Leon’s eyes immediately darted to his own teammates, his new, simplified Vision scanning their composure levels.
Most of the veterans—van Dijk, Salah, Alisson—had high composure stats, their mental fortitude a hardened shield.
But some of the younger, more attack-minded players were more vulnerable. His eyes settled on Hugo Ekitike, the young French striker making one of his first starts.
[Hugo Ekitike | Po: 91 | Cu: 84 | Composure: 72 (Susceptible)]
Leon immediately started to drift closer to his new teammate, a quiet, protective presence. He knew he couldn’t explain the system, but he could be a shield.
"Stay calm, Hugo," he murmured as he jogged past him.
"Don’t listen to their noise. Just play your game."
Ekitike, who had been looking a little nervous, gave him a grateful nod.
But Richarlison was a master of his craft.
In the 31st minute, after Ekitike had made a good run but his final shot was blocked, Richarlison jogged past him on his way back.
He didn’t do anything obvious. Just a slight, almost imperceptible shoulder barge and a single, whispered word in French that Leon couldn’t hear, but he saw the effect instantly.
Ekitike’s face flushed with anger. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝✦𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✦𝕟𝕖𝕥
The system confirmed it:
[Hugo Ekitike - Status: Frustration (Level 1)].
Two minutes later, Ekitike, trying too hard to prove himself, snatched at a difficult chance, blasting the ball high into the stands.
The frustration was making him sloppy. The ’Mental Disruptor’ was working.
The sloppy shot led to a Spurs goal kick, and they launched a swift, dangerous counter-attack. Ekitike, desperate to make up for his mistake, sprinted back but was clumsy in his challenge, committing a clear foul just outside the penalty area.
The referee’s whistle was shrill. Free kick to Spurs in a deadly position.
"THIS IS A DISASTER FOR LIVERPOOL!" the commentator roared. "A moment of frustration from the young striker Ekitike, and he has gifted James Maddison a golden opportunity! You do not want to give a man with his quality a chance !"
Maddison placed the ball with the confident swagger of a man who knew he was about to do something special.
He took a short, stutter-step run-up and struck the ball with a beautiful, curling technique.
It flew up and over the wall, a perfect, painted arc, before dipping viciously into the top corner.
Alisson, at full stretch, got a fingertip to it, but it wasn’t enough.
1-0 to Tottenham. The home crowd erupted.
Ekitike just stood there, his hands on his head, a picture of pure devastation.
He had let the mind games get to him, and it had cost his team a goal.
The goal was a wake-up call for Liverpool.
The game had been a cagey, tactical affair, but now they were behind. They needed to respond.
In the 38th minute, the ball came to Leon in the midfield. He had space. He thought of the new skill burning a hole in his digital pocket.
’Power Shot - Level 1’.
This was the moment to test it. He looked up, saw the goal, and unleashed a shot.
There was an extra, explosive kick
The ball flew like a rising, venomous projectile, aimed for the top corner.
It was a magnificent strike. But the Spurs goalkeeper, Guglielmo Vicario, was a world-class keeper.
He launched himself into an acrobatic, one-handed save, just managing to tip the ball over the bar.
A collective groan went through the away fans. Leon just smiled, a slow, dangerous grin. It works, he thought.
It’s stronger. But it’s not enough. Not yet. I need more points.
The powerful shot, however, had earned them a corner.
The big men, van Dijk and Konaté, jogged up from the back.
Trent Alexander-Arnold placed the ball, a look of intense concentration on his face.
He whipped in a perfect, in-swinging delivery, a cross of such pace and precision that it was a defender’s nightmare.
And rising to meet it, a colossal, unstoppable force of nature, was the Liverpool captain, Virgil van Dijk.
He hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, out-muscling his marker, and met the ball with a header of pure, unadulterated authority.
The ball flew into the back of the net before the keeper could even react.
Van Dijk roared, a primal scream of leadership, beating the crest on his chest as his teammates mobbed him.
He had taken one look at his rattled, frustrated team and decided to take matters into his own hands.
That was what a captain did.
"A GOAL OF PURE, UNADULTERATED AUTHORITY!" the commentator screamed.
"The captain, Virgil van Dijk, has dragged his team back into this match! A header of such power and precision, it was less a goal and more a statement of intent! We are level! What a game!"
Richarlison was still buzzing around, a constant, annoying presence, whispering dark nothings and delivering sneaky, off-the-ball nudges.
But Ekitike, with the help of a quiet, reassuring word from Leon, was now ignoring him, his focus back on the game.
The clock ticked over to 42:00. The intensity was still at a fever pitch.
A loose ball was contested near the touchline by Richarlison and Trent Alexander-Arnold.
Trent, with his superior technique, won the ball cleanly.
As he turned to play a pass, Richarlison, never one to let things go, gave him a little, unnecessary shove from behind, sending the Liverpool fullback tumbling over the line.
It wasn’t a bad foul, but it was cynical. It was annoying. And Trent, whose composure was not his strongest attribute, snapped.
He jumped to his feet, getting right in Richarlison’s face.
"What was that for?!" he yelled, their foreheads almost touching.
Richarlison just smiled, a slow, infuriating, crocodile smile.
"Welcome to the Premier League, pretty boy," he murmured, his voice a low taunt. "Your fancy yellow boots can’t help you here."
The two players squared up, a storm of angry words and puffed-out chests.
The referee sprinted over, his whistle blowing frantically.
He was about to issue yellow cards to both when the halftime whistle blew, a blessed, welcome relief from the escalating tension.
As the players walked towards the tunnel, Trent was still fuming, having to be held back by a calm Andy Robertson.
Richarlison just trotted off, a smug, satisfied look on his face.
He hadn’t won a foul. He hadn’t created a chance. But he had found a new target.
He had planted a seed of frustration in one of Liverpool’s most important creative players.
Leon watched it all, a cold, analytical understanding in his mind.
The ’Mental Disruptor’ had failed to break the young, inexperienced striker.
So now, it was going after the fiery, passionate superstar.
And as his Vision confirmed the new, ominous status effect, he knew the second half was going to be a completely different kind of battle.
[Trent Alexander-Arnold - Status: Frustration (Level 2) - Highly Susceptible to Provocation.]