Mateo adjusted his breathing.
The truth was clear now:
He was alone.
If he wanted to change the course of this match, he couldn't rely on anyone.
He had to do it himself.
The ball rolled toward him at midfield.
Without hesitation, Mateo took off.
One flick past the first defender.A quick sidestep to leave the second behind.A sudden acceleration to glide past the third.And a sharp feint that made the fourth dive into empty space.
The Uruguayan defenders scrambled helplessly.
The stadium gasped.
The commentators fell silent for a brief second — stunned.
Mateo surged toward the penalty box, the goal in his sights.
But then —crash!
A heavy body slammed into him from the side.
Mateo stumbled, lost control of the ball, and tumbled to the grass.
When he looked up, he saw him:
Nico Rivas.
The forward towered over him, face twisted with mock anger.
"¡Jugá bien, estrellita!" Nico barked, shoving Mateo roughly by the shoulder.
For a split second,Mateo's vision blurred red with fury.
The injustice.The betrayal.
He felt the impulse to strike back.
But—
[Passive Skill Activated: Emotional Anchor]+10% resistance to mental fatigue.+10% stress resistance.
A wave of calm washed over him.
His hands unclenched.
His breathing steadied.
He stood up slowly, brushing the dirt off his shorts, without responding to Nico's shove.
Nico smirked — a twisted smile, annoyed that he hadn't provoked a reaction.
The match continued.
But the venom was far from gone.
Minutes later, a brutal tackle by a Uruguayan defender sent Nico sprawling to the ground.
The Argentine players immediately swarmed in, shoving and shouting.
The Uruguayan defender, tall and broad-shouldered, didn't back down.
Instead, he laughed mockingly and shouted:
"¡Todos unos mediocres!El único decente es ese pibe — ¡Mateo!Pero con la manga de inútiles que tiene, no puede hacer nada."
The words exploded like a grenade.
Nico sprang up, face livid, and without thinking, swung a fist toward the Uruguayan defender.
Mateo instinctively moved to calm him —but before he could even raise a hand,
WHAM!
Nico spun and punched Mateo square in the face.
The world tilted for a moment.Pain blossomed along Mateo's cheekbone.
Gasps echoed through the stadium.
Even the commentators shouted:
"¡¿Qué está haciendo Rivas?!"
Mateo, his patience finally shattered, shoved Nico back violently.
Another Argentine player rushed in, throwing a punch at Mateo.
Mateo dodged, blocked, instinctively pushing away another that tried to grab him.
Within seconds, chaos erupted.
Fists flying.Shouts.Curses.
Argentine players attacking one of their own.
The referee and his assistants charged into the mess, blowing their whistles furiously.Even several Uruguayan players, stunned by the scene, hurried in to separate the fighting players.
Mateo stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, fists clenched.
Not because he wanted to fight.
But becausehe refused to be crushed.
Not by enemies.
Not even by "teammates."
As the assistant referees dragged players apart and the referee pulled out cards from his pocket,Mateo realized something deep and irreversible:
He was at war.Alone.
And now the whole world was watching.