The Via del Mare roared louder than ever, as if the whole city had gathered to breathe in unison. The stadium lights flickered and glowed across the perfectly trimmed grass, casting long shadows behind the players as they took their places. It wasn't just illumination, it was stage lighting for a battle of wills. The chants pouring from the terraces crashed over the field like a hurricane, alive with passion, hope, and a fierce taste of defiance.
This wasn't just a match, not tonight. This was Lecce versus Fiorentina. David versus Goliath. Red and yellow shirts defending more than just a scoreboard. Pride, unity, belief, all of it hung in the balance.
Lecce lined up in their 3-5-2 formation. A structure Alex Walker had drilled into them over the past weeks with religious intensity. The players knew it by heart now. The way the back three needed to slide, the wingbacks to pinch in, the double pivot to communicate. Fiorentina came in with their fluid 4-3-3 diamond. It looked elegant on paper, smooth and slick, but Alex had studied it for hours, watching every recent match until his eyes blurred. He knew where the cracks would be. He just needed his players to believe they could exploit them.
The tension in the air was almost physical. You could feel it pressing against your chest, right next to your heartbeat. Eyes darted, players shifted on their feet, and Alex stood silently on the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, watching everything. This was it. A night charged with destiny.
The referee blew his whistle. The battle began.
Ylber Ramadani barked orders from midfield almost immediately. His voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the noise like a blade. He knew what this meant. Everyone did.
On the left, Gallo stepped up quickly. He read the body language of Fiorentina's right winger and anticipated the incoming pass. It came in, low and sharp, but Gallo was already there. He slid in and won it cleanly. The sound of boot against ball echoed across the pitch like a gunshot.
["That's brilliant anticipation from Gallo,"] the commentator said. ["He's read that like an open book."]
In one swift motion, Gallo was on his feet. His eyes locked onto Patrick Dorgu on the far side. Without hesitation, he snapped a diagonal ball through the midfield third. It skipped along the turf with pace and precision. Under pressure, through traffic, it found Dorgu's cleat with perfect timing.
One touch to kill it. The next to drive forward.
Dorgu didn't hesitate. That explosive burst of speed, his signature move, kicked in like a match had been lit under his boots. He stormed down the left flank like a lightning bolt, defenders chasing helplessly in his wake.
["And Dorgu's off! Look at that pace!"]
One tried to clip his heel, another lunged to slow him, but he was already past. The entire stadium rose with a collective gasp.
["He's burned two men already, absolutely unstoppable down that wing!"]
He reached the edge of the box, took a glance up, and whipped in a cross that screamed through the six-yard box like a missile. The curve was perfect, slicing defenders out of position.
Nikola Krstovic had already seen it coming. He had anticipated the angle, judged the speed. He leaned forward, extended his leg, and met it cleanly on the laces. The strike was low, drilled, and destined for the bottom corner.
["Krstovic! What a hit! This could be the opener..."]
But Christensen, Fiorentina's towering keeper, flung himself to the left, stretching every sinew in his body. Just enough. Fingertips made contact. The ball clipped the post and spun out, narrowly missing the opening goal.
Corner.
The crowd erupted. Not in frustration, but in fire. In belief. It was close, and it could've been a dream start.
["Oh my word, what a save from Christensen! He had no right to get to that! Beautiful pass by Gallo, beautiful run by Dorgu, beautiful cross by Dorgu but I think the most beautiful thing here is the save that Christensen has gone and made just now!"]
On the sidelines, Alex Walker clapped once, loud and deliberate.
"That's it!" he shouted, voice ringing clear. "That's the message! That's how we play!"
His eyes burned. That sequence had told him everything. Lecce were ready. They weren't scared.
Still 0-0. But the momentum had shifted. Everyone felt it.
Fiorentina responded with fury. Like a wounded animal they charged forward, pressing higher, moving with sharper tempo. Their midfield trio, González, Bonaventura, and Duncan, started pulling strings, weaving tight triangles and dragging Lecce's shape from side to side.
Passes zipped between the lines. Gaps appeared, then vanished in an instant. Still, Lecce didn't break.
In the twentieth minute, Fiorentina found daylight. Bonaventura and González danced their way through the right flank with slick one-twos. Bonaventura shaped to shoot, curling the ball toward the far post.
["This could be trouble, Bonaventura's got space here…"]
But Falcone was already in motion. The Lecce keeper hurled himself across the face of goal, arms outstretched. With a heavy thud, he parried the shot clear.
["Falcone with the save! That is top class! It's like the goalkeepers are having their own little competition here, Christensen made a save on... Oh my word Beltrán?! And it's wide. That should be a goal, this match should be one nil to Fiorentina now"]
Almost immediately, a high cross came in from the left. Beltrán soared above his marker, met the ball with a firm header straight off the outside of the post.
Gasps rippled through the stadium. Another escape. Another sign that Lecce were not going to roll over.
Alex didn't flinch. He didn't cheer. He paced slowly along the touchline, eyes scanning every movement. This was survival, but it was also the blueprint. Let Fiorentina expend their energy. Let them feel confident. And when they overextend, that's when Lecce would strike.
Minutes melted off the clock like wax. Lecce bent, but didn't break. Their shape stayed true. The back three shifted in harmony, Gendrey leading the line, Baschirotto thundering into challenges, Pongracic stepping out when needed. Every man knew his role.
The midfield tightened. Ramadani and Blin pressed at angles. Berisha floated into half spaces, waiting for the break. The wingbacks collapsed inward when needed, then expanded when a chance to counter showed itself.
It was a masterclass in grit. In collective discipline.
Then, twenty-three minutes in, it happened.
Fiorentina, pushing higher, sent too many bodies forward. Their shape thinned. Just for a second.
A loose pass. Miscommunication. And then Ramadani pounced.
He darted in, toe poked the ball away cleanly, and before anyone could react, he had already looked up. He didn't hesitate. A laser-guided pass shot through the middle.
["Interception! Ramadani, oh, that's clever!"]
Krstovic dropped into the pocket. He received it, back to goal, holding off his man with strength and poise. Then, with a deft flick, he spun it to Berisha.
Berisha didn't even take a touch. He turned away from pressure and looped a ball over his shoulder toward the left channel.
["That's a gorgeous ball! Is Dorgu onside? Yes he is!"]
Patrick Dorgu had seen it early. He had already started his run. Like a flash of red and yellow, he tore down the left, gathered the ball on the move.
First touch outside. Second touch to shift in. Third to burst past the defender.
He was in the penalty area.
A Fiorentina defender lunged, clumsy, desperate. His leg stuck out just as Dorgu took another stride.
Contact.
Dorgu went down, immediately. The contact wasn't enough to drop him, but if there was one thing that he had been taught from an early age it was that when you're tripped inside the penalty box, you go to the ground immediately... and you make sure to scream while you're at it.
"Aargh!" Dorgu let out a 'scream of agony' while clutching his legs and rolling on the ground. It didn't take long for him to hear the sound that he was waiting for
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
Time froze.
Every person in the stadium stopped breathing for a moment. The world narrowed to a single point.
The referee pointed to the spot.
["He's given it! Penalty to Lecce! Dorgu was brought down after an incredible solo run!"]
["And listen to this place! The Via del Mare has erupted!"]
Chaos on the touchlines. Some screamed in disbelief, others in celebration. Alex didn't move for a beat. Then he turned to his bench, nodded once, and said calmly, "Now we finish."
The crowd had never been louder. This was it. Lecce had earned their moment. And now, the fire had truly begun to burn
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets.
We barely smashed the target for last week, I'll be dropping the bonus chapter later or early tomorrow