed towards the net, a blur of power and precision that promised glory.
But just as it seemed destined to find the back of the net, a figure materialized in its path. Nishioka, the silent strategist, had anticipated the trajectory, his calm demeanor belying the frantic calculations that had raced through his mind.
With a powerful leap and a perfectly timed headbutt, Nishioka deflected the ball away, sending it soaring over the goalpost and bouncing harmlessly out of play. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, the eruption of cheers momentarily silenced by the unexpected turn of events.
Nishioka landed gracefully, his expression unreadable. He slowly turned towards Chigiri, his gaze locked onto the speedster. A single sentence escaped his lips, delivered in a voice devoid of malice but filled with unwavering conviction, "Try harder next time."
The words hung in the air, a challenge and a promise rolled into one.
For Chigiri, the moment was a double blow. The sting of the missed goal was amplified by the quiet confidence radiating from Nishioka. The "try harder" wasn't a taunt; it was a statement of fact, a reminder of the immense gap that still separated him from the prodigies.
If it was Nagi or Nakada in his shoes that ball would have went throught the net….
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