Leon's heart, which had been soaring, suddenly felt very heavy. The Professor was right. He had given him a compliment, and then, in the same breath, given him his 'final-exam'.

Bianchi took one last, pained sip of his terrible tea. He stood up. Sofia stood too, her hand still holding Leon's.

"It was… 'illuminating'… to 'observe', Leon," Bianchi said. He didn't smile. He just… analyzed. "Show me what happens… when your 'avalanche' hits a 'wall', Leon. That… will be 'fascinating'."

He turned to his daughter, his face softening for the first time. "Sofia. You are… 'glowing'. Do not let him… 'stress-the-baby'... with his 'tactical-suicide-missions'."

"I'll try, Papa," Sofia smiled, kissing his cheek.

And with that, the 'pope of the 4-3-3' was gone, disappearing into the crowd of happy, scone-eating Apex fans.

Leon just sat there, his mind a complete, buzzing blank.

"So…" Sofia said, sitting back down and rubbing her belly. "That went… well? I think? For him, that was a 'rave-review'."

Leon looked at his wife, a slow, terrified, and utterly brilliant grin spreading across his face. "He... he thinks I'm fascinating, Sof. He called me an 'avalanche'. He... he thinks I'm insane. It's... it's the best day of my life."

An hour later, Leon walked into the "war-room" (his tiny, damp office). Biyon, his leg propped up on his 'Eagle's Nest' golf-cart, was demolishing a box of pizza. Walter Samuel was in the corner, meticulously, almost-lovingly, cleaning the 'Secret Service' earpiece with a cotton-bud.

"SO!" Biyon roared, his mouth full of pepperoni. "The 'Final-Boss-of-Tactics'! Did he 'pass' you? Or did he 'fail' you? Did he try to 'sign-you-up-for-his-PhD-program'?"

"He…" Leon said, leaning against the door, "…called us a 'controlled-avalanche'."

Biyon froze. The slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide. A slow, beautiful, beatific smile spread across his face. He looked like he had just seen the 'face-of-God'.

"A… 'Controlled'… 'Avalanche'?" he whispered, his voice full of a new, religious-fervour. "A… 'WEAPONIZED-GEOLOGICAL-EVENT'? LEON! THAT IS THE COOLEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD!"

He grabbed his crutches and hopped around the room, a 'one-legged-dance-of-pure-joy'. "WE ARE NOT A TEAM! WE ARE A 'FORCE-OF-NATURE'! A 'TACTICAL-LANDSLIDE'! A 'BEAUTIFUL-MUD-TSUNAMI'! WE NEED T-SHIRTS! WE NEED A 'MASCOT'! A 'VERY-ANGRY-SNOWMAN'!"

"But," Leon said, holding up his hands, "he also said it's a 'blunt-instrument'."

"BAH!" Biyon waved a crutch, dismissing 'blunt-instruments'. "BLUNT IS 'GOOD'! BLUNT IS 'HONEST'! 'BLUNT'… 'HURTS'!"

"He said…" Leon continued, "…a 'proper-system' will beat us. Every. Single. Time."

The room went quiet. Even Biyon stopped his 'dance'.

Walter Samuel, having finished cleaning the earpiece, spoke. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble.

"An avalanche… is 'messy'," Walter said. "A 'wall'… is 'strong'. The Professor… is 'correct'."

Biyon pointed his crutch at Walter. "No! He is 'boring'! 'Systems' are for 'computers'! 'Avalanches' are for 'HEROES'!"

This was the new 'coaching-dynamic'. Biyon, the 'heart'. Walter, the 'brain'. And Leon… Leon was the 'stressed-out-gaffer' in the middle.

"He's right, though, Biyon," Leon said, his voice quiet. "The 'avalanche' worked against Farsley because they got 'scared'. They got 'confused'. But what happens when we play a team that… isn't?"

He walked over to the league table. They were on -10 points. But the 'Great Escape' wasn't just about 'vibes'. It was about 'maths'. They needed wins, not just 'glorious-draws'.

He pointed to their next opponent. "Hereford."

Biyon's face darkened. "Ooooh. Them. The 'Boring-Boring-Hereford'."

Hereford FC. First place. Undefeated. They hadn't 'lost' a game; they had 'failed-to-win' two. They had scored 14 goals. And conceded… two. All season. They were the 'Anti-Apex'. They were a 'proper-system'.

They were, Leon realized, the 'wall' his Professor had just warned him about.

The match was away. Hereford's stadium wasn't 'post-apocalyptic' like Scarborough. It was… 'nice'. It was 'clean'. The pitch was 'perfect'. The fans didn't 'roar'; they 'clapped-politely'. It was horrible.

Leon felt a new kind of pressure. He wasn't just fighting for '-10-points'. He was fighting for his 'philosophy'.

The whistle blew. Leon, Walter, and their 'banned' tactical-ghost on the radio, unleashed their 'Controlled-Avalanche'.

And it… did nothing.

It was like 'punching-a-pillow'. Hereford just… absorbed it. The 'Badger' would fly in for a 'joyous-tackle'… and the Hereford midfielder would just… pass the ball, a simple, 'boring', five-yard-pass. 'The Racehorse' would try to 'run-at-them'… and the Hereford defender would just… 'shepherd-him-down-the-line'.

They weren't 'scared'. They weren't 'confused'. They were just… 'better'.

In the 31st minute, Hereford did the 'most-Hereford-thing-imaginable'. They passed. And passed. And passed. Ten, simple, 'boring' passes. It wasn't an 'avalanche'. It was 'water-erosion'. A simple cross. A simple header. 1-0. The crowd 'clapped-politely'.

Leon felt sick.

The crackle in Walter's ear was so loud, Leon could hear it from five-feet-away.

"What's Biyon saying?" Leon asked, his voice dead.

Walter listened, his face a mask. "He is… 'unhappy'," Walter rumbled. "He says… this is 'tactical-boredom'. He says… they are 'boring-us-to-death'. He says… we must 'do-the-Chaos-Bomb'."

Leon looked at the pitch. His 'Chaos-Bomb' wouldn't work. The 'avalanche' was just... 'sliding-off-the-wall'.

He looked at Walter. "What do you see, Walter?"

Walter Samuel looked at the pitch for a long, slow, ten-seconds. "The 'wall'... is not 'moving'," he said. "You are… 'hitting-the-wall'. Again. And again." He looked at Leon. "Do not… 'hit-it'. 'Go-around-it'."

'Go-around-it'.

A lightbulb went on in Leon's head. It wasn't a 'Biyon-idea' (chaos). And it wasn't a 'Bianchi-idea' (system). It was a 'Walter-idea'. It was 'practical'.

He waited until halftime. The locker room was quiet. Defeated.

"Right," Leon said, his voice suddenly full of a new, sharp, smart energy. "It's not working. We're trying to smash a 'wall' with our 'heads'. We're not doing that anymore."

He grabbed Jamie Scott, the 'Racehorse'. "Jamie. You're our 'fastest-player', right? But you keep 'cutting-in', into the 'traffic'. You're 'hitting-the-wall'."

"But… gaffer… I'm trying to 'interpret-the-space'!" Jamie said, remembering his 'confusing-butterfly' instructions.

"Forget 'interpreting'!" Leon said. "I want you to 'run'. Just… 'run'. 'Straight'. 'That-way'," he pointed to the corner-flag on the tactics-board. "Don't 'cut-in'. 'Go-around'. 'Go-around-the-wall'. As fast as you can. For 45 minutes. Can you do that?"

Jamie Scott, a man who had been 'baffled-by-philosophy', was suddenly 'liberated-by-simplicity'. He just grinned. "Run... fast? Gaffer, that... I can do."

The second half started. And for 40 minutes, it was… the same. Boring. Hereford 1, Apex 0. Jamie just... ran. He ran 'around-the-wall'. He got the ball. He lost the ball. But he kept... 'running'.

The Hereford left-back, who had had a 'boring', 'easy' first-half, was now 'sweating'. He was 'tired'. He was 'chasing'.

88th minute. The 'wall' was, for the first time, 'cracked'. Dave the baker, from his 'non-regista' position, saw the 'run'. He played a simple, hopeful, 'baker's-ball' over the top.

Jamie Scott was gone. He was 'around-the-wall'.

He didn't 'cut-in'. He didn't 'think'. He just… 'ran'. He got to the by-line. He didn't 'look-up'. He just… 'smashed' the ball across the six-yard box, a "pass-of-pure-unadulterated-hope'.

And who was there, charging in, not like a 'system' but like an 'avalanche'?

Liam Doyle. The 'Badger'.

He slid. He connected. The ball hit the back of the net.

1-1.

The 'polite-clapping' was 'drowned-out' by the 'savage-roars' of the tiny, 'mad' Apex-contingent.

The final whistle blew. They had done it. They had 'stolen' a point from the 'unbeatable-wall'.

They were on -9 points.

They were, officially, in 'single-digits'.

That night, on the quiet, 'proudly-silent' bus, Leon's phone buzzed. It was the "Apex-Liverpool Philosophical Alliance" group chat.

[Julián Álvarez]: A 'TACTICAL-PICKPOCKET'! A 'POINT-STOLEN-FROM-THE-DRAGON'S-LAIR'! YOU DID NOT 'BREAK-THE-WALL', COMPADRE! YOU 'ANNOYED-IT-UNTIL-IT-GAVE-YOU-ITS-LUNCH-MONEY'! I AM SO PRODUD! THE 'AVALANCHE' CAN 'THINK'!"

Leon smiled, pocketing his phone. A new message came in. An unknown number. The same unknown number as before.

He opened it.

It was from Professor Bianchi.

It contained a single, beautiful, terrifying word. "Fascinating."

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