Saturday, August 31st, 2022

Gewiss Stadium, Bergamo

11:00 AM – Kick-Off

The system chimed the moment Demien stepped onto the pitch, and the panel materialized with text that made his chest tighten because the words "Hard Mode" never meant anything good.

「MATCH MISSION: OWN THE HOUSE」

「Objective A: 2+ goal involvements」

「Objective B: 85%+ final-third pass accuracy」

「Objective C: Win 6+ duels」

「Reward (all three required): 200 TP + 100 MP」

「Fail one → everything = 0」

Demien dismissed it with a thought, and the panel faded while his jaw set because three objectives with zero margin for error meant the system wanted perfection or nothing, and the crowd's noise swelled around him as twenty-three thousand Atalanta supporters filled the Gewiss Stadium on a bright Saturday morning.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips.

Demien stood in the center circle with the ball at his feet, and across from him Lecce's entire defensive block waited in two tight lines of yellow shirts that stretched from touchline to touchline, compact and organized and ready to make this ugly.

The whistle blew sharp and clean.

3rd Minute –

Atalanta had controlled the opening exchanges with seventy-three percent possession according to the stadium display, but every forward pass died in a forest of yellow shirts because Lecce dropped into a compact 5-4-1 the moment the ball crossed halfway, and Hjulmand and Baschirotto were glued to Demien like shadows while Blin sat five yards behind as the third marker.

De Roon collected the ball just inside Lecce's half and rolled it short toward the center circle where Demien had drifted to find space, and the moment the pass left De Roon's boot, Hjulmand started sprinting.

Demien's first touch took the ball away from the immediate press, his body already turning, shoulders dropping as he prepared to accelerate into the gap between Lecce's midfield and defensive lines.

Then Hjulmand arrived.

The shoulder launched straight into Demien's spine with full bodyweight behind it, no attempt to play the ball, just pure physical contact that sent Demien airborne for half a second before gravity dragged him down hard onto the turf, and the ball skittered away loose toward Baschirotto who cleared it long without hesitation.

Pain bloomed across Demien's back where the impact had landed, sharp and hot, and he pushed himself up onto his knees while looking toward the referee who was waving play on with both arms raised.

No whistle. Nothing.

The Curva Nord erupted in boos that rolled across the stadium like thunder, and Demien climbed to his feet slowly while his spine throbbed because this was how it was going to be today.

"Atalanta players furious with that decision," the commentator's voice carried through the stadium speakers, Fabio Caressa's tone sharp with disapproval. "Hjulmand went straight through Walter's back, no attempt at the ball whatsoever, and the referee waves it on. That's a foul all day."

"Scandaloso!" his co-commentator added. "He didn't even try to hide it."

Hjulmand jogged past without looking at him, and Demien wiped grass stains off his shorts while accepting that the referee had set the tone early.

8th Minute

Atalanta recycled possession patiently, probing for openings that refused to appear because Lecce's defensive structure held firm with five defenders packed tight across the eighteen-yard box and four midfielders collapsing inward whenever the ball entered dangerous areas.

Maehle received the ball wide on the left touchline and drove forward with purpose, his Danish international quality showing as he carried it twenty yards before cutting back sharply onto his right foot, and the movement opened a passing lane toward the edge of the box where Demien had timed his run perfectly.

Demien darted forward into the space between Lecce's midfield and defensive lines, his acceleration sharp, eyes already scanning for the next pass because if he could turn here quickly there would be options.

Maehle's cutback arrived waist-high and weighted perfectly.

Demien's body shape was good as he prepared to control it with his chest and spin in one motion, but then Baschirotto threw both arms around his waist from behind and kept running, dragging Demien three yards backward like a rugby tackle before they collapsed together in a heap of limbs and yellow fabric.

The ball rolled harmlessly out toward the touchline for a Lecce goal kick.

Demien hit the ground hard with Baschirotto's weight on top of him, and for a moment he couldn't breathe because the air had been knocked from his lungs, and he shoved the defender off while scrambling to his feet and looking toward the referee who was already pointing toward the goal and waving play on again.

"Oh come on!" Caressa's voice rose with indignation. "That's a clear foul, Baschirotto has him in a bear hug and drags him down, how is that not a free-kick?"

The Curva Nord's jeers grew louder, angrier, twenty-three thousand voices united in frustration while Demien stood with his hands on his hips, chest heaving, grass stains across his white shirt.

Baschirotto jogged back to position without acknowledgment, and Demien understood the game plan now because Lecce weren't trying to outplay Atalanta, they were trying to break them physically and let the referee's permissiveness do the rest.

13th Minute –

Tolói won a header at the halfway line and nodded it forward with precision, the ball dropping toward the right channel where space had opened momentarily as Lecce's defensive block shifted to cover Lookman's movement on the opposite flank.

The diagonal ball hung in the air for two seconds, and Demien read it immediately, his legs already moving as he peeled away from Hjulmand's marking and sprinted into the space to meet it.

First touch had to be perfect.

The ball dropped at pace and Demien killed it dead with the sole of his right boot, the contact clean and precise, and in the same motion he flicked it with his instep toward Koopmeiners who was making a late run from deep.

The return pass was already forming in his mind when Blin arrived.

The Lecce midfielder's timing was deliberately late, his run angled not toward the ball but toward Demien's planted foot, and the studs came down straight onto the Achilles tendon with full bodyweight behind them.

White-hot pain exploded up Demien's leg.

He felt his ankle twist as Blin's boot scraped down the back of his heel, and his body reacted before his mind could catch up, hopping once on the good leg before dropping to the turf and clutching the injured ankle while his face twisted because this wasn't a normal challenge, this was targeted.

The whistle finally went.

Finally.

The referee jogged over with his hand raised for a free-kick, but his other hand stayed in his pocket with no card appearing, and the Curva Nord exploded in outrage that shook the stadium walls.

"That's the third foul on Walter in thirteen minutes," Caressa said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Hjulmand, Baschirotto, now Blin, and still no yellow card shown. The referee is letting Lecce kick him all over the pitch."

"È vergognoso," the co-commentator spat. "Disgraceful. How many times must they foul him before action is taken?"

The Atalanta physio sprinted onto the pitch with his medical bag bouncing against his hip, and he dropped to one knee beside Demien while pulling up the sock to examine the ankle.

"Can you move it?" the physio asked in Italian.

Demien rotated his foot slowly, testing the joint, and the pain was sharp but manageable, nothing torn or broken, just a deep stud rake that would bruise badly by tomorrow.

"I'm good," Demien said through gritted teeth.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

The physio worked quickly, spraying cold treatment onto the Achilles and checking the range of motion one more time before nodding and stepping back, and thirty seconds after he'd gone down, Demien was back on his feet, limping at first as he tested the weight, then jogging it off because adrenaline was a hell of a drug.

He took the free-kick himself from twenty-five yards out, but Lecce's wall was organized and tight, and rather than force something that wasn't there he rolled it short and safe to Koopmeiners who recycled possession back to Tolói.

The HUD flickered in his peripheral vision.

「MISSION PROGRESS (15')」

「Duels won: 0/6」

「Final-third passes: 4/4 (100%)」

「Goal involvements: 0/2」

The stadium was restless now, twenty-three thousand voices growing impatient because Atalanta had dominated possession but created nothing clear, and Lecce were winning every physical battle and loving it, their yellow shirts forming an impenetrable wall across the defensive third that refused to crack.

Demien wiped blood from a small stud graze on his ankle where Blin's studs had broken the skin, the red smearing across his white sock, and he reset on the center circle while waiting for the next ball because there were still seventy-five minutes to turn zeroes into numbers.

This is going to be a long day.

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