"Wow!"
"Brilliant! Bold! Cool-headed!"
"A phenomenal offensive play—once again, the Kansas City Chiefs pull off an unbelievable drive. Not once, not twice, but three times with fake moves, layered with a screen pass scheme. Mahomes shows no fear, drawing the entire defense before delivering a devastating deep throw at the last moment."
"Mahomes—truly sensational!"
"Without a doubt, after the pain of that last-minute mistake in the previous game, Mahomes is proving his ability to bounce back and refocus. So far in this game, he's been absolutely flawless."
"If Wentz was MVP-worthy last season, then Mahomes is making a case this season. A 53-yard deep pass—executed as easily as drinking water."
"But we can't forget Lance. Ha—who could possibly forget Lance? On that play..."
Damn!
Damn, damn, damn!
Lewis tore into Bates, roaring with rage. His face was a portrait of fury. Then he spotted cornerback Jackson trying to sneak behind Kelce and hide—like a coward—and Lewis completely lost it.
The volume of his tirade jumped two notches. His reddened cheeks looked like they might explode.
Yes, Mahomes was outstanding—but the true key was Lance.
A wide receiver?
Lance actually executed like a textbook wide receiver, beating his defender one-on-one, winning a "50-50" ball.
Not as a running back—but as a receiver. A rare move in Lance's previous games.
In other words, Bates failed to stop Lance's new attempt, and Jackson—standing nearby—didn't even move to double-cover, clearly misreading the play.
Terrible—utterly disastrous!
So far, the Bengals' defense against Lance had been a complete failure—collapsing on the ground game, and now losing in the air. Just look at Lance—dry, relaxed, untouched. They posed no threat or pressure at all.
Lance was in his comfort zone.
Before the game, Lewis had confidently proclaimed that Lance would collapse midseason, with declining performance and no consistency or endurance—that was Lance's weakness.
And now?
Slap, slap, slap—Lewis could practically hear the sound of his own ego being shattered in his ears. All the shame and frustration boiled into pure rage.
Fury crushed reason—Lewis lost control.
"Stop him."
"If you can't stop him, then take him out. You useless bunch of trash."
Those words slipped out, unfiltered, exposing his real thoughts.
Lance didn't hear it—but the Chiefs' special teams players did. The message spread quietly among the defense.
Lewis soon noticed—one by one, Chiefs players were staring at him like they wanted to eat him alive. Confused, Lewis frowned:
What, never seen a handsome old coach calling plays? No need for admiration—just back off and get lost.
Clearly, Lewis forgot—
The whole league was still buzzing about the Patriots trying to take out Mahomes and smear Lance. The Chiefs had been holding back, banned by Reid from fueling the fire in the media. They'd been bottling up their anger.
And now? The Bengals walked right into it.
Take-out tactics?
This old fool must be suicidal.
So when the Chiefs' defense took the field—they were seeing red. Literally. Think of them as red-eyed rabbits? More like Hulks ready to smash.
Led by Houston, the defense unleashed a storm. One tougher than the next—each hit more ferocious.
Cincinnati, third-ranked offense in the league so far, completely lost their bearings. Run or pass, they were flat. Powerless.
Even Lance, watching from the sideline, grimaced—
Dalton got sacked again. The Bengals' O-line protection was as good as wet tissue paper.
Mahomes, sipping Gatorade, saw it and shivered. He leaned toward Lance, "What the hell happened? Did they all just snort something?"
Lance looked just as baffled, joked, "Did you spike the Gatorade?"
Mahomes stared at his bottle: uh...
But then the Chiefs' offense caught wind of the rumors—Lewis telling his players to go after Lance with dirty hits.
It all made sense.
Now it wasn't just the defense—offense got mad too. Red eyes everywhere. Super Saiyan mode: activated.
Ironically, Lance, the target, was the calmest of them all—watching like a spectator eating popcorn.
Left—lunatic. Right—another lunatic. Eyes full of bloodlust. Lance's arms broke out in goosebumps.
"Gentlemen, please. I feel like I'm surrounded by T-1000s. Kinda scary, honestly."
In a way, Lance was right.
The Chiefs were in full rampage mode—
First, the defense dismantled Dalton with sheer force, giving the Bengals' offense a bigger nightmare than Baltimore or Pittsburgh ever had.
Then the offense returned the favor—crushing Cincinnati's defense like a wrecking ball.
Lance and Hunt took turns pounding the ground, chipping away what little confidence the Bengals' defense had left. Then Mahomes connected with Hill on a 14-yard TD.
Like Mahomes, Hill had also recovered from the previous game's frustration—easily found space and scored.
Wave after wave.
For the Bengals' defense, it was a disaster—leaders like Atkins made no impact. Against the explosive firepower of the Chiefs, they crumbled.
The game turned into a one-sided beatdown—
A massacre.
An utter slaughter. And it was just the first half.
The Chiefs had already shattered the Bengals' spirit. They looked like the last dead leaf clinging to a fall tree—no strength to resist, let alone fight back.
"0:31."
Halftime.
The Chiefs marched into the locker room with an overwhelming lead.
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Powerstones?
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