Stadio Renato Dall'Ara, Bologna.Tuesday Night. 80th Minute.Score: Bologna 1 - 1 PSG.
The match had dissolved into a slow, grinding torture.
For thirty-five minutes of the second half, Kylian Mbappé had defied medical science. With his right hamstring held together by layers of kinesiology tape and sheer, blinding adrenaline, he had reinvented himself. Unable to sprint, he became a stationary turret in the center of the pitch—a Regista distributing passes with terrifying precision.
But stationary targets don't win Champions League matches.
Bologna was suffocating them. Rio Valdes, sensing the kill, directed his team to bypass the midfield and attack the wings, stretching PSG's tired legs. The score remained 1-1, but the inevitable end was looming like a storm cloud. A draw was a loss for Mbappé. He needed a win to secure his survival.
Minute 82.The Suicide Run.
The ball fell to Mbappé just inside the Bologna half. He looked up. He saw a channel of space opening between Lucumí and Calafiori.
Rio saw it too. But Rio also saw the heat map in his mind's eye. The red warning light over Mbappé's thigh had turned a blinding, critical white. The muscle wasn't just injured; it was fraying like an old rope under too much tension.
"Don't do it," Rio whispered, too far away to be heard. "Don't run."
Mbappé didn't listen. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling the night air of Bologna one last time. Then, he activated the override.
The System detected Host No. 04 forcing Mach One on Critical Status. Safety protocols were overridden instantly.
Mbappé exploded.
It was grotesque. From the stands, it looked like a miracle—a burst of speed that shouldn't be possible. He blew past Freuler. He danced past Beukema.
But through The Eye of the Storm, Rio watched a tragedy in high definition. With every stride, Rio saw the muscle fibers in Mbappé's leg snapping one by one. Snap. Snap. Snap. It was like watching a suspension bridge collapse in slow motion. The structural integrity was gone; only pure, suicidal willpower was moving the bone forward.
Mbappé entered the penalty box. He was one-on-one with Skorupski. The pain must have been blinding—a level of agony that would make a normal human pass out. But Mbappé kept his eyes open. He cocked his right leg back to shoot.
This was his art. This was his life.
He swung his boot.
CRACK.
It wasn't the sound of the ball being kicked. It was the sound of the tendon finally detonating.
The shot lacked power. It rolled feebly across the grass, hitting the base of the post with a hollow thud and bouncing back into play.
Mbappé didn't see where the ball went. His leg gave way completely. He collapsed face-first onto the penalty spot, his scream silenced by the sudden, overwhelming shock of his nervous system shutting down.
Minute 83.The Ruthless Counter.
The ball rebounded off the post. It rolled directly to Rio Valdes, who had tracked back to the edge of his own box.
The stadium was silent, staring at the fallen superstar. The PSG players froze, hands on their heads, watching their king fall. The referee put the whistle to his lips to stop play.
But the whistle didn't blow.
By the laws of the game, until the referee blows, the match is live. And by the laws of the System, mercy is disabled.
Rio looked at the ball. Then he looked at the open field ahead. PSG had committed everyone forward for Mbappé's run. Their goal was empty. Donnarumma was still scrambling back.
Finish it, the System commanded.
Rio didn't hesitate. He couldn't afford to be human right now. He had to be a survivor. He took the ball and ran.
He sprinted past the frozen PSG midfielders. He ran past the weeping Hakimi who was running toward Mbappé, not the ball. Rio ran sixty meters alone. The wind rushed past his ears, but it felt cold. Hollow.
He reached the PSG penalty box. The goal was gaping wide. Rio tapped the ball across the line.
GOAL.Bologna 2 - 1 PSG.
There was no cheer.
The Bologna fans started to roar, but the sound died in their throats as they realized what was happening on the other side of the pitch.
Rio didn't celebrate. He picked the ball out of the net and walked back toward the center circle, his head bowed.
The Aftermath.Minute 88.
The match had been stopped for five minutes. The stretcher crew was on the field. The PSG medical team was surrounding Mbappé, their faces pale.
Rio stood a few meters away. The adrenaline of the goal had vanished, replaced by a sick feeling in his gut. He watched as they lifted Mbappé onto the stretcher. The Frenchman was conscious, but his eyes were glassy, staring up at the floodlights.
As the stretcher passed Rio, Mbappé raised a trembling hand.
"Valdes," he croaked.
Rio stepped closer, ignoring the angry shoves from the PSG staff. He leaned in.
Mbappé looked at him. The blue flicker in his pupils—the sign of the System—was fading. It was dimming like a dying star.
"I... didn't stop," Mbappé whispered, a single tear leaking from the corner of his eye. "I ran until the end."
"You did," Rio said softly. "You were fast, Kylian. The fastest."
Mbappé let out a shuddering breath. "Take it," he whispered. "The reward. Don't let it go to waste."
The stretcher moved on, carrying the broken Speed King into the tunnel. The applause from the stadium was respectful, somber, like a funeral procession.
Rio stood alone on the grass. A golden notification appeared in front of him, oblivious to the tragedy.
The System declared him the Duel Winner. Host No. 04 was marked as CRITICAL / RETIRED. The Bonus Reward was unlocked: Skill Steal.
Rio swiped the notification away violently. He didn't want to look at it. Not yet.
Full Time.Bologna 2 - 1 PSG.
The final whistle blew shortly after the restart. The game had lost its soul the moment Mbappé fell. PSG played the final minutes like ghosts, shell-shocked. Bologna defended quietly, securing the win.
In the mixed zone, journalists were in a frenzy. Reports were already leaking: Torn hamstring tendon. Possible nerve damage. Surgery required immediately. Season over.
Rio walked past the cameras without saying a word. He ignored the microphones thrust in his face. He found a quiet corner in the tunnel, leaning his forehead against the cool concrete wall.
He checked his lifespan. 238 Days.
He hadn't lost time. He had won. But he felt heavier. He had defeated Liverpool and Benfica with joy. He had beaten Real Madrid with pride. But this... this was butchery.
"System," Rio whispered, tasting bile in his throat. "Is this how it ends? For all of us?"
The answer appeared in cold text: Only one can reach the summit.
Rio laughed, a bitter, dry sound that echoed in the empty corridor. He pulled up the Skill Steal menu. He owed it to Mbappé to take the prize, but looking at the options felt like looting a corpse.
Three spectral cards floated before him.
The first was Mach One (Unique Skill). Rio stared at it, and for a moment, he didn't see a skill. He saw Mbappé's tendon exploding. He saw the career-ending snap. It wasn't a gift; it was a curse wrapped in gold. A weapon that killed its user.
"I don't want your curse, Kylian," Rio muttered, his hand trembling slightly. "I won't destroy myself for speed."
He looked at the second option, Explosive Twitch. Pure Grade S acceleration. Useful, but physical. It still relied on the body, and Rio knew his body was already under immense strain.
Then, his eyes settled on the third card: Rapid Processing (Passive). The description promised a permanent 10% slowing of perceived time. A mental upgrade.
Rio felt a wave of nausea. This was the logical choice. The survivor's choice. While Mbappé had bet everything on his body, Rio would bet on his mind. It felt cold. It felt calculating. It felt like he was stripping the intelligence straight out of Mbappé's brain.
"I'm sorry," Rio whispered.
He reached out and touched the card.
[Skill Acquired: Rapid Processing (Grade A).][Integration starting... 3... 2... 1...]
A sensation like ice water poured directly into his skull.
Rio gasped, clutching his head. The headache from The Eye of the Storm vanished instantly, replaced by a terrifying clarity.
The hum of the vending machine down the hall slowed down. The distant shouting of the journalists separated into distinct, individual words. He could hear the drip of water from a pipe ten meters away.
The world hadn't changed. He had just become faster than it.
Rio pushed himself off the wall. He wiped the sweat from his face. He had survived the predator. He had stolen a piece of his power. He was stronger now. Faster mentally.
But as he walked toward the team bus, the silence in his head was deafening. He wasn't playing a game anymore. He was the last survivor in a graveyard of gods, and he had just buried the King.