Port Vale's players huddled around their captain, their breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The referee's whistle had just signaled the kickoff after Jamie Allen's second goal, but already, cracks were beginning to show in their resolve. The aggression they had started with was gone, replaced by hesitation and unease. Burton Albion was dismantling them, piece by calculated piece.
Burton's defensive line stood firm as Port Vale tried to rally. Their passes were sharper now, their movements more deliberate, as they sought to claw their way back into the match. Gareth Holloway paced the touchline, barking instructions in clipped tones. "Keep it tight. No more mistakes!" he shouted, his voice tinged with desperation. But even as he issued the commands, a part of him knew it wouldn't be enough. Burton's rhythm had a way of grinding opponents down, sapping their confidence until they had nothing left to give.
Victor Kane watched the field intently, his arms folded across his chest. His players moved with purpose, their synergy a result of months of relentless training under his guidance. He raised a hand—a simple but precise signal—and his team adjusted seamlessly, as if the decision had been theirs all along. It was the Coil Maneuver in full effect, and Port Vale was beginning to feel its grip tighten.
The change was almost imperceptible at first. Burton's midfield pulled back slightly, giving Port Vale the illusion of space. Their attackers pushed forward, sensing an opportunity to strike. But the moment they committed to the attack, the trap was sprung. Burton surged forward with terrifying speed, their counterattack as fluid and devastating as a wave crashing onto the shore.
Quinn intercepted a stray pass near the center circle, flicking it to Akins with an almost casual precision. Akins turned sharply, shrugging off a defender and threading the ball through to Templeton, who was already in full flight down the left wing. The stadium buzzed with anticipation as Templeton closed in on the penalty area. His cross was low and fast, cutting through Port Vale's defense like a blade. Allen met it with a deft touch, sending the ball spinning toward the far post. The keeper dove desperately, but it was too late. The ball hit the back of the net, and Burton's lead grew to three.
The roar from the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that reverberated through the stadium. Fans jumped from their seats, their arms raised in triumph. Martin, sitting in his usual spot at The Yellow Lion, slammed his hand on the table so hard his pint nearly toppled over. "Did you see that? They're untouchable!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the cheering around him. Gary grinned, leaning back in his chair. "It's like watching magic. Absolute magic."
On the field, Port Vale's players were frozen in place, their faces a mix of disbelief and frustration. Holloway looked to the sky, muttering something under his breath before turning to his assistant. "We need to change this. Now," he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. Fletcher nodded, pulling out the tactical board. "We can try to double up on their wingers, but they're moving too fast."
In the commentary box, David Fletcher's voice was almost breathless as he analyzed the play. "That counter was clinical. Look at how they transitioned from defense to attack—it's seamless. Port Vale didn't stand a chance." Richard Barnes shook his head, a trace of awe in his voice.
Burton was relentless. Their dominance wasn't just in the goals they scored but in the way they controlled every aspect of the game. Every tackle, every interception, every pass seemed to be part of a larger plan, orchestrated with precision by Kane from the sidelines. Port Vale's frustration boiled over in the 64th minute when their captain, caught out of position, slid in late on Templeton, earning himself a yellow card. The foul only seemed to spur Burton on.
Victor remained stoic as he watched his team execute his vision to perfection. The Snake Tactics Manual pulsed faintly in his mind, the glowing symbols confirming what he already knew: Burton was evolving. With each goal, each play, the system grew stronger, more refined.
In the 72nd minute, Burton struck again. This time it was Akins who found the back of the net, his towering header converting a perfectly weighted cross from Quinn. The scoreboard read 4-0, and the stadium erupted once more. The fans were in ecstasy, their voices uniting in chants that shook the very foundations of the stadium. At The Yellow Lion, Martin clinked his glass against Gary's, a wide grin on his face. "This is art."
Port Vale finally managed a breakthrough in the 78th minute, a scrappy goal that came from a defensive mix-up. The ball bounced awkwardly in the box before being poked past the keeper. It was a fleeting moment of triumph for Holloway's side, and while their fans cheered, the celebration felt hollow. The goal didn't change the flow of the match; it merely added a footnote to Burton's dominance.
As the final minutes of the game ticked away, Victor prepared for one last push. He could sense the exhaustion in Port Vale's players, their movements sluggish and their passes desperate. Burton, by contrast, seemed to grow stronger with every passing minute.