The stadium stood still, breaths held in collective suspense. The referee's hand lingered inside his pocket, the moment stretching into silence that felt like hours.
Then—
Red.
The red card shot into the air like a flare. A collective gasp exploded into a thunderous reaction. Cardiff City Stadium erupted in a storm of emotion—cheers rang like sirens from the home support, while jeers and protests rippled from the traveling Sheffield Wednesday fans. Players surrounded the official, pointing, shouting, gesturing wildly.
The culprit, Marvin Johnson, stood with clenched fists at his sides, eyes wide with disbelief. "I got the ball!" he insisted, shaking his head. His captain tried to calm him, pulling him away as the referee gestured again toward the tunnel. Johnson turned toward the crowd, arms stretched in frustration, before storming off with visible fury.
Meanwhile, Firdaus didn't move. His face was unreadable. The system buzzed silently in his head.
"System," he whispered.
[INJURY ANALYSIS: MEITE – GRADE 1 LIGAMENT DAMAGE ESTIMATED | IMMEDIATE SUBSTITUTION ADVISED | RETURN TIME: 1–2 MATCHES IF MANAGED CORRECTLY]
Meite was still on the pitch, curled in pain, hand over his face as the physios examined his ankle. The image flashed in Firdaus' internal display—a simulated stress map of the joint, red pulses blinking across the outer ligament. He watched as the medics gently rotated Meite's ankle, trying to assess weight-bearing pressure.
The stretcher team had arrived but Meite waved it off, gritting through the pain. With one arm over each physio's shoulder, he limped toward the sideline. His teammates clapped him off as the crowd gave a standing ovation. Not just for the injury, but for his effort. For his sacrifice.
Firdaus turned to his staff. "Get Robinson ready."
The system was already feeding data.
[SUBSTITUTION RECOMMENDATION: CALLUM ROBINSON – CONDITION: OPTIMAL | FIT FOR ADVANCED PRESSING | SUITABLE FOR LEFT CHANNEL OVERLOAD]
Omer Riza nodded. "You want to push higher now?"
"Yes," Firdaus said without hesitation. "Stretch them. Make them run."
Robinson, energized by the opportunity, peeled off his training top and jogged to the fourth official.
"Callum," Firdaus called as he approached. "Stay wide. First five minutes, don't come central. Pin their line. Then drift inside if you feel the pocket."
"Got it, boss," Robinson replied, tapping his chest.
The whistle blew again, restarting the game. Sheffield, now down to ten men, immediately sank into a compact shell. Firdaus' Cardiff, however, surged forward with renewed intensity.
Ralls and Ramsey were at the heart of everything—passing, scanning, adjusting. Each movement from them drew a response from the others. They weren't just midfielders. They were the heartbeats of the side. The ball moved faster, more decisively, like electricity flowing from brain to limb.
Colwill floated between lines, drifting in and out of pockets. Robinson's wide positioning stretched the defense, dragging fullbacks into uncomfortable zones. Tanner pushed even higher up the right. The rhythm was back.
The crowd roared with every Cardiff surge forward. Something had changed. The atmosphere shifted from anxious hope to simmering belief.
The system chimed:
[OPPOSITION FATIGUE INDEX: 68% | MENTAL FOCUS: LOW | DEFENSIVE COHESION: DROPPING]
Firdaus saw it before it became obvious. Sheffield weren't just tired—they were unraveling. Their right side was sagging, their communication faltering.
He turned slightly to Omer and said, "Next five minutes, we open them up. Watch the left."
Omer smiled. "You sure you're not psychic?"
Firdaus didn't reply.
By the 78th minute, the breakthrough felt inevitable.
Tanner played a ball to Ramsey. One touch to Ralls. Quick shift to Ng. The full-back, with space to move, floated a diagonal over the top to Robinson.
Robinson brought it down with his chest, cut back onto his right foot, and laid it square. Colwill dummied brilliantly.
Ralls didn't hesitate.
A flat pass into the D.
Ramsey had arrived like a whisper, undetected by any marker.
He struck.
Low, precise, curling around the last defender and past the outstretched fingers of the keeper.
GOAL.
The net rippled. Cardiff City Stadium exploded. Fans leapt into the air. Scarves were waved, fists pumped, voices cracked in celebration.
The players rushed toward Ramsey. Colwill grabbed him in a headlock. Robinson screamed into the night sky. Even the substitutes stormed toward the corner flag.
And Firdaus?
He turned slowly to his bench.
"Back in shape. There's still time."
Omer chuckled. "You are absolutely impossible."
Firdaus didn't smile. But inside, a rare warmth settled. It wasn't pride. It was validation.
This wasn't luck.
This was structure.
The fourth official raised the board: +5 minutes.
Sheffield threw everything forward. Their coach signaled the keeper to join corners. They had nothing to lose.
Firdaus remained composed. But as he scanned the pitch, he knew their desperation came with risk.
"System."
[ALERT: RIGHT CHANNEL OVERLOAD IMMINENT | CARDIFF DEFENSIVE STRUCTURE STRETCHED | ZONE 3 VULNERABILITY: HIGH]
His eyes darted to that section. Ng had drifted too high. Tanner was tucked too far in. A Sheffield winger was moving into space, undetected.
Firdaus barked, "NG! WIDE!"
But it was too late.
A booming diagonal ball flew across the pitch.
The Sheffield winger took it down with one touch, sprinting toward the box.
Ng turned and chased, desperate to recover. Alnwick shifted in goal, preparing for a shot or cutback.
Firdaus stepped to the edge of the technical area, his body tense, eyes locked.
Everything was about to unfold in one final play.
To be continued...
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