The ball rolled out, bouncing slowly across the sideline.

Kelvin dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. It wasn't just fatigue.

It was realization.

The truth that hurt more than any tackle.

He couldn't get past Erick. Not yet.

Everything he tried was read, predicted, neutralized.

It was like trying to dribble past a mirror that always moved a second before he did.

The stadium pulsed with tension.

Just a few meters away, Erick calmly walked to the sideline, picked up the ball with one hand, and handed it to a teammate for the throw-in.

Then, he turned back toward Kelvin. No rush. No words.

Just a look.

Cold. Precise. Almost... disappointed.

As if to say, without saying:

"Is that all you've got?"

Kelvin clenched his fists so tightly his hands trembled.

From Sanu's bench, the coach shouted, trying to reorganize the team.

The crowd was torn between tension and applause.

But now, out there on the field... even the rivals were starting to understand.

The game went on.

Héra was growing. Their passes flowed with precision and rhythm, like a new engine had been installed in the team.

And that engine was Erick.

Gradually, Sanu's players started to hesitate.

Possession dropped.

Passing accuracy fell.

The center-backs shouted more, and even Kazana was dropping back to midfield to find the ball.

Kelvin, meanwhile, fell back once more.

Trying to breathe.

Trying... to think.

But the pressure felt like a weight on his shoulders. And at the center of it all stood Erick.

Always on his feet, always ahead, always waiting.

Rodrigo approached, sweaty, panting.

"He's breaking us down mentally too...", he said.

Kelvin didn't answer right away.

His eyes were still locked on the field.

More specifically, on Héra's number 10.

"He's not invincible...", he muttered, almost to himself.

Rodrigo frowned.

"You saw what he did to our defense. To you"

Kelvin finally turned to his teammate.

"I saw...", he said. "And that's exactly why I have to beat him"

The game resumed with a goal kick from Sanu.

Murilo launched it long, aiming for Kazana up front. The aerial duel was fierce. The ball fell loose in midfield. Rodrigo, showing grit, clashed with Héra's defensive mid and came out with it.

He passed it to Ian, who switched play to the left side.

Kelvin.

Sanu's fans rose to their feet.

He controlled it — a soft touch, gluing the ball to his left foot.

And Erick was already there.

Again.

Still. Unmoving. Like an inevitable obstacle in his path.

Kelvin took a deep breath.

And charged.

A quick feint with the body. Then a cut inside. He tried to accelerate, but Erick backpedaled with him. Timed perfectly. No overcommitting. No lunging.

Like a dance — only Erick always led the rhythm.

Kelvin tried another dribble. A sharp cut. A push forward.

But blocked again.

Erick extended a leg, shutting it down with the calmness of a veteran.

"That won't work", he said for the first time.

His voice was calm. Quiet. Almost bored.

Kelvin swallowed hard.

Erick turned, ball at his feet, already starting another quick transition. The entire stadium held its breath. Kazana sprinted back at full speed. Rodrigo shouted in panic. Márcio and Victor repositioned.

But this time, something was different.

Dante.

He came like an arrow.

Blocked the pass.

The ball went out for a throw-in.

Sanu's bench erupted.

"YES! LET'S GO!"

Erick simply smiled.

A subtle smile. Barely there.

But it was.

"They're learning..."

Kelvin stood still, sweating cold. His chest rose and fell quickly.

João Vitor rushed over to take the throw-in. He launched the ball to Ian, who immediately returned it to Rodrigo, who spun on the defender and played a short pass to Dante.

Already under pressure, the defensive mid found a quick pass between the lines — lightning fast:

"Go, Kazana!"

The ball zipped across the grass until it reached Sanu's number 9.

Kazana received with his back to goal, the defender pressing hard behind him. He used his body to shield the ball, spun sharply to the left, escaping the pressure. Then shifted to the right and flicked a first-touch pass out wide to Felipe.

But it wasn't for Felipe.

It was just bait.

Just to draw the defense out.

With a dry feint, Kazana pretended to leave the box... then pulled the ball back with his heel.

"He's going serious now...", Márcio murmured from midfield, watching.

Kazana burst into the box.

One, two touches. Beat the first defender. The second shoved him, but he stayed on his feet. Switched legs and set up for the shot—

Erick appeared.

Tackling.

"Not again...", Kazana growled, twisting his body to keep possession.

But this time, the ball fell to Rodrigo near the edge of the box. He lifted his head and shouted:

"KELVIN!"

The ball soared.

Kelvin, racing down the left, attacked the space.

Controlled it on his chest, then brought it down with his left foot.

The pressure came like an avalanche.

Kelvin felt the weight on his shoulders before he even touched the ball. It wasn't just Erick ahead now. It was something more.

Something behind him.

Like a silent roar, a presence growing with each step.

He surged forward along the flank with the ball glued to his feet, feeling the turf tremble beneath his boots. The wind whipped across his face. The crowd roared.

But for one second, everything faded.

Because behind him, running like a starving beast — was Kazana.

"Kelvin!", he shouted.

But it wasn't a request.

It was a command.

The roar echoed like thunder in Kelvin's head. His body froze.

Instinct screamed to push forward, to try again, to face Erick.

But his body… wouldn't move.

It was as if Kazana's eyes were pulling him.

A raw, brutal pressure. Almost monstrous.

Like he was being forced.

Kelvin locked up.

Erick was already closing in.

Héra's number 10 didn't run. He walked. Confident. Deadly.

Like he already knew the outcome.

And then, in a sharp, almost desperate motion... Kelvin let go.

A crisp, fast diagonal pass.

Through the legs of the defender trying to close the middle.

The ball rolled.

And found Kazana.

Number 9 didn't need to think.

He was already in motion before the pass was even made.

As if he'd predicted it.

As if he'd demanded it.

[Precision Reading]

"Go...", Kelvin whispered, voiceless.

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