The bus ride to Burnley was long and grey. Alex stared out the window. The world was not bright and sunny like London. It was wet. The sky was a low, sad, grey sheet.

He was in his official club suit, sitting next to Antoine.

Antoine was not watching a movie. He was not listening to music. He was just... staring at his own perfect, expensive shoes. He looked disgusted.

"This," Antoine said, his voice low, "is not a place for football, Professor."

"It is just... different," Alex said. His ankle was fine, but his stomach was full of butterflies.

"It is mud," Antoine said. "And big men. And wind. It is... a street fight. I am an artist. I do not 'street fight'."

"I know," Alex said. He looked across the aisle.

Mark was not disgusted. He was vibrating. He was in his own shiny suit, but he was bouncing his leg so hard the whole seat was shaking.

"A street fight!" Mark whispered to himself, grinning. "Yes! Chaos! I am going to run right through them!"

Bastian, sitting in front of them, just groaned. He did not even turn around. "You will run into a wall, Speed. And you will bounce off. Be quiet. Some of us are trying to sleep."

Alexs analyst brain was working. He had watched the Burnley videos. They were horrible. The ball was in the air more than it was on the ground. The tackles were less "tackles" and more "small explosions."

This was not a test for the Hurricane. This was a test of survival.

The locker room at Turf Moor was tiny. It was cold. It smelled like wet grass and old socks.

The players were crammed in, shoulder to shoulder.

Steve, the manager, stood in the middle. He did not have a tactics board. He just... stood.

"Welcome to Burnley," he said, his voice flat. "This is not the Emirates. This is not a theater. This is a fight. They do not care about your boot deal, Professor. They do not care about your magic, Magician. And they want to hit you, Speed."

He looked at every player.

"Today, we do not play 'pretty'. We do not play 'smart' in the way we are used to. Our brain," he pointed at Alex, "is not enough. Our magic," he pointed at Antoine, "is not enough. Our speed," he pointed at Mark, "is not enough."

"Today, we just... win. I do not care how. You win your headers. You win your tackles. You do not cry to the referee, because he is not listening. You do not fall over. You stay on your feet. You fight for every single, ugly, muddy inch."

He looked at Alex. "Professor. You are the shield. But today, you are a shield made of rock. Be stable. Be strong. Be... boring. Do your job."

Alex nodded. He was the rock.

"Antoine. You are the sword. But today... do not get broken. Be smart. Do not try to dribble. One touch. Two touches. Move. Do not let them hit you."

Antoine just nodded, his face serious.

"Mark," Steve said. "Bench. You are the chaos button. But you are chaos on a leash. You wait."

"Go," Steve said. "Show me you are not just a famous, soft, payday team. Show me you are fighters."

The whistle blew.

The noise was a deep, angry roar.

The ball went up. High.

Bastian went up. He headed it.

The ball came down.

It did not bounce. It just... thudded. It hit the mud and stopped, like it had hit glue.

Alex ran to it.

WHAM.

He was on his back. He had not even touched the ball.

The Burnley captain, a giant man with a huge, red beard, had just run straight through him.

The referee did not blow his whistle.

"Welcome to the game, son!" the man roared, laughing.

Alex gasped for air. His whole body felt like it had been hit by a car.

"GET UP, PROFESSOR!" Bastian yelled. "I TOLD YOU!"

Alex got up. He was already covered in mud. His new black boots were brown.

The game was... not football.

It was a war.

Alex would get the ball. He would try to pass it to Antoine.

The ball would get stuck in a puddle.

A huge Burnley player would come flying in and smash Alex, or the ball, or just the mud.

It was ugly.

Antoine was trying. He was a superstar. He tried a magic flick.

The Burnley defender just... kicked his leg. He did not even get the ball. He just kicked him.

The referee called a foul. But Antoine was angry. He was getting frustrated.

"This is not football!" he yelled at the sky, his perfect kit now a mess of brown and green.

Alexs analyst brain was in pure panic. His data was useless.

There was no pattern. There was no 'system'. There was just... chaos.

And not the good kind of chaos.

Alex was playing his 'shield' role. He was getting in the way. He was being stable. He was taking the hits.

But he could not create. He could not find the pass.

His smart brain was being beaten by stupid, strong, simple football.

Halftime. Zero zero.

The whistle blew.

Alex limped back to the locker room. He had been kicked in the ankle. His shoulder was bruised. He was exhausted.

The locker room was silent. Everyone was just... breathing. They were in shock.

Steve walked in. He was not angry.

He was smiling.

"Good," he said.

The team looked at him.

"Good?" Harry, the captain, asked. "Boss, it is a disaster. We cannot play. We cannot move. It is a swamp."

"Yes," Steve said. "It is. And we are still zero zero. You did not break. You did not cry. You fought. You are tough. I am proud."

He looked at Alex. "Professor. You look like you have been in a washing machine."

"I feel like it, coach," Alex groaned.

"Good. Now. Analyze. Your brain. What is the solution? The Hurricane is not working."

Alex looked at Antoine. Antoine just shrugged. He looked beaten.

Alex looked at the mud on his boots. He thought about his old life. He thought about the data.

"We cannot... we cannot play through them," Alex said slowly. "The pitch is too slow. And they are too big."

"So?" Steve asked.

"So," Alex said, his eyes lighting up. "We stop... trying. We stop trying to be 'us'. We stop trying to be the Hurricane. We stop trying to be smart."

"What do you mean, stop being smart?" Steve asked.

"We have to be ugly," Alex said. "We have to play their game. But... we haveGotta do it better. We cannot pass. We cannot dribble. We just... we just hit it."

"Hit it?"

"Long," Alex said. "Not to feet. Not to space. Just... to the corners. We make their big, slow defenders turn around. We make them run in the mud. We do not play for the first ball. We fight... for the second ball. It is not about the pass. It is about... the bounce."

Antoine looked confused. "This is... this is not my game, Professor."

"It is not my game either," Alex said. "But it is the only game we can win today. We have to be... the ugliest team in the world. For forty five minutes."

Steve just stared at him. Then he started to clap.

"The Professor," he said, "is a fighter. I love it. You heard him. Stop being pretty. Start being ugly. Fight for the scraps. Go."

The second half was a new war.

Arsenal got the ball.

Bastian did not pass it to Alex. He just... kicked it. As hard as he could, high and long, into the corner.

The Burnley defender, who had been resting, had to run. He headed it clear.

The ball came down.

Alex was there. He did not try to control it. He just... fought for it. He got his body in the way. He won the tackle.

The ball was loose.

Antoine got it. He did not try to dribble. He just... poked it. Back to Harry.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

It was ugly. It was a fight.

The Burnley players were confused. Arsenal was not playing football. They were playing... Burnley football.

And they were... better at it.

They were faster to the second ball. They were smarter.

The crowd was angry. They were booing. Their team was being beaten at their own game.

The clock was ticking. Seventy minutes. Eighty minutes.

It was still zero zero.

Alex was so tired he thought his legs would fall off. He had mud in his hair, in his ears, in his mouth.

He won a header. A real, messy, fighting header.

The ball went wide. To the winger.

The winger kicked it. High. Into the box.

The giant Burnley defender went up.

He headed it clear.

The ball was high. It was coming down.

Right outside the box.

Alex was there. He was waiting.

He remembered the Millwall game. The volley.

He saw the Burnley midfielder charging at him, ready to kill him.

Alex did not go for the volley.

He just... jumped. He was a shield. He let the player smash into his back.

WHAM.

He went down. But he had won the foul.

The referee blew his whistle.

A free kick. Twenty five yards out.

Alex was on the ground. He was just... done.

"Good work, rock," Bastian grunted, pulling him up.

Antoine walked over. He picked up the ball.

This was his spot.

"Professor," he said. "Good foul. You took the hit. Now... watch."

Antoine placed the ball. The wall was huge. The keeper was huge.

The stadium was screaming.

Antoine took a deep breath. He ran.

He did not hit it hard. He did not try to smash it.

He... curled it.

It was magic.

The ball went up... over the wall.

And then... it dipped.

The keeper jumped. He was too slow.

The ball hit the top corner of the net.

One zero.

Silence.

Then... the sound of the Arsenal players yelling.

Antoine just stood there. He was covered in mud. But he just... smiled. He did his knee slide. It was perfect, even in the mud.

Plan A. The Storm.

He was the Magician.

The last five minutes were chaos.

Steve looked down the bench. "SPEED! GO! CAUSE CHAOS!"

Mark ran on. He was a silver bullet in a field of mud.

He did not get to touch the ball.

The final whistle blew.

One zero.

Alex just fell onto his back. He was covered in mud. He was bruised. He was... a winner.

He had played ninety minutes. In a street fight. And he had won.

His teammates were hugging. They were too tired to cheer.

They limped into the locker room. It was the happiest, quietest, muddiest locker room in the world.

Steve stood in the middle.

"I said... I wanted fighters," he said, his voice thick. "Today... you were lions. You were warriors. That... was the best 'ugly' win I have ever seen. I am proud of you."

He looked at Alex, who was trying to get a boot off. It was stuck.

"Professor. You are... you are not a duck. You are not a rock. You are... the toughest player I have. Good job, son."

Alex just beamed.

He got his phone. A text from Milo.

"MY HEART. MY POOR HEART. That was NOT good for the brand, Alex. That was... horrible. But you WON. You are a fighter. The 'Professor' is tough. Okay. Okay. I can sell this. I can sell this!"

Alex just laughed.

He looked over. Mark was sitting in the corner, grumbling.

"I did not even touch the ball," Mark said.

"You will, Speed," Alex said, his voice tired. "You will."

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