"Useless! Bloody useless! You're a complete waste of space!"
The portly manager of Brambleford Wanderers, a man named Harrison, was screaming hysterically on the touchline. The rain had plastered his thinning hair to his scalp, making his already flushed face appear even more grotesque.
The sparse crowd in the stands offered no sympathy either, their sharp taunts cutting into Arthur King's heart like knives.
An English eighth-tier league match. A rainy night. A relegation dogfight.
Arthur had just lost the ball—again.
He'd tried to mimic the slick moves of the stars he saw on TV, attempting a clever drag-back turn to shake his marker. Instead, his foot slipped, his body contorted into an awkward angle, and the opposing defender easily stripped him of possession.
A swift counter-attack followed. A dark shadow darted through the box, and the ball hit the back of the net.
0-1.
Only three minutes remained. This goal was almost certainly a death sentence—relegation for Brambleford Wanderers.
Arthur gritted his teeth, his soaked kit clinging coldly to his skin. Mud splattered his thighs, and every breath tasted of iron and rain.
He knew he was rubbish. Rubbish to the core.
He had the looks—a handsome face even the substitutes envied, a tall, well-built frame. But on the pitch, these assets became a joke. His movements were stiff, like a marionette with tangled strings, a laughable contrast to his sun-kissed, charming features.
Yet, his love for football had never died. It was the only fire still burning inside him.
Ding!
A crisp, mechanical sound, utterly out of place amidst the roar of the crowd, echoed abruptly inside Arthur's head.
He stumbled, nearly losing his balance.
Auditory hallucination? The pressure getting to him?
"[Clueless Finisher System] activated successfully!"
"Host detected to be in extreme goal-scoring desperation. Distributing Newcomer Gift Pack…"
"[Guaranteed Goal] opportunity activated (once per match)."
Arthur's brain short-circuited.
What? Clueless Finisher System? Is it insulting me?
Before he could process it, the game shifted again. His teammates, in a last, desperate gamble, pushed forward frantically. A hopeful long ball was launched into the box, met by the opposing centre-back's clearing header.
The ball sailed, almost as if guided by some unseen force, directly towards Arthur's position.
It traced a low, awkward parabola through the air, thudded heavily into the rain-sodden turf, sending up a spray of muddy water, and then rolled towards Arthur at a painfully, laughably slow pace.
A chance?
No. This was torture.
Every eye in the ground—including those of Manager Harrison, who had already given up—was fixed on him.
Everyone knew: once the ball reached Arthur King's feet, the attack was as good as dead.
"SHOOT!"
The icy, mechanical voice in his head was a command, brooking no argument.
Arthur's body reacted almost on instinct. There was no time to think, no time to adjust his stance. He just put every ounce of strength he had into swinging his right boot towards the general direction of the goal!
It was a… catastrophic attempt.
His standing foot slipped, his body leaned back too far, the connection was weak, and the direction was wildly off target—heading straight for the corner flag.
Unrestrained laughter and jeers erupted from the stands.
"Haha, knew it!"
"Sack him, Harrison!"
Manager Harrison closed his eyes in agony, already picturing tomorrow's headlines.
But then, in the very next second, a chain of utterly improbable events unfolded.
The ball, which should have sailed harmlessly out of play, instead smacked perfectly against the heel of an opposing defender rushing out to block!
Thump!
A dull sound.
The ball caromed off at a bizarre, unnatural angle, looping back towards the goal!
The opposition goalkeeper, who had also written the shot off as harmless and was already moving to collect it, recoiled in shock. He threw himself into a desperate, scrambling dive in the opposite direction.
His fingertips… brushed the ball!
But the touch didn't parry it away. Instead, it imparted a final, cruel spin.
The ball, slow, looping, and rotating, drifted over the keeper's despairing form.
Every heart leapt into a throat.
PING!
An impossibly crisp, clear sound!
The ball… struck the far post!
It's over.
That was the single thought in everyone's mind.
But the ball, after hitting the woodwork, didn't rebound out. Instead, like the most obedient child, it rolled along the inside of the post, spinning, hesitating, seemingly toying with everyone's frayed nerves… before finally, slowly, completely, crossing the goal line.
Swish.
Goal.
The entire ground fell into dead silence.
The howl of the wind, the patter of the rain, the heavy gasps of the players—all were amplified in that frozen moment.
Time stood still.
The jeers from the stands cut off abruptly, fans left with mouths agape, expressions blank.
The opposing players, ready to celebrate, had their smiles frozen on their faces.
Manager Harrison, who had shut his eyes, opened them in confusion and witnessed the most absurd sight of his life.
The commentator's voice crackled over the PA system, laced with uncontrollable tremor and bewilderment.
"Oh?! My God… It's in! Brambleford Wanderers have… equalized! 1-1! The scorer is… Arthur King?"
Arthur stood frozen himself.
He was still holding that clumsy follow-through pose, body leaning back slightly, rainwater streaking down his handsome but utterly bewildered face.
I… scored?
In that… ridiculous fashion?
In his mind, the cold, mechanical voice rang out once more.
[First "Guaranteed Goal" mission completed.]
[Reward: Newcomer Gift Pack unlock permission granted.]
[Host, please continue your efforts. Use the most clueless methods to create the most lethal finishes.]