The moment the final whistle blew, the Brambleford Wanderers substitutes and coaching staff surged onto the pitch like madmen.
They'd stayed up!
In the most unbelievable fashion, at the very last moment, they had clawed their way back from the abyss of relegation!
Manager Harrison grabbed Arthur, who was still rooted to the spot in a daze, and thumped him hard on the back with enough force to hurt. But Arthur could feel it—Harrison's body was stiff, the hug was perfunctory. His flushed face was a twisted mask of elation and utter bewilderment.
"Well… done, lad," Harrison gritted out through his teeth, then quickly released him and turned to embrace other players.
The cramped changing room was chaos. Cheap sparkling wine sprayed everywhere.
The captain, a grizzled veteran with a stubbled chin, shoved a bottle of beer into Arthur's hand and winked. "Who the fuck cares how it went in? A goal's a goal! To our little hero!"
A wave of raucous laughter and whistles erupted from the surrounding teammates.
"To our lucky charm!"
"Arthur, next time you buy a lottery ticket, you'd better take me with you!"
The laughter was laced with mockery, their eyes full of probing curiosity. No one truly saw him as a hero. He was more like a suddenly lucky mascot, a figure of fun who'd hit the jackpot.
Arthur took the beer and silently drank a mouthful. The cold liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to quell the burning confusion in his mind and heart.
He sat in the corner, watching his teammates celebrate, feeling like an outsider.
He replayed the goal over and over in his head, recalling that icy voice.
The Clueless Finisher System… was it real?
"Shut the hell up, all of you!"
Manager Harrison kicked the changing room door open, silencing the noise. He'd just finished his post-match interviews, and his face looked even darker than it had on the touchline.
He strode directly over to Arthur and stared down at him.
"Arthur King."
"Yes, gaffer," Arthur said, standing up.
"Tell me," Harrison's voice was low, but packed with menace, "what the bloody hell was that? Was it on purpose? Or did you just stumble into the biggest slice of luck in all of England?"
The changing room fell dead silent.
Arthur opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could he say?
That he had a system in his head? They'd think he was mad, ship him off to a psych ward straight away.
Say it was a fluke? That was just admitting he was useless.
His silence, to Harrison, was confirmation enough.
"Right. Good." Harrison let out a short, angry laugh. He pointed a finger right at Arthur's face. "I don't care what luck you stumbled into, I'm warning you, Arthur King! Football is about skill! Training! Sweat! Not about blind luck and stupid tricks! If I ever see you attempt another idiotic move like that on my pitch, I swear, you'll be out of here faster than you can blink! Do you hear me?"
"Yes, gaffer," Arthur replied quietly.
"Hmph!" Harrison snorted heavily, turned to the whole team, and roared, "Season's over! Piss off on holiday, the lot of you! Don't let me see your ugly mugs again!"
The next day, Arthur saw the match reports at the corner newsagent.
The sports section of The Times, in a small, inconspicuous corner, carried a photo—the exact image of his clumsy, off-balance pose after the shot.
The headline was dripping with scorn: 'The Ugliest Relegation Escape Goal Ever: Lucky Waste of Space, or a Sad Day for Football?'
The article read: "…We should perhaps congratulate Brambleford Wanderers on avoiding the drop, but we cannot congratulate the scorer, Arthur King. From a technical standpoint, his attempt was an abomination. It encapsulated every mistake an amateur player could possibly make… The very existence of this goal is an insult to those players who train hard and possess actual skill. We can only assume the football gods were drunk last night."
Arthur's grip on the newspaper tightened, his knuckles turning white.
Waste of space…
Insult…
He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it violently into a bin. A nameless fury burned in his chest.
You don't understand anything.
…
A month later, the new season began.
Brambleford Wanderers faced the first round of the League Cup against a team from the division above—the seventh tier—a clearly superior opponent.
Arthur sat on the bench. Manager Harrison hadn't even included him in the warm-up.
Clearly, the gaffer was still stewing over the "fluke" goal.
The match quickly confirmed the gap in quality. The Wanderers were pinned back, defending desperately, and found themselves 0-1 down at halftime.
In the second half, Manager Harrison paced the touchline frantically. He used two of his substitutes, but it did nothing to change the game.
Time ticked away. Only ten minutes remained.
Harrison's gaze swept across the bench and finally, with immense reluctance, settled on Arthur. His eyes were full of internal struggle, as if making a painfully difficult decision.
Finally, he gritted his teeth and barked at Arthur, "Arthur! Warm up! You're on for Jamie!"
Arthur's heart leapt.
His chance!
He rushed to the touchline, doing quick stretches, his nerves jangling with a mix of tension and anticipation.
System… will it appear again?
The moment he stepped onto the pitch, he felt the increased pressure compared to last season. The opposition pressed harder, the tempo was faster, and his clumsy technique was magnified infinitely here.
His first few touches were embarrassingly poor.
Jeers rained down from the opposition fans in the stands.
"Haha, look at the big lummox!"
"Are the Wanderers that desperate? Bringing on this waste of space?"
Harrison covered his face on the sideline. He was already regretting his decision.
Just then, the Wanderers won a free-kick in the attacking half. The ball was lofted into the box, causing a scramble.
Arthur charged in too, but he was easily muscled off the ball, shoved around by the opposing defenders.
Ding!
"[Guaranteed Goal] opportunity activated!"
The icy, mechanical voice sounded again in his mind!
Arthur's spirit surged!
It's here!
He began making frantic, desperate runs through the crowd, his eyes locked on the ball in the air.
The ball was headed goalwards by the Wanderers' centre-half. The opposing keeper leapt high, punching it away with both fists!
The ball didn't travel far, dropping towards the right side of the penalty area.
An opposition defender steadied himself to clear it with a powerful kick.
Without thinking, Arthur charged towards the dropping ball like a madman!
His running style was still ungainly, but it was filled with a desperate finality!
The defender clearly didn't see Arthur as a threat. He took a calm, measured swing of his leg to boot the ball back into midfield.
However, just as his foot was about to connect with the ball, the turf beneath him—a patch of grass loosened by ninety minutes of play—suddenly gave way!
His standing foot slipped on the upturned divot!
Thump!
The defender lost his balance. His clearing kick connected with nothing but air, and he landed on the ground in a comical heap.
The ball he'd completely missed rolled perfectly into the path of the charging Arthur.
Opportunity!
Arthur's mind went blank. Only the instinct to shoot remained.
He didn't even have time to adjust. He threw himself forward in a desperate, diving header, smashing his forehead against the ball from point-blank range!
His momentum was too great. The moment he made contact, he lost his balance completely, tumbling to the ground just as the defender had, in a heap of utter狼狈.
It was an incredibly clumsy, utterly graceless dive.
The ball, connected with weakly, floated softly towards the goal.
The opposing goalkeeper, who had just scrambled to his feet, saw it unfold. His eyes widened in shock!
He launched himself into another desperate, stretching save!
But he was too late!
The ball, as if calculated by some unseen force, bobbled past his fingertips and trickled slowly, inexorably, over the goal line!
1-1! A last-gasp equalizer!
The ground fell silent once more!
The Wanderers players stood frozen for a few seconds before erupting in delirious shouts!
The opposition players were utterly dumbfounded. They stared at their fallen defender, then at Arthur lying in a heap on the turf, their faces a picture of 'what the actual fuck just happened?'.
Manager Harrison stood on the touchline, his mouth agape. The water bottle he'd just opened fell from his hand, spilling its contents all over the ground.
He was completely and utterly stunned.
Once was a coincidence.
Twice in a row… what kind of bloody monster was this?!