Once. Twice. Three, four, five times—the tests kept coming one after another. Just as expected, the defending champions had become everyone's target practice, a bullseye that every team aimed to hit.
Everyone wanted to defeat the Kansas City Chiefs. Everyone grew more excited, more energized when facing them. Everyone wanted to drag down the reigning kings.
And so—the season became brutally difficult.
No exceptions today either. Once again, the Chiefs were locked in a grueling, dead-even war. Even though they had edged out the Ravens in overtime, they had already been beaten three separate times this year by last-second game-winners. The bitter taste of defeat was piling up, far more than enough.
Against the Seattle Seahawks, this game seemed to be heading down the same road.
Bit by bit, like sand slipping through fingers—the tighter you gripped, the faster it fell away. That was the feeling right now.
Before the season, Reid had warned the team. This was the fate of champions. This was the price of becoming a true powerhouse—the constant challenges, the constant struggles. But it was only now, in the thick of it, that the Chiefs truly understood what he meant.
Finally, the truth sank in.
No wonder no NFL team had repeated as champion in fifteen years. Even across the long Super Bowl era, only a handful had managed it.
A tug-of-war. Endless grappling. A deadlock.
This time, someone stepped forward.
This time, someone made his voice heard, strong and undeniable:
"…Oh, fake run, real pass!"
"Mahomes and Lance's flawless exchange completely fooled Seattle's defensive front—the Chiefs selling the screen and short pass misdirection perfectly."
"Mahomes is scanning, Mahomes is moving."
"Oh my God, the target is Lance!"
"Jesus Christ! The Chiefs' dizzying web of misdirection completely broke Seattle's coverage—Mahomes hits Lance with a three-yard short pass."
"Wagner! The Seahawks' Boom Corps veteran reacts instantly—closing in!"
"Wagner wraps Lance!"
"Lance breaks free! Unbelievable! He drives his knees high, powering through, and shakes Wagner loose!"
"He stumbles—loses balance—but scrambles with hands and feet to steady himself. He's still moving. He's still driving forward!"
"Seattle's secondary reacts quickly, cutting him off before the damage grows—but Lance still gains fifteen yards and a first down!"
"No—fake again! It's a lateral to Lance!"
"He bursts through the slot—Wagner's already there, positioning ahead of him!"
"A Marseille turn! Lance stops on a dime, spins full 360 right past Wagner!"
"Wagner's a statue—like a pillar in the ground!"
"Incredible! Wagner never saw it coming—his feet frozen, completely stunned—staggering, losing balance."
"A humiliation—Lance just made Wagner look like a toddler."
"Lance accelerates—storming forward, tearing straight into Seattle's heart."
"Safety McDougald is waiting—he's the last line."
"Lance flattens McDougald! Like a paper doll—swept aside as if nothing! The whole stadium falls into dead silence!"
"No one left! Seattle's backfield is wide open—his playground!"
"Straight through! One strike, kill shot!"
"Touchdown! The Chiefs take back the lead!"
"A twenty-three yard rushing touchdown by Lance—Seattle had no answer!"
"On this drive, Wagner lost to Lance twice head-on, and that was the turning point. Lance was strong, fierce, smart—blasting through to score."
"The Chiefs refuse to lose another heartbreaker like the last three times!"
Hard. Strong. Ruthless.
Lance bulldozed through, turning the game around. The noise and curses of CenturyLink were choked off in an instant, the home crowd stunned into silence near the game's end.
And in the end zone—Lance stood like a blood-soaked war god.
No cheers. No screams. No celebration. He ignored the shocked stadium, just turned and gestured to his teammates—
Not enough. This isn't enough.
That handsome face carried a cold, sharp killing intent.
The game wasn't over. One touchdown wasn't reason to celebrate.
Everyone wanted to beat them. Everyone wanted to drag them into the mud. Everyone thought they were vulnerable in critical road games—because the league hadn't yet seen their real energy.
He wouldn't settle. They had to keep pressing, crush all doubt, destroy the opponent right here at the peak.
At that same moment, Annie and Felix held their breath, sitting quietly in their chairs in the chemotherapy ward, listening to the radio.
"Not enough, Lance said."
And just like that, the Chiefs' defense, who had been fist-pumping and roaring, went still—like assassins reminded of their mission.
The Chiefs weren't satisfied. They would keep pushing.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Annie's heart pounded, as if she too stood at CenturyLink, facing the furious roar of the Seahawks' fans head-on.
She knew—the Chiefs always found a way in the darkest moments. Always. Never underestimate their resilience.
And they hadn't even seen the Chiefs' true playoff form yet.
"Sack! Chris Jones and Justin Houston combine to bring down Wilson—the Seahawks' offense gets crushed on their very first snap!"
"Wilson escapes the pocket, scrambling, looking, scanning downfield."
"Denied! The Chiefs' secondary stayed locked in, perfectly reading Wilson's plan—cutting off every target."
"Stopped! Three and out!"
"Wow! Chiefs' third-year lineman Jones sniffs out Wilson's option play—just as Wilson tries to run, Jones bursts in and shuts him down clean. No chance."
"The defending champions unleash incredible power—instantly flipping the balance of the game!"
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