The shot was powerful despite his awkward body position, the ball staying low to the ground and heading toward the bottom corner with pace. Kepa somehow recovered from his original dive and threw himself across his goal again, diving full stretch with his right hand extended and his body horizontal, and his fingertips made contact with the ball just enough to divert it over the crossbar for a corner. Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs NoveI-Fire.ɴet
"Unlucky!" Malinovskiy shouted while running past and slapping Demien’s shoulder. "Great strike! The keeper made a brilliant save there!"
The corner came to nothing as Chelsea cleared it to safety, but the effort was there and the quality was visible.
At the 90th minute the fourth official’s electronic board went up on the touchline showing three minutes of added time in bright red numbers.
Chelsea played keep-ball now with the game winding down, circulating possession comfortably across their back line and through midfield with simple passes that ran down the clock. Pulisic to Barkley to Chilwell to Kepa and back out again, patient and controlled. Atalanta pressed half-heartedly without the same intensity from earlier in the half, and this was pre-season football where risking injuries for a meaningless comeback at three-two down made no tactical sense.
Demien jogged in the spaces between Chelsea’s lines while his legs burned with accumulated fatigue, sweat dripping from his face onto the Stamford Bridge turf that was starting to look beautiful in the late afternoon light.
The referee checked his watch while play continued, the seconds ticking down toward full time.
At 90+3 the whistle blew sharp and final.
FULL TIME: Chelsea 3-2 Atalanta
Demien bent over immediately with his hands on his knees, breathing hard while his chest heaved and his legs trembled slightly from the effort. The stadium sounds felt distant and muffled as his ears rang, and he stayed bent over for a few seconds while catching his breath and letting his heart rate come down from where it had been hammering.
Then the system activated without warning.
A blue panel materialized at the edge of his vision, flooding with text and numbers that scrolled faster than he could initially process while his oxygen-deprived brain caught up.
「MISSION COMPLETE: Stamford Bridge Statement」
「ALL OBJECTIVES ACHIEVED:」
「✓ Play minimum 30 minutes: 45 minutes played」
「✓ Complete 80% of passes: 87% (26/30)」
「✓ Create 1 clear chance: 2 created」
「✓ Win 3+ duels: 5 won」
「✓ Maintain 7.0+ match rating: 8.0 final rating」
「• Base Reward: 20 TP」
「• ALL Objectives Bonus: +30 TP + 5 SP」
「• Special Assist Reward: +5 MP」
「MATCH PERFORMANCE REWARDS:」
「• Base Match Performance: 6 MP」
「• Assist Bonus: +3 MP」
「• High Rating Bonus (8.0+): +2 MP」
「• Total Match Points: 11 MP」
「TOTAL REWARDS SUMMARY:」
「• Training Points: +50 TP」
「• Special Points: +5 SP」
「• Match Points: +16 MP (11 from match + 5 bonus)」
「UPDATED BALANCE: 274 TP | 15 SP | 66 MP」
「PERFORMANCE STATISTICS:」
「• Minutes Played: 45」
「• Pass Completion: 87% (26/30)」
「• Distance Covered: 5.1 km」
「• Final Match Rating: 8.0/10」
Demien stared at the numbers floating in his vision while his chest still heaved with labored breathing, and the magnitude of what had just happened started sinking in properly. Fifty training points earned in forty-five minutes, five special points that usually took weeks to accumulate, sixty-six match points total in his account, and an 8.0 rating that validated everything.
One assist at Stamford Bridge against Chelsea in his first-team debut.
Malinovskiy walked over and pulled him into a hug, the Ukrainian’s arms wrapping around his shoulders while his voice carried genuine warmth. "Welcome to first-team football, kid. That was a hell of a performance for your debut."
"Thanks," Demien managed while his voice came out rough from breathing hard and shouting during the match.
Højlund jogged over with a grin spread wide across his face, still riding the high of scoring at Stamford Bridge. "That pass though, bro. I didn’t even see the run developing until the ball was already on its way. You saw it before I did."
Demien smiled tiredly while his body was starting to feel every kilometer he’d covered. "Just playing what I saw."
"Whatever magic you’re doing up there, keep doing it," Højlund said while clapping his shoulder hard enough to rock him slightly. "We need that vision in the squad."
They walked toward the tunnel together while the away section applauded the effort despite the loss, a few hundred voices showing appreciation for the performance even though the result hadn’t gone their way.
Gasperini waited at the edge of the touchline near the tunnel entrance, and as Demien passed by the coach grabbed his shoulder firmly with his hand.
"Good performance," Gasperini said while his eyes were serious but approving, the look of a coach who had just seen something he liked. "That vision, that assist, the way you found space between their lines—that’s exactly what we need from that position in our system. Keep working, keep improving, and you’ll have opportunities."
"Thank you, Mister," Demien replied while meeting the coach’s eyes directly.
"You’ve shown me something today that confirms what I saw in training," Gasperini continued while his hand was still on Demien’s shoulder. "Now show me you can do it consistently, not just once but every time you step on the pitch."
Demien nodded once while the weight of those words settled on his shoulders like a mantle being placed, and he continued into the tunnel.
The corridor was noticeably cooler than the pitch, the noise from the stadium fading behind them as they walked deeper into the bowels of Stamford Bridge. His legs felt like jelly underneath him, his shirt was soaked completely through with sweat that was starting to cool uncomfortably, and his boots felt like they weighed ten pounds each while he forced one foot in front of the other.
But as they reached the dressing room door, Demien stopped and looked back one more time toward the tunnel opening, toward the pitch beyond it, toward Stamford Bridge where forty thousand people had just watched him announce himself to the football world in forty-five minutes of professional football.
First mission complete with all objectives achieved. 274 training points in the bank, 15 special points saved up, 66 match points accumulated. First professional assist with a perfectly weighted pass. 8.0 rating that said he belonged at this level.
David Drinkwater had spent thirty-seven years being called a joke by everyone who knew his name, mocked as a club whore who collected transfers instead of trophies.
Demien Walter just walked off the pitch at Stamford Bridge with an assist and an 8.0 rating in his first-team debut at eighteen years old.
The door closed behind him with a heavy sound that echoed down the corridor, and that sound felt like a promise being made to himself.
This is just the beginning.