The world of Apex United had imploded.

Ethan stood on the sideline, a silent, stunned witness to the most spectacular self-destruction he could have ever imagined.

Two red cards in sixty seconds.

His captain and his chaotic new winger, both gone. He was down to nine men against the second-best team in the league, with twenty minutes left to play.

The home crowd at Plymouth was a roaring, jeering beast, tasting blood in the water.

On the pitch, his remaining nine players were in a state of shock, looking at their manager with wide, panicked eyes.

"What do we do, gaffer?!" Kenny McLean's voice was a desperate shout across the pitch.

"We can't play with nine men!"

"Shut up and get back in shape!" Ben Gibson, now the senior center-back, roared back, trying to organize a defense that was now a gaping, chaotic mess.

"I am lost for words!" the commentator was screaming, practically giddy with the drama. "A complete and total meltdown from Apex United! How on earth do they come back from this? The simple answer is, they don't. This is damage limitation now for Ethan Couch. He'll be praying to keep the score at 1-1."

But Ethan wasn't praying. He was calculating.

The initial, heart-stopping shock was already fading, replaced by a cold, defiant fire.

The AI co-manager opposite him would be processing this logically.

It would instruct its team to be patient, to use their two-man advantage, to pass them to death and wait for the inevitable, high-percentage chance.

So, Ethan had to do the one thing the AI wouldn't expect.

He had to be illogical. He had to be insane.

He called his remaining senior midfielder over. "Kenny! Listen to me!"

McLean sprinted to the sideline, his face a mask of worry.

"Boss, what's the plan? A 4-3-1? Sit deep and pray?"

"No," Ethan said, his eyes gleaming with a wild, brilliant light.

"We're not going to defend. We're going to attack."

Kenny stared at him as if he'd just started speaking in tongues.

"Attack? Gaffer, we have nine men!"

"Exactly," Ethan said. "They'll expect us to park the bus. They'll push all their players forward, leaving space. We're going to a 3-3-2 formation. Gibson, you and the two full-backs as a back three. Kenny, you, Sørensen, and Jonny Rowe as a flat midfield three. And Emre, you and Viktor are now a strike partnership. We defend as a unit of eight, and when we win the ball, we bypass the midfield and go direct to the front two. It's a long shot, but it's the only shot we've got."

Kenny looked at the imaginary formation in his head, then at his manager's unshakeable confidence. A slow, mad grin spread across his face. "A 3-3-2. You're completely bonkers, gaffer. I love it."

He sprinted back onto the pitch, relaying the instructions.

The Apex players, who had been expecting to be told to retreat into their shell, were visibly shocked, then energized by the sheer audacity of the plan.

The game restarted. Plymouth, as predicted, was patient, passing the ball around, waiting for the inevitable gaps to appear.

But the 3-3-2, while suicidal on paper, was confusing them.

There was no clear defensive shape to break down, just a swarm of eight black shirts defending for their lives, and two forwards waiting like coiled vipers.

For ten minutes, it was a heroic, last-ditch defensive display.

Bodies were thrown in front of shots.

Tackles were made with a desperate, lunging intensity. Angus Gunn made two brilliant saves.

Then, in the 81st minute, the moment came.

A Plymouth attack broke down when Sørensen made a perfectly timed sliding tackle.

The ball broke to Kenny McLean. He didn't hesitate.

He looked up and launched a long, hopeful ball into the space behind the advanced Plymouth defense.

Viktor Kristensen chased it down, but he was outnumbered.

He did brilliantly to hold the ball up for a few seconds before being dispossessed.

The chance was gone. But it had planted a seed of fear in the Plymouth defense.

In the 85th minute, it happened again.

A clearance from Gibson was flicked on by Viktor.

This time, the ball fell to Emre Demir, deep inside his own half. The Plymouth team, confident in their numbers, swarmed towards him.

Emre saw the sea of green shirts ahead of him.

He saw the acres of space they had left behind. And he made a decision. He wasn't going to pass.

He put his head down and ran.

He ghosted past the first midfielder with a simple drop of the shoulder.

The second one lunged in, but Emre was too quick, knocking the ball past him and accelerating away. He was at the halfway line, now in a full, gliding sprint. The Plymouth defenders were backpedaling frantically.

He jinked inside, then outside, his feet a blur, the ball seemingly glued to his boot. He was now at the edge of the penalty area.

One last defender stood in his way.

Emre feinted to shoot, the defender went to ground, and Emre calmly skipped past him.

He was one-on-one with the goalkeeper. The entire stadium held its breath.

He didn't blast it. He just opened up his body and, with the 'Cool Finisher' trait that had so disturbed Ethan at Old Trafford, he calmly rolled the ball into the bottom corner.

2-1 to the nine men of Apex United.

The world stopped.

The Apex players, who had been running on fumes, found a new source of energy, sprinting the length of the pitch to mob their savior.

Ethan just stood there, laughing, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.

He had faced a perfect AI, lost his mind, and his own human, illogical genius had won.

"I HAVE NO WORDS! I HAVE RUN OUT OF WORDS!" the commentator screamed, his voice a broken, ecstatic mess. "EMRE DEMIR! HAS JUST SCORED ONE OF THE GREATEST SOLO GOALS IN THE HISTORY OF FOOTBALL! HE HAS DRIBBLED THE ENTIRE LENGTH OF THE PITCH! WITH HIS TEAM DOWN TO NINE MEN! THIS IS NOT A FOOTBALL MATCH! THIS IS A MIRACLE!"

The final five minutes were a chaotic, desperate siege.

Plymouth threw everyone forward, including their goalkeeper for a last-minute corner.

The corner was swung in. The ball was headed clear, but only to the edge of the box.

A Plymouth player hit a thunderous volley. It was blocked. Another shot. Blocked again.

The ball was pinballing around the Apex penalty area.

Finally, it broke loose to Jonathan Rowe, who hooked it clear, a wild, desperate hoof up the pitch. The game was surely over.

But the referee let play continue.

The ball was sailing towards the empty Plymouth half. And chasing it, with the last ounce of energy in his body, was the debutant, the lottery ticket, the 17-year-old center-back, James McCarthy.

He had been pushed up to act as a nuisance for the final minutes.

He was never going to reach the ball before it went out.

But the Plymouth goalkeeper, who had sprinted back, slipped on the turf.

McCarthy saw his chance.

He put on a burst of speed he didn't know he had. He reached the ball just before it crossed the byline, took one touch to control it, looked up at the completely empty goal a hundred yards away, and with a tired, hopeful swing of his boot, he passed the ball into the open net.

The whistle blew for full-time as the ball was still rolling.

3-1.

The Apex players didn't even have the energy to celebrate.

They just collapsed to the turf, a heap of exhausted, victorious bodies.

Ethan walked onto the pitch, a slow, proud smile on his face. He had faced a perfect system and beaten it with pure, illogical, human chaos.

As he went to help his players up, a final, shimmering, platinum-colored notification appeared in his vision, a reward for achieving the impossible.

[LEGENDARY OBJECTIVE COMPLETE: 'The Nine-Man Miracle' - Win a competitive match after having two or more players sent off.]

[REWARD: Unlocked Unique Managerial Trait: 'Chaos Theory'.]

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