The entire stadium was stunned.
Even seeing it with their own eyes, they still couldn't understand how this had happened—just like watching martial arts in a movie:
Mysterious and unfathomable.
Yet this scene truly unfolded before them.
One moment, Lance was stumbling, fighting to survive in tight quarters.
The next moment, Jefferson was rolling awkwardly on the turf like a panda, eyes dazed as he watched number 23's graceful figure disappear.
Step, step step step.
Lance—leading the charge.
Lance had been exhausted, but after being jostled and rocked about, he found his strength again. He straightened his knees, drove forward, and accelerated.
35-yard line.
30-yard line.
He surged ahead—first down in hand—and now Weddle loomed in front of him.
As one of Baltimore's two defensive pillars, Weddle was experienced and shrewd, immediately reading the situation perfectly.
Weddle didn't rush. He was Baltimore's last line of defense—if he fell, Lance's blade would pierce their heart.
Weddle quickly adjusted, using his speed to stick close to Lance—not rushing a tackle, but weaving with him fluidly.
25-yard line—close contact, collisions, pressure.
20-yard line—disruption, interference, impact.
Weddle's savvy showed. Through constant contact, he gradually slowed Lance, wearing away his freshly gathered momentum.
And most importantly—he bought time.
Lance saw, in his peripheral vision, the shadows of black jerseys swarming from all directions. He had no time.
Now even Lance, calm as ever, had to rush.
What to do?
Every yard forward felt like wading through mud—heavy and strangling.
No time to hesitate. Decisively—Lance slammed on the brakes.
He risked getting surrounded, but didn't stubbornly press forward. He stopped.
Weddle hadn't expected that—his position shifted slightly.
But Weddle's reaction was fast. He grabbed for Lance's jersey, ready to cling like an octopus.
Lance stayed calm—he had a plan.
A stiff-arm block.
The football had long since switched to his right hand. His left hand suddenly wrapped around Weddle's left shoulder.
Once, twice.
Finally, the third time.
Explosive force unleashed—disrupting Weddle's balance. Lance's steps followed through, blending strength and speed into a physical impact, pushing and crashing forward.
Ah—ah ah ah!
Breakthrough!
Weddle's chest tightened, blood surging, body collapsing in an instant.
Weddle didn't even have time to cry out. He watched wide-eyed as Lance shot forward. His steps only staggered twice—and then he flew.
Literally.
Lance felt his body escaping gravity, toes barely pushing off the turf, steps losing power, lighter and lighter, about to fly off.
The next step might be a face-first dive.
Push off!
Push off—generate force!
Regain balance!
That was all that filled Lance's mind now.
Before he could stabilize, a shadow appeared on his right:
Cornerback Marrone Humphrey.
For a fleeting instant, they were back at Alabama's practice field.
But they weren't who they used to be.
Humphrey closed in fast—showing no mercy just because it was Lance.
Finish him while he's weak.
Humphrey gritted his teeth, accelerating to intercept.
It was a chase.
Lance, searching for balance, was neck and neck with Humphrey.
Then Humphrey saw a smile curve at Lance's mouth inside the helmet.
Humphrey immediately sounded the alarm—but too late.
Lance leaned in.
Collision?
Humphrey knew Lance's power—he tensed instantly, bracing for impact or stiff-arm.
Lance: heh heh.
Just before impact, Humphrey blinked—and Lance controlled his body with taut muscles, taking a nimble step along Humphrey's right arm and shoulder.
A light brush.
Smooth, fluid, silent.
No brute force. Just pure control. Lance glided past Humphrey's breath itself.
Humphrey's body froze half a beat late. He hadn't kept up. His breath stopped short. He reflexively lunged forward.
His hand hit Lance's shoulder!
But no grip.
Lance slipped through like an eel—still driving forward.
Hand—missed.
Humphrey's breath caught. He reacted fast, giving chase immediately.
15-yard line—behind him.
10-yard line—right there.
Humphrey sprinted, top speed, no reserves, catching up to Lance, arms raised to tackle.
But—
Acceleration.
Lance exploded.
Suddenly opened the gap.
10-yard line—blink—and 5-yard line.
Lance had shaken off Humphrey's dive. He held his breath, driving full force, all speed unleashed, his light, graceful figure turning into a streak of light.
Next second—
"End zone!"
"End zoneeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
Nantz's mind went blank—only one thought left:
Touchdown.
This—this was Lance's ability.
Suppress, suppress, suppress—and the slightest mistake, even without a mistake or gap, Lance would create one. Then he'd maximize it:
Power. Speed. Agility. Toughness. Quickness.
Mastery of all techniques—then gone in a flash.
Even witnessing it firsthand, even after seeing it multiple times over two years in the pros, it still sent chills down their spines.
A short screen fake—looked like Kansas City's drive would stall at 2 or 3 yards.
But Lance turned the ordinary into the extraordinary:
Dodging five defenders. Breaking three tackles. Three times on the edge of disaster, pulling himself back from the brink.
Incredible!
Breathtaking!
Arrowhead erupted into a frenzy.
Ah ah ah! Ah ah ah!
A tsunami of noise.
On the sideline, Harbaugh quietly watched. Breath stuck in his chest—then a long exhale.
If they'd been a little braver back then—just a little bolder—they could have had Lance. Could have enjoyed this applause. This excitement.
But now—they could only stand and admire.
At last, Harbaugh raised both hands high to applaud Lance.
Opponent or not, Harbaugh agreed—Lance's performance deserved all the praise. That was what elite players did—they changed the game with individual brilliance.
But football was a team sport.
This was only the beginning.
"Calm down. Calm down!"
Harbaugh reassured his players—nodding, eyes signaling approval. "Good performance. Very good. Now it's our offense's turn."
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates