Shock. Impact.
In the whirlwind of movent, Mack barely had ti to react. But even as he stumbled twice and lost balance, he displayed incredible athleticism, using his left hand to support himself on the ground. With core strength and quick recovery, he popped back up like a weeble wobble, ready to continue the fight.
It wasn't over!
Refusing to give up, Mack took a lateral step to his right, ready to seal off the slot.
But before he could take another step, a figure lood before him like a wall, blocking his path and casting a shadow over his vision.
Kelce?
Mack froze, unable to process why Kelce was there.
Wait. Where had Kelce co from? And what happened to the linebacker and cornerback supposed to be covering him?
anwhile, Cary, tasked with defending Kelce, could only think one thing: I can't hold him. I just can't.
But Mack had no ti to dwell on these questions.
Lance was already gaining ground, finding space in the slot and charging forward.
Whoosh! A breakthrough.
The Raiders' defensive unit was in shambles. Like Mack, they were blindsided. Lance had abandoned the wider, more open path on the outside in favor of the tight, congested slot route, flipping the script and defying conventional wisdom.
One after another, the Raiders' defenders scrambled to brake and restart their movents. The once-mighty white wave turned chaotic, their formation disintegrating into disorder.
Lance didn't hesitate.
Angling his body and shifting on the balls of his feet, he slipped through the gaps like a dancer weaving between defenders.
Then he lowered his shoulder, crouched, and charged.
Thud.
Contact. Collision.
Lance didn't need to look up to know he'd run into a linebacker. Though he had avoided the heavy cluster of defenders outside, the slot was still dense with defensive players, especially so close to the end zone.
There was only one option now: push through.
Gritting his teeth, Lance unleashed every ounce of strength in his body.
Step. Step. He pushed forward, carrying the linebacker like dead weight. His power emanated from deep within, driving him one agonizing inch at a ti toward the goal line.
Then—
Whoosh.
A second white wave surged in, adding weight to the pile. The force on Lance's knees increased exponentially, the defenders' pressure dragging him toward the ground. His legs trembled under the strain.
Crash!
Suddenly, a jolt of support ca from behind. Kelce and Fisher joined the fray, throwing their own weight into Lance's back. Muscle t muscle, force combined with force, and the reinforcents helped straighten Lance's legs.
Step. Step.
Three. Four.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lance could see the white and red jerseys rging into a chaotic swirl of bodies, closing in from all sides like the jaws of a trap.
Ti was running out.
Summoning every last reserve of strength, Lance let out a primal scream, expelling all his energy in a final burst.
"Ahhhh!"
With a lunge and a collision, he forced his way through.
Step five.
The defense's iron wall crumbled. Light burst through the clouds, illuminating the way forward.
In front of him lay a sea of red.
"Touchdown!"
"Touchdown! Touchdown! TOUCHDOWN!"
The announcer's voice exploded, each word more electrifying than the last. His face flushed red, his tone cracked with unrestrained emotion. It was as if he were intoxicated by the scene, utterly lost in its grandeur.
Finally, with a deep breath, he declared:
"Ladies and gentlen, TOUCHDOWN!"
"It's Lance again! And again! AND AGAIN!"
Both teams had fought ferociously in this play. Penalties, collisions, and a grinding stalemate had turned the red zone into a battlefield.
But.
But!
Lance erged victorious once more.
With Hill and Kelce drawing defenders wide, Lance seized the mont to break through the slot. His raw power and relentless determination tore through the Raiders' defensive front, forcing his way into the end zone.
"He's unstoppable!"
"Facing their bitter division rivals, the very team that snatched victory from them last ti, Lance has turned into a one-man wrecking crew, dismantling the Raiders' defense and leaving last season's Defensive Player of the Year helpless."
The scoreboard read 24–0 before halfti.
The Chiefs were not just fighting for a win—they were announcing their resurgence. It wasn't just about snapping their six-ga losing streak, exacting revenge, or keeping playoff hopes alive. They were sending a ssage to the league:
They were still one of the most dangerous teams in the NFL.
In the Old Oak Tavern, Anderson stood frozen, his face blank with disbelief.
He watched Provo stand with his arms raised in triumphant celebration, as if the Chiefs had just won the Super Bowl. Beside him, Wester turned away to hide tears welling up in his eyes. Around the room, weary faces weathered by unemploynt and economic hardship lit up with joy, their eyes sparkling with renewed hope.
On the screen, Lance stood in the end zone, surrounded by a sea of defenders he had just plowed through. Clutching the football in one arm, he placed his other hand on his chest, tilting his head as if to listen to the deafening roar of the crowd.
"Fly!" Anderson shouted impulsively, his voice breaking the silence.
Gradually, the chant spread—from the tavern to the stadium, echoing across Kansas City until it beca a singular roar.
The world buzzed with electricity.
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Powerstones?
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