Trejo's pass rolled unusually slowly on the muddy ground, each irregular bounce challenging Lu Chuan's nerves.
Odei Onaindia closed in from the side, his footsteps growing closer, like the ticking of a time bomb.
This was no longer a competition of speed, but a contest of willpower!
Lu Chuan's lungs burned, and his legs felt heavy as if filled with lead.
His body felt like it had reached its limit, every step an overexertion of his physical strength. Onaindia's breathing was right behind him, the Argentine center-back's tackle was imminent.
At this critical moment, Lu Chuan used his last ounce of strength, stretched his foot forward, and poked the ball forward just a second before Onaindia's tackle!
The sound of the ball rolling was exceptionally clear in the quiet stadium.
Lu Chuan stumbled with the ball towards the goal, with the defender hot on his heels and the uneven turf beneath his feet.
Mud splattered on his face, and sweat mixed with dirt dripped from his forehead.
The camera faithfully recorded this scene: the splashing mud, the stumbling steps, and a grimacing, disheveled back.
Goalkeeper Limonens quickly rushed out, his figure constantly enlarging in Lu Chuan's eyes.
The experienced veteran goalkeeper spread his arms, trying to narrow the shooting angle, his eyes focused and sharp.
Lu Chuan had no strength left for any fancy moves. His vision was a bit blurry, and only one thought remained in his mind: score!
Instinctively, he poked the ball forward with his toe!
The ball had no power, no speed; it just stubbornly, slowly rolled forward.
The ball slowly rolled under the goalkeeper's armpit, crossing the goal line! 1-0!
The net trembled slightly, and a deafening cheer erupted in the stadium.
The Rayo Vallecano fans in the away stands wildly waved their scarves, their voices drowning out the home fans' boos.
After scoring, Lu Chuan could no longer support himself. His legs gave out, and he collapsed directly into the opponent's goal.
He gasped for air, his chest heaving violently, and sweat dripped from his face like rain. His muddy jersey clung to his body, and he felt every muscle protesting.
His teammates surged over like a tide. Álvaro García was the first to rush over, pulling Lu Chuan up from the ground.
"You madman!" Álvaro's eyes sparkled with excitement, "I knew you could do it!"
Trejo followed closely, hugging Lu Chuan tightly. "This is our national player!"
Mario Suárez patted his back, "Kid, your willpower is more terrifying than your skill!"
Everyone's faces were filled with a mixture of exhaustion and ecstasy, making the entire scene dramatic.
The League consecutive goal-scoring record, second game, achieved!
In this most difficult away game, in the most unpretentious way, Lu Chuan continued his goal-scoring momentum.
There was no dazzling display of skill, no intricate tactical cooperation, only the purest willpower and a desire for victory.
This goal completely destroyed Mirandés' morale. The home players' expressions changed from focus to disappointment, and then from disappointment to despair.
They had struggled for over 80 minutes at home, only to be defeated by this Chinese forward with a simple, unpretentious goal.
Paco Jémez leaped high on the sidelines, his right fist clenched, his facial expression contorted as if he were roaring.
This usually serious coach completely dropped his facade at this moment, showing his true excitement.
For the remainder of the match, Mirandés launched a final, desperate counterattack. They pushed all their players forward, including goalkeeper Limonens, who rushed into the attack.
Corner kicks, free kicks, long passes—all methods were used in rotation.
Lu Chuan dragged his tired body back to his own half to participate in defense. His running was no longer as agile as at the start, and every sprint seemed to be beyond his strength.
His teammates surrounded him, sharing the pressure.
The moment the final whistle blew, Lu Chuan collapsed onto the grass again. This time it wasn't because of a goal, but because of complete physical exhaustion.
He lay on his back on the muddy grass, looking at the faint starlight in the night sky, a sense of unprecedented satisfaction welling up in his heart.
Rayo Vallecano secured a difficult 1-0 away victory, earning three valuable points, and continued to climb closer to the promotion zone.
The system's prompt sounded in his mind:
"Ding! A difficult victory!"
"Match rating: 8.5"
"LP gained: 200 (match victory) + 100 (winning goal) = 300LP!"
"Current LP balance: 1350 + 300 = 1650LP"
Lu Chuan slowly got up, wiping the sweat and mud from his face.
He didn't think about the system's rating, nor about the media's comments, but simply enjoyed this momentary, hard-earned tranquility.
After the match, Mirandés coach Antoni Iraola actively sought out Paco Jémez. The Basque coach's expression was complex, showing both reluctance at defeat and respect for his opponent.
"You have a true finisher," Iraola's voice was low, "His willpower is more terrifying than his skill."
Paco nodded, "He is still very young, still growing."
"I've seen the match footage of him against Betis," Iraola continued, "That volley was indeed spectacular, but today's goal impressed me more. Skill can be trained, but this kind of willpower is innate."
The two coaches shook hands on the sidelines, the best tribute to each other.
In the locker room, Rayo Vallecano players were celebrating their victory. Although there was no champagne, everyone's face was beaming with the joy of victory.
Lu Chuan sat in the corner, quietly taking off his mud-stained jersey.
Just then, the team's press officer walked into the locker room, holding a fax.
"The Copa del Rey quarter-final draw results are out!" His voice was full of drama, "Our opponent is..."
He deliberately paused, "Mirandés!"
The locker room instantly fell silent, then erupted in laughter.
"What kind of luck is this?" Álvaro García shook his head, "We just beat them at their home, and now we have to face them again in the Cup?"
"This time it's at our home," Trejo reminded him, "The pitch at Vallecas Stadium is much better than here."
"Fate is so wonderful," Paco Jémez walked into the locker room, "Since we can win at their home, there's even less to say about winning at our own."
On the way back to Madrid, Lu Chuan chose not to take the team bus with his teammates, but instead went directly to the airport accompanied by Carlos.
In his backpack, he carried the national team's summons, and also the envelope that Carlos had prepared but which he would never use.
That envelope contained fifty thousand euros in cash, which Carlos had withdrawn from his own account.
Although he knew Lu Chuan wouldn't use the money, he still wanted to give his client a choice.
In the airport waiting lounge, Lu Chuan sat in a corner, looking at the flashing indicator lights in the night sky outside the window.
Physical exhaustion made his eyelids heavy, but the unease in his heart kept him from sleeping.
Carlos sat next to him, occasionally checking his watch. "The plane takes off in half an hour, you can rest a bit."
"I can't sleep," Lu Chuan shook his head, "Just thinking about what I have to face next makes it impossible to calm down."
"Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?" Carlos's tone was light, "Sometimes, there's only a fine line between sticking to principles and being a wise man who adapts to circumstances."
"I've already decided," Lu Chuan's voice was firm, "I've had enough lessons from my previous life; this time, I won't compromise again."
The plane took off on time, and Lu Chuan looked through the porthole at Madrid, which was getting smaller and smaller outside the window.