War. This was war—a fight to the death.
The game had only just begun, and already, the battle was in full swing.
First came the Seattle Seahawks' statement strike, followed by the Kansas City Chiefs' direct counterattack.
And Lance—he'd stabbed the hearts of the home fans at CenturyLink Field using the style Seattle knew all too well.
Clean. Ruthless. Sharp.
In an instant, he seized the stadium by the throat, pushing the tension to its absolute limit.
Two teams, nose-to-nose, neither yielding an inch. The air was thick with smoke from the clash.
For a brief moment, CenturyLink Field felt the illusion that the man who once sparked the Beast Mode craze had returned to Seattle.
Memories stirred—not just of Week 1, when Lance humiliated the Steelers in a way reminiscent of Bell, but of Beast Mode's shockwave-like impact, etched deep in their bones. No one understood that better than CenturyLink Field.
Different memories wove together, and something surreal unfolded—
The entire stadium fell silent. Shock. Disbelief. Not a sound. Every murmur, every jeer, every bit of noise—gone.
But only for a moment.
Almost immediately, realization hit—and shame burned hot.
Impossible. Unacceptable.
CenturyLink Field had long been one of the league's most dangerous home turfs. The noise generated here was not only louder than a jet engine—it had once caused a mini-earthquake in Seattle, breaking Guinness records and shaking the NFL.
This was the league's true devil's den.
From 2013 to 2016, Seattle had gone 26–6 at home, losing only once in each of those three seasons at CenturyLink. No doubt—they were a fortress.
Last season, though, things dipped—four home losses in one year. Critics mocked that CenturyLink was only a "devil's den" when the team was winning, and just a paper tiger otherwise.
The Seahawks' fans took that personally. This season, they roared back—crowds bigger, noise louder, reclaiming their fearsome aura.
So far, they'd only lost here to the L.A. Rams and L.A. Chargers.
Now, this nightmare moment—the realization that Lance had silenced them—hit hard.
Lance? The Chiefs?
Sure, Kansas City sat atop the AFC as the number one seed—but all three of their losses had come on the road. The league saw them as vulnerable away from home.
And CenturyLink, the league's most feared home field, was showing fear against a "road softie"?
It was insulting.
Humiliation crashed in, fiercer than anger. The stadium erupted, unleashing an energy wave meant to crush Lance to dust.
Roars. Deafening, booming, rolling over the field. The ground trembled. The air itself burned against the skin.
The devil's den had awakened, fully enraged—shame, fury, and frustration mixing into an unrelenting roar.
And the man who'd triggered it? He looked perfectly at ease, grinning as he turned to his teammates, curiosity sparkling in his eyes like a school kid fascinated by a silkworm spinning its cocoon.
"One poke and they're bristling all over."
As much as they didn't want to admit it, Lance's description was dead-on—and the Chiefs' offense couldn't help but laugh.
If Seattle thought Kansas City had come to CenturyLink unprepared for this atmosphere, they were sorely mistaken. They didn't truly understand the Chiefs—or Lance.
The fight was blade against blade.
Both teams wanted the win. Both offense and defense played their part.
For the Chiefs, their defense had proven all season that they could get tough when it mattered—that was a cornerstone of their dominance.
Seattle, too—while the Legion of Boom's glory days were gone, Pete Carroll had built that unit from the ground up. His defensive schemes and knack for unearthing talent still shaped the league's trends.
The game was tight.
14–14.
Locked in combat until just before halftime, when Seattle intercepted Mahomes and set Wilson up at Kansas City's 33-yard line. Wilson couldn't fully capitalize—pushed a little closer but got stopped on third down—but Seattle still kicked a field goal to take the lead.
14–17.
The home team headed to the locker room with a slim advantage.
The second half began the same way—intense, unyielding. Both offenses struck during brief dips in the opposing defense's focus, trading scores back and forth.
Wilson was electric—arguably his best game of the season:
66.7% completion rate
333 passing yards
3 touchdowns, 0 interceptions
Perfect execution, leading Seattle forward like a force of nature.
Mahomes, too, found his rhythm again. His first half was rough—just 44.4% completions—but he adjusted at halftime. Though his overall percentage still hovered around 53%, the precision on third-down throws returned.
Kansas City refused to let the gap widen.
31–31.
Midway through the fourth quarter, the deadlock held—the tension climbing tighter and tighter.
It was a familiar situation for the Chiefs this season—too familiar.
But this time, someone stepped forward.
Someone with a different idea.
Number 23, Kansas City Chiefs—Lance.
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Powerstones?
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