91: Geometry Wars

Leeds United captain Alan Thompson's studs, whistling through the air, brutally crashed into Jordan Henderson's ankle.

"Crack."

That wasn't the sound of bone breaking; it was the shin guard's lament under immense impact.

Henderson's body, like a sack with its bones removed, fell heavily onto the turf, letting out a suppressed groan of pain.

The roar of over thirty thousand home fans at Elland Road reached its peak at this moment, an primal worship of the smell of blood.

Jamie Vardy's eyes instantly turned red, and he growled, ready to charge at the perpetrator.

"Jamie! Stop!"

A cold voice came from behind. Kasper Schmeichel sprinted fifty meters from his own goal and grabbed Vardy's jersey.

"Calm down! It's a trap!"

Schmeichel's Danish-accented English carried an undeniable command.

Leeds United's players had already surrounded them, chests bumping, spewing the foulest Finlay Street slang.

A conflict was about to erupt.

The referee's sharp whistle finally pierced the chaos.

He used his body and a yellow card to forcibly separate the two teams' players.

Alan Thompson looked at the yellow card in front of him, a hint of a smug sneer even twisting his lips.

He succeeded.

At the cost of one yellow card, he crippled the opponent's midfield engine and ignited the fury of the entire stadium.

The tense atmosphere was temporarily suppressed, but a more dangerous smell of sulfur permeated the air.

The halftime whistle finally blew.

The narrow corridor leading to the away team's changing room was like a passage to hell.

Mountain-shaking, sea-howling curses and threats poured down from the stands above and on both sides.

Hartlepool's young players' chests heaved violently, their faces pale, adrenaline still burning wildly in their veins.

Old John was the last to enter the changing room, closing the door with a "bang," completely isolating that noisy world.

He took a deep breath, trying to suppress his wildly beating heart, making himself appear calm and composed.

Then, he spoke.

The voice, coming through the throat of this puppet, carried an absolute calmness and authority that did not belong to him, coming from a thousand miles away.

It was Lin Feng's voice.

"In the second half, maintain absolute calm."

"Anger is the weapon of the weak; patience is our bayonet."

"Their mindset is already unbalanced, like a group of gamblers with bloodshot eyes; mistakes will come like an avalanche."

The team doctor was spraying pain-relieving spray on Henderson's ankle. In the cold white mist, Henderson gritted his teeth and forced a "I'm okay" expression at his teammates.

Old John walked to the tactics board and picked up a marker.

His hand no longer trembled; his movements were filled with a certain bestowed, undeniable confidence.

"The boss said to imagine the field as a huge, three-dimensional international chessboard."

"Our first-half goal was a successful 'castling,' using an unexpected positional change to directly threaten the opponent's King."

"But now, they've overturned the board and want to turn this into a street fight."

"We don't follow."

His pen tip pressed heavily on the tactics board.

"In the second half, our tactical core is 'attrition.'"

"We will use continuous 'horizontal pawn moves,' passing the ball back and forth on both wings, like a pendulum, forcing their rigid defense to move left and right with us."

"Every movement is a wearing down of their physical and mental energy."

"When they are exhausted, that is when we launch our total offensive."

His gaze turned to the Icelandic prodigy, Gylfi Sigurðsson.

"Gylfi, you are our 'central bishop position.'"

"You are no longer a fixed attacking midfielder; you must move like a bishop, making wide-ranging diagonal runs across the board, attacking from angles they least expect, completely disrupting their ridiculous defensive formation."

Old John's eyes finally fell on Vardy, whose face was full of anger.

"Jamie, put away your anger."

"The opposing captain already has a yellow card; he is now the most vulnerable piece on the board."

"In the second half, use your running to toy with him, make him chase you, make him foul, make him get sent off."

"Use your brain, not your fists, to destroy him."

The blood in Vardy's eyes slowly faded, replaced by an even colder and more ruthless glint.

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.

"Got it, Boss."

The whistle for the second half blew again.

The boos at Elland Road seemed to shake the roof.

But the Hartlepool players who stepped onto the field seemed to have invisible noise-canceling headphones on; everyone's eyes were clear and focused.

The ball at their feet flowed smoothly like mercury.

From left-back Robson, to midfielder Henderson, and then to Walker on the right.

Cross pass, back pass, then cross pass again.

The ball, like a tamed sprite, danced between the blue and white jerseys, refusing to go forward.

Leeds United's players were completely enraged by this almost humiliating possession play.

They pounced wildly like a group of wildcats being teased by a laser pointer, but each time they came up empty.

"Pass it! Cowards! Why don't you bloody attack!"

Leeds United's center-back Patrick Kisnorbo roared at Henderson, who was on the ball.

Henderson didn't even look at him.

He just dragged the ball with the sole of his foot, deftly evaded a tackle, and then passed the ball back to Shawcross behind him.

Time ticked by, minute by minute.

Leeds United players' running distances increased rapidly; their lungs were like lit furnaces, every breath burning.

The match reached the 65th minute.

The opportunity finally arrived.

The captain who had fouled Henderson in the first half, Alan Thompson, completely lost his composure after continuous chasing.

He watched Sigurðsson make another diagonal run in front of him, and like a nerve constantly being provoked, it finally snapped.

He charged at the Icelander like a bull with a fierce but disorganized tackle.

A huge, fatal gap appeared accordingly.

Sigurðsson, like a top bullfighter, executed an elegant Marseille turn just before the opponent crashed into him, leaving him empty, and then made a through ball, sending the ball to the right wing.

The ball, like a precision-guided Tomahawk missile, traversed more than half the field, tearing through Leeds United's exhausted defense, accurately finding Kyle Walker.

Walker accelerated.

He was like a black phantom sports car, instantly flooring the accelerator.

Leeds United's left-back only felt a gust of wind pass by him, and when he looked back, he saw Walker's disappearing back.

He felt as if he was chasing a mirage that didn't exist.

Walker caught up with the ball near the byline, his body almost parallel to the byline.

Everyone thought he would cross.

But he used the outside of his right foot to deliver an incredible cut-back pass.

The ball skimmed the turf, with high backspin, like a venomous snake, bypassing all the panicked defenders in the penalty area.

Inside the box, Vardy was like a true "gravitational singularity," making an extremely aggressive run at the near post, forcibly drawing all the attention of the last two center-backs to himself.

"Look at me! You idiots!"

He even used trash talk to attract the opponent's hatred.

And behind him, in that vast vacuum he had forcibly created, as wide as the Siberian Plain.

Shaun Maloney, the ghostly number 7, appeared like a specter.

Within three meters of him, there was no one.

He even had time to calmly control the ball, adjust his breathing, and then, with the inside of his foot, like hitting a golf ball, easily tapped the ball into the empty net.

Two-nil.

This goal, like a cold dagger, completely pierced the heart of Elland Road.

The noise and roars abruptly ceased.

In the home stands, scattered empty seats began to appear.

Then, those empty seats merged into large sections.

The fans in white jerseys stood up, silently, walking towards the exit without looking back.

They could not accept that their team, once a Premier League giant, was being completely dismembered in such an almost humiliating way by an unknown newly promoted team.

In the final moments of the match, Old John's phone in his pocket vibrated again.

He glanced at it, then walked over to the fourth official and submitted a substitution request.

Liam Bridcutt and Peter Hartley replaced Henderson and Shawcross, who had already secured the victory.

This was Lin Feng's instruction.

This was not only to experience the League One atmosphere but also to demonstrate Hartlepool United's terrifying squad depth to the entire League.

This was a silent declaration: Our best players are off the field, and you still have no recourse.

The final whistle blew.

Hartlepool United won two-nil away against Leeds United.

The players rushed to the away stands.

They threw their jerseys into that small, yet constantly roaring blue ocean, celebrating this historic victory with the fans who had traveled so far.

The post-match press conference was packed with reporters.

Old John sat in the main seat, facing countless flashbulbs, his expression as calm as a placid rock.

He cleared his throat and took out the speech Lin Feng had prepared for him.

"This was a great victory."

"My players executed the tactics perfectly."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over every face in the audience filled with surprise and doubt, and then dropped a bombshell.

"Our goal?"

"Of course, it's the championship."

The entire press conference erupted in an uproar.

The next day, in The Times' sports section.

Sophie Green wrote in her column with a restrained but unmistakably shocked tone.

"This was not an ordinary victory; it was a declaration."

"Lin Feng's team, in the coldest and most intelligent way, announced their arrival to the entire League One."

"Their football is not simple long balls and physicality; it is a 'geometric warfare' built on precise calculations, a dimension-reduction strike capable of suffocating any opponent."

That evening, Hartlepool.

Lin Feng stood by the office window, looking down at this small northern town, celebrating wildly after a victory.

The screen of the computer on his desk suddenly lit up.

An email using the highest level of encryption protocol popped up.

The sender was his private bank manager in Switzerland.

The email content was simple: his offshore account named "Northern Capital" had just received an anonymous capital injection of five million pounds.

At the end of the email, a message from the investor was attached.

The message was short, but it made Lin Feng's pupils slightly contract.

"I am very interested in your 'geometric warfare,' and I look forward to your next performance."

The signature was two letters.

"-- K.K."