The thirty minutes following the Port Vale own goal were a blur of beautiful, glorious, and utterly unhinged football.

The referee, a man who had clearly lost all control and was now just a spectator with a whistle, let the game flow, resulting in a chaotic, end-to-end spectacle that resembled a basketball match more than a soccer game.

The half-time whistle was a welcome act of mercy.

In the Apex dressing room, Ethan faced a unique challenge. His team wasn't demoralized or tired. They were a giggling, adrenaline-fueled mess.

"Did you see the look on their keeper's face?" Jonathan Rowe was wheezing, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "He looked like his dog had just been stolen by a particularly sad clown."

"And their manager!" David Kerrigan cackled. "I think a vein in his forehead actually exploded. It was beautiful."

Ethan clapped his hands, trying to inject a sliver of seriousness into the carnival atmosphere. "Alright, you lunatics, settle down! That was the most ridiculous thirty minutes of football I have ever witnessed. And it was brilliant. But it's not a plan. It was a fluke."

He looked at his team, a new, steely focus in his eyes. "The second half, we go back to being us. We control the ball. We are patient. We are professional. We have a one-man advantage, and we are going to use it to suffocate them. No more chaos. Just calm, clinical, boring, winning football. Understood?"

A collective, slightly disappointed "Yes, gaffer" went through the room.

The fun part was over. It was time to be professionals again.

The second half began, and for a glorious five minutes, Apex United was a symphony of footballing perfection.

They played with a calm, patient, tiki-taka style, their one-touch passing a beautiful, intricate web that the ten men of Port Vale couldn't get near.

"And this is the other side of Apex United!" the commentator purred, his voice a soothing balm after the chaos of the first half. "Calm, composed, confident on the ball. They are making their one-man advantage count, passing the home side into submission. This is a joy to watch."

In the 51st minute, they created a goal of pure, sublime beauty.

A twenty-pass move, starting with their goalkeeper and involving every single player, ended with Emre Demir playing a delicate, dinked pass over the top of the defense.

Viktor Kristensen, with a perfectly timed run, met the ball with a cushioned volley into the back of the net.

It was a goal of such quality that even the home fans gave a smattering of appreciative applause.

But the goal, as it turned out, was a terrible mistake. Because it was boring.

And Apex United, it seemed, did not do boring.

Having scored the perfect, professional goal, a strange, chaotic energy seemed to possess them again.

In the 54th minute, Grant Hanley, the grizzled captain, won the ball back on the halfway line. Instead of playing a simple pass, he looked up, saw the keeper slightly off his line, and tried to score.

The shot, a wild, hopeful punt, sailed harmlessly into the stands, but the intent was clear.

And the Port Vale players, who had been chasing shadows, were suddenly gifted a lifeline.

In the 58th minute, a sloppy Apex pass was intercepted.

The ball was fed to their one true superstar, the S-Rank wonderkid, Kaito Tanaka. He had been anonymous, starved of the ball.

Now, he was free.

He picked up the ball forty yards from goal and just ran. He ghosted past Kenny McLean with a deceptive change of pace. He nutmegged Ben Gibson. He was now on the edge of the box.

Grant Hanley came across to make the tackle, but Tanaka did a perfect 'Cruyff turn', leaving his own captain spinning like a top. H

e was one-on-one with the keeper. He didn't blast it. He just rolled the ball into the bottom corner with a contemptuous ease.

It was a goal of breathtaking, individual brilliance.

A solo masterpiece.

3-2.

The home crowd erupted, a sudden, desperate roar of hope.

"OH, MY WORD! KAITO TANAKA! WHERE HAS HE BEEN HIDING?! A goal of pure, unadulterated genius! He has single-handedly dragged his team back into this match! The ten men of Port Vale have a lifeline, and the soap opera at Vale Park has another dramatic twist!"

The goal rattled Apex.

The calm professionalism was shattered, replaced by a frantic, panicked energy.

And just two minutes later, as the game hit the 60-minute mark, the unthinkable happened.

A long, hopeful ball was launched forward by Port Vale.

It was aimed at their 99-speed winger, 'Jet' Evans.

The ball was overhit.

It should have been a simple clearance for James McCarthy.

But Evans, with a burst of acceleration that seemed to defy the laws of physics, got to the ball first. He was clear.

He sprinted into the box, his feet a blur.

Angus Gunn came rushing out to meet him. Evans took one touch to the side, rounding the keeper with ease.

The goal was empty.

He was about to tap the ball into the net when, from out of nowhere, David Kerrigan, who had sprinted the entire length of the pitch in a heroic, desperate recovery run, launched himself into a perfect, goal-saving slide tackle, knocking the ball out for a corner.

But the referee, who was trailing the play, saw it differently.

He saw a desperate, last-ditch lunge from behind. He blew his whistle and pointed to the spot. Penalty.

The Apex players were incandescent with rage, surrounding the referee.

But his mind was made up. He showed a yellow card to a protesting Kerrigan.

The stadium held its breath.

The Port Vale captain placed the ball on the spot. He ran up and smashed it into the roof of the net.

3-3.

From a position of complete, dominant control, Apex United had conceded two goals in two minutes.

The ten men of Port Vale had done the impossible.

Ethan stood on the sideline, his hands on his head, a look of utter, horrified disbelief on his face.

He looked at the scoreboard. He looked at his players, who were now arguing amongst themselves. He looked at the jubilant home crowd.

The game was no longer about tactics. It was no longer about skill.

The 'Team Complacency' modifier was back, a creeping, insidious poison.

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