The ball dropped like a meteor, slicing through the floodlit air as the crowd gasped in unison.
Kipré leapt.
It skimmed off his head—only half-cleared.
Ndidi was there.
He struck it low and hard.
Bodies dove. Siopis blocked it with his thigh, grimacing in pain but refusing to fall.
The rebound fell to Dewsbury-Hall. He took a touch, swung his boot—
Alnwick flew.
The ball crashed off his gloves, looped backward into the air.
Mavididi charged in. Alnwick rose again—colliding with him in mid-air.
Fists. Elbows. Bodies. Chaos.
The ball popped up again. Justin tried to volley it on the turn.
Blocked—Collins threw himself at it with no regard for his body, chesting the ball away under immense pressure.
It spun out toward the edge of the box.
Romeo reached it first, taking no risks. He smashed it into the stands, clearing the danger.
The Leicester bench screamed for another corner. The referee shook his head and pointed to the center.
The whistle blew.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the eruption.
Cardiff players dropped to their knees.
Siopis screamed and punched the air repeatedly.
Kipré fell flat on his back, arms spread wide on the grass, breathing hard as if he'd run a marathon.
Ralls collapsed into Wintle's arms, both men shouting in disbelief.
Etete dropped to his knees, palms pressed together in a silent thank-you.
Alnwick remained kneeling, both fists on the ground, head bowed. Then he looked up and let out a raw roar of triumph.
The bench erupted onto the pitch, a flood of staff, substitutes, and coaches swept by the emotion of the moment. They hugged, cried, shouted.
Firdaus stayed still.
He walked slowly to the edge of the technical area, watching his players lose themselves in celebration.
The fans began chanting his name, louder and louder.
"Fir-da-us! Fir-da-us! Fir-da-us!"
He gave a single wave, subtle but full of gratitude.
Riza clapped him on the back. "You did it."
Firdaus nodded, his eyes still scanning the field. "We did it."
As the players returned to the touchline, one figure caught his eye.
Kipré.
He limped toward the dugout, wincing with every step. His celebration had been brief—his pain, less so.
Firdaus's eyes narrowed. "Call the physio."
"Already with him," Riza said, concern creeping into his voice.
The physio crouched next to Kipré, who was sitting down quietly on the bench, breathing heavily, clutching his calf.
He didn't protest. He didn't need to. His face said it all.
Nearby, Alnwick walked slowly toward the crowd, every step heavy with fatigue and fulfillment. A child wearing a tiny Cardiff kit waved at him from the stands. Alnwick took off his gloves and tossed them into the air. The child caught them and burst into tears.
The camera panned across the away section. Fans were in tears, in laughter, in prayer. Flags waved wildly. Smoke flares lit the corners of the crowd.
This wasn't just a win. It was a defining night—the kind of moment that stitched itself into the soul of a season.
Inside the system overlay, a notification blinked to life before Firdaus.
[Match Complete. Status: Victory]
He tapped once to dismiss it.
Another line appeared beneath it.
[Next Challenge Incoming]
He stared at it.
The cheers around him faded, dulled by the gravity of what was to come.
The scoreboard still glowed at the far end of the stadium.
Leicester 1 – 2 Cardiff
A massive win.
Firdaus folded his arms. The weight of what they'd achieved pressed against the weight of what still awaited.
He looked back at Kipré, who was now wrapped in ice and surrounded by medics.
"Let's get ready," he said quietly.
To be continued...
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