Striking the Ox through the Mountain

Indeed, stopping Lance was crucial. If the Crimson Tide scored again, whether by field goal or touchdown, it would essentially seal the Tigers' fate. But while attempting to stop Lance, they couldn't forget the other critical task: controlling the game clock. Even if they stopped Lance, if the Tigers' offense didn't get back on the field, it wouldn't matter.

Adams had secured his position and even committed a penalty, so now his only objective was to bring Lance down—stop this ground attack right here. The Tigers could then use a timeout to halt the clock and stop wasting precious time.

However, Adams didn't bring Lance down.

From Thompson's perspective, the usually composed Adams had lost his cool, provoked by Lance's outstanding performance. Adams, driven by pride, seemed to care more about beating Lance personally than stopping the clock, even if it meant jeopardizing the Tigers' slim chance of victory.

But what if Adams failed?

The Crimson Tide could not only score but also drain valuable time off the clock—achieving both goals at once.

Damn it! Damn it, damn it!

Thompson wasted no time. He didn't care about Adams' pride; his only focus was stopping the clock.

Watching Lance and Adams move along the sideline, just a few steps away from the boundary, Thompson made his decision—

Out of bounds—stop the clock.

In football, beyond the coach's three timeouts, there are other ways to stop the game clock—one of them being pushing a player out of bounds.

Thompson charged in like a bull.

He knew he couldn't hesitate or hold back. If Lance got even a little more space, anything could happen—and that was a risk they couldn't afford.

Twenty-five yards!

Since the line of scrimmage, Lance had already gained twenty-five yards, crossing midfield into Tigers' territory. Thompson knew he had no more time to delay.

Plant, drive, tackle, hit—

At this moment, Thompson showed decisiveness, perfectly timing his tackle, locking onto Lance, and with the momentum of his sprint, delivering a lateral blow.

Ugh!

A groan escaped, not just from Thompson, but also from Adams.

Lance had become the filling in the middle of the sandwich.

On his left was Thompson, on his right was Adams. The force from Thompson's side slammed into Lance's midsection, like a truck crashing in, delivering a brutal hit.

Lance absorbed the force and was thrown violently to his right, crashing into Adams. Adams, who hadn't seen Thompson coming, wasn't prepared and didn't lower his center of gravity, leaving him unbalanced and vulnerable.

In the most literal sense—Adams flew.

He didn't even have time to grunt as he was flung through the air.

Thompson's physics had failed him; his blow, meant for Lance, ended up knocking Adams out of the play instead. Thompson hadn't meant to hit Adams, only focusing on tackling Lance.

Yet, at that precise moment—

Lance used the impact to spin, cleverly redirecting the force and deftly slipping out of Thompson's tackle with a dazzling display of footwork.

A 360-degree counter-clockwise spin.

The world spun. Sky and ground twisted together.

And just like that, a gap opened between Lance and Thompson.

Stumbling yet pressing forward, Lance managed to stay on his feet, while Thompson, like a falling leaf, succumbed to gravity and collapsed to the ground.

Gasp!

The entire stadium collectively inhaled sharply.

Step, step, step!

Lance's mind was focused on one thing: maintaining balance. His body, however, continued to slide dangerously towards the sideline.

At the forty-yard line on the Tigers' side of the field, both the end zone and the sideline were now within sight.

Lance's balance tilted severely to the right, like a car on the verge of flipping over. His legs flailed helplessly in midair, struggling to find the ground.

Plant, thirty-five-yard line.

Holding his breath, Lance kept his feet churning, his legs working tirelessly, pushing forward. No fear, no hesitation, just pure focus. His only thought: Run.

On the sidelines, Clark and the rest of the Crimson Tide players had gone wild. Clark was sprinting alongside Lance, pumping his right arm in a windmill motion, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Roar, Lance, roar!"

His blood boiled.

Lance pushed forward to the twenty-five-yard line.

His feet danced on the tightrope, yet his power and speed propelled him ever forward. On tiptoe, he glided with light and graceful steps, feeling every gust of wind rushing past him.

It was as if he could hear the unique roar of the Crimson Tide crowd in his ears, adrenaline surging through his veins, pulling his teetering body back into balance. His speed kept increasing.

Lance pushed forward to the fifteen-yard line.

In his peripheral vision, he could see a swirling mass of purple—Tigers' defenders closing in, but their best efforts seemed to unfold in slow motion, as if they were running but unable to catch him.

So, when Lance crossed into the red zone, he turned his head, glanced over his shoulder, and slowed down.

He savored the moment—the burn in his lungs, the fire in his blood, the ache in his muscles. And the sound, the roar of the Tigers' stadium, now silenced, as Clark continued to chase after him.

"Roar! Lance, roar!"

Step. Step. Step.

Lance's pace had slowed to a leisurely stroll as he crossed the goal line. He stood there, calm and composed, pulling the football out and tossing it gently in the air. Catching it. Tossing it again. Catching it once more.

The touchdown was effortless.

A smile slowly spread across his face as he quietly admired the stunned, silent sea of purple before him.

The entire stadium was speechless.

This time, they couldn't muster a sound. Not even anger could take shape, as the Crimson Tide's flawless performance crushed the Tigers' last hope for a comeback, sealing the game—

The Lance that had spent the entire first half running into the brick wall of the Tigers' defense had finally rediscovered his form from earlier in the season. A seventy-five-yard run, cutting straight through their defense, with unstoppable force, extinguished any remaining suspense.

The third touchdown. Game over.

Clark was the first to reach the end zone, throwing his arms around Lance, jumping and celebrating wildly. Soon after, the rest of the Crimson Tide players joined them.

Then, Humphrey was the first to mimic Lance's earlier taunt, placing his hand by his ear, mockingly listening for the crowd's reaction.

But this time, the stadium's curses quickly faded away, lacking any real venom. The few scattered insults petered out before they could gain momentum.

The angrier they were, the more insecure they seemed. The more furious, the more embarrassed.

Tiger Stadium fell into a dazed silence. The fans exchanged bewildered glances, struggling to comprehend how they had once again been soundly beaten by the Crimson Tide.

And this time, it happened in their own stadium.

A stadium that once witnessed the Tigers beat the Crimson Tide fifteen times in a row at home was now witnessing one of the most crushing defeats in the thirty-year history of this fierce rivalry.

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Powerstones?

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