Rhythm—this was the key.
Over there, the Baltimore Ravens deliberately slowed the tempo, returning to an old-school ground game, patiently advancing, finally punching it in.
Here, the Kansas City Chiefs sensed the shift and immediately raised the tempo, cleverly flipping Baltimore's trap into an opportunity—short passes, quick connections, striking before the Ravens could dictate the game's pace, seizing back control.
Everything moved at high speed.
"Attack!"
Mahomes called the snap, no hesitation. In one motion, he turned and stuffed the football into Lance's arms, faking the handoff—
Mahomes and Lance went opposite directions, backs to each other, both tucking the football to sell the fake—making it impossible to tell if it was a run or a pass.
On his toes, graceful and light.
Unlike usual, Lance didn't accelerate fully—instead, like a cat with nine lives, he moved quietly, carefully watching the defense.
Twisting, weaving.
In a low stance, Lance slipped past defensive end Urban, completely undetected, no resistance, already reaching the back of Kelce.
Past the slot, sticking close—Lance shadowed Kelce step for step.
Humphrey: Rookie, you think just because you changed jerseys I won't recognize you?
Humphrey, assigned to cover Kelce, was under heavy pressure—he knew Kelce's ability. In a one-on-one duel, he'd lose. He needed to stay focused, looking for openings.
And right away—he spotted Lance.
Almost by accident, Humphrey became the first player to notice Lance's movement. Without hesitation, he abandoned Kelce and sprinted laterally from Lance's right.
Push off, power, dive—
All in one fluid motion.
Humphrey didn't hesitate—he knew even a split-second pause could be enough for Lance to break free.
But—still a half-step late!
Humphrey: Damn it.
Lance was alert to everything around him. Even though Kelce blocked his forward view, he caught Humphrey's movement out of the corner of his eye.
That was why Lance hadn't gone full-speed—keeping his balance light, sidestepping quickly. A rush of air brushed his right arm and thigh—but that was all. He slipped past Humphrey easily.
Humphrey lunged—and missed!
The next second, Lance realized he was exposed—
Without Kelce's cover, Lance was out in the open—and barely five yards past the line of scrimmage.
Behind him, Urban had recovered and was spinning to dive after him.
But the real problem wasn't Urban—it was Suggs.
Right there, a single step away.
Lance had practically stepped right into Suggs' path—but he'd noticed Suggs too, the moment he'd noticed Humphrey.
Heh.
A deep breath, core tight, feet light—Lance tried to exploit Suggs' hesitation to slip away, continuing left to dodge his tackle.
Suggs froze: ???
Wait, who the hell is this?
Just a second ago, Suggs had locked onto Mahomes, scanning for his pass target.
Now—Lance materialized in front of him like Houdini.
Suggs almost couldn't keep up.
Even so—years of experience, or perhaps killer instinct, kicked in instantly.
Before his mind could process what was happening, his body reacted first.
Quick step, pivot, lunge.
Suggs abruptly stopped, shifted his weight, lunged at Lance.
But—barely missed. Just a fraction.
His shoulder clipped Lance, disrupting his balance.
Lance clenched his jaw, still holding his breath, feet light, staggering but pushing forward.
And then—Mosley appeared directly in front.
Lance's steps were unsteady—he felt like that plastic bag in American Beauty, drifting on the wind. There was no way through Mosley head-on.
So he kept moving sideways, dodging Mosley's charge, looking for an opening.
More importantly—he needed to stabilize.
But wave after wave—the Ravens defense pressed relentlessly.
As Mosley's shadow danced in front of him, linebacker Onwuasor suddenly leapt forward.
No way to avoid him—
Bang!
Onwuasor collided with Lance. Lance dug his feet in, absorbing the impact, trying to stay upright through the chaos.
But then, out of nowhere—Mosley came flying back in, aiming straight for Lance's knees, like a torpedo.
Mosley gritted his teeth—Lance had embarrassed him once, twice—there would not be a third time. He refused to let Lance escape again, refused to look like a brain-dead fool. His eyes burned with fury as he unleashed every ounce of power.
Ugh—ah ah ah!
In an instant—impact!
Lance's world spun 360 degrees—red flames and black shadows blending into a blur.
In that moment—his instincts cut off, and everything went black.
"Heh!"
"Jesus Christ!"
Romo nearly cursed outright. He fought to keep control—but finally couldn't. He tore off his headset, slammed his hands on the desk, standing in shock as he stared at Arrowhead Field. His heartbeat thundered, ears ringing.
Nantz's voice still roared—but felt distant.
"Violent hit."
"My God! Onwuasor and Mosley's combined tackle absolutely leveled Lance—this scene…"
"Jesus Christ—that was an illegal hit! Mosley deliberately aimed below Lance's knees—no question it's a foul. Lance spun through the air like a pinwheel…"
"Lance is down. Lance isn't moving. Lance seems unconscious."
"This… this is hard to watch. There's a scuffle breaking out…"
Damn.
In Kelce's mind—a nerve snapped. He could practically hear it break. He watched helplessly as Lance was sent airborne, tumbling, gravity pulling his heart down with him.
His mind couldn't react.
Then—his own furious voice burst out. He charged forward, shoving Suggs aside, slamming into Mosley before he could even get up, knocking him back to the turf.
Damn! Damn damn damn damn damn!
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Powerstones?
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