Dominate the Super Bowl

New England Linebacker, Kyle Van Noy.@@novelbin@@

His competitive state was maxed out from the start and continued into the second half—

This was a six-man rush, with two linebackers joining the front in the pass rush, but Harrison faced a block from Kelsey, while Van Noy wrestled with Hill.

Van Noy thought: Was this Kansas City Chiefs' response to their pass rush? Interesting. Just like a cat chasing a mouse, the resistance of the mouse always made the game more enjoyable; otherwise, it would be too boring.

Van Noy licked his lips, savoring the moment steeped in the stench of blood.

He shook off Hill and continued to advance.

Van Noy, pushing through the crowd, immediately spotted his prey—

Wait, Smith still hadn't thrown the ball?

Subconsciously, Van Noy wanted to turn his head to check the positions of the scattered wide receivers, but he controlled himself and kept his eyes locked on Smith.

In this moment, if he could just take down the quarterback, the routes of the wide receivers would be inconsequential.

Smith: undistracted and fully focused.

At this critical juncture, with no time or mind to consider anything else, he dropped all burdens and became wholly engaged.

Now, the only thought in Smith's mind was:

It's not over. It can't be over. He refused to let it end.

To his right, Harrison was closing in, a shadow creeping up silently, just like in the first half, pressing down on the Chiefs until they could barely breathe.

To his left, Van Noy was delayed slightly but still barreled down like a tiger pouncing from the mountain, trying to make up for the slight delay.

Double trouble at the door!

But then, Smith's right leg pushed off, controlling his body, he halted and made a quick turn to restart, moving horizontally to the left, shaking off Harrison's grasp. Then, Van Noy's face loomed larger in his pupils.

Pushing off with his left leg for a second time, he made another quick stop and turn, his body resisting the centrifugal force to move diagonally upwards to the right, just as he felt Van Noy's murderous intent at his heels. The next moment, he threaded past Harrison's arm on the right side, seeking survival amidst the fermenting tempest.

Footsteps, footsteps. Footsteps!

After all, Smith was not a running quarterback. His pocket movement was faltering amidst the storm, and seeing Van Noy plunging at him again, his feet danced desperately on the edge of a knife, forcing another step out—

Pushing off the ground.

Twisting his body.

Drawing the bow.

The entire passing motion was like flowing water, his arm fully exerting force.

He threw the pass.

Van Noy: ???

Van Noy hadn't even had the chance to feel anger or frustration before he was caught up in shock and disbelief, staring incredulously at Smith's throwing motion.

His arm, fully drawn like a bowstring, launched the missile.

A long pass?

This, was actually a long pass?

Smith? A long pass?

Could it be true, was there no mistake in what they saw?

All along, arm strength wasn't Smith's forte; the long pass had never been his strong suit. Under pressure and in difficult situations, the accuracy of his long passes plummeted to the extent that he hardly dared to attempt them during critical moments, much like a heart demon, a fact well known throughout the league.

However.

At this moment.

In the deep trouble of a six-man rush and an imminent takedown, Smith chose the long pass.

Forget Van Noy and Harrison, even Belichick was caught by surprise—

What on earth did Reed do in the locker room during halftime?

The entire field held its breath, watching the ascending arc of the football, a brownish-red streak climbing like a rainbow across the field, sketching a heart-stopping long trajectory against the night sky.

Ten yards.

Twenty yards.

The football, having left Smith's right hand, flew at full speed towards the open space on the right; the next second, Van Noy, unable to stop in time, spread his arms and embraced Smith, and the two rolled together—

Yellow flag!

It seemed Van Noy was penalized for unnecessary roughness against the quarterback after the ball had been released, but at that moment, neither Van Noy nor Smith was concerned about that; caught up in the chaos, they both looked up, searching for the trajectory of the football and holding their breath along with everyone else in the stadium.

Thirty yards!

Forty yards!

The football majestically soared over half the field, climbing to its peak before rapidly descending; every soul in Gillette Stadium had their spirits tied to the falling football, lighting up the night sky like the tail of a comet.

Forty-five yards.

Fifty yards.

Now, one could see the limit of Smith's arm: the football's parabolic descent accelerated significantly, indicating not only a loss of power but also an instability in its spin, breaking the anticipated trajectory with a cliff-like drop.

Still, Smith managed to attempt a pass around fifty yards, unorthodoxly shattering the New England Patriots' expectations—

And that, under layers upon layers of pass-rushing pressure!

Rarely seen, Smith also showed a bit of fiery spirit.

So, who was the target of the pass?

…

"Attack!" Read new chapters at My Virtual Library Empire

The moment Smith called the play to start, the Kansas City Chiefs' four figures in the front sprinted at full speed:

Three on the left, one on the right.

The three figures on the left each took a different path: one veered towards the sideline, one rushed vertically down the center, and one cut inside then looped back into a hook to enter the short pass zone, representing the routes for medium, long, and short passes, respectively.

The dizzying coordinated routes effectively tied down the New England Patriots' secondary defense.

After all, this team's pass defense was third from the bottom in the league.

In fact, the focus was not on the routes run by the wide receivers, but on the quarterback's ability to fire the "cannonball," and the Patriots' work in the first half to disrupt, interfere with, and pressure had been perfect.

On the right, the running route was clear-cut—

Linear. Vertical. A deep strike.

Cornerback Stephon Gilmore was on high alert because he was matched against the tight end Kelsey; he was clearly at a disadvantage, but he never expected that after a switch with Li Wei, he would be facing Li Wei himself.

Good news!

Wait, was it really good news?

Gilmore immediately sprung into action, sticking close to Li Wei's steps, trying to jockey for position and gain the upper hand.

No sooner had his body leaned in, using his shoulder to offset Li Wei and block his path forward, when Li Wei suddenly accelerated, brushing shoulders, not allowing Gilmore to secure the position before breaking away.

Gilmore held his breath and hurriedly followed, bumping and pushing, continuously creating disturbances, not letting Li Wei pick up speed.

They both knew of Li Wei's vertical speed capability.

Bump. Collide. Squeeze. Entangle. Stick.

Gilmore displayed all the Eighteen Martial Arts of a cornerback, clinging desperately to Li Wei.

Yet, it was hardly effective.

Without warning, Li Wei hit back hard, disrupting Gilmore's balance; the two of them drifted apart slightly, giving Li Wei a bit of breathing room, and with a push off his feet, he was already sprinting ahead, leaving Gilmore behind.

Push off, launch, sprint.

Li Wei in front, Gilmore right behind.

Gilmore tried to keep up with Li Wei's pace, but he found that not only was the distance between them not closing, it was visibly widening, and before he could even blink, a gap had opened up.

Big enough for a third party to fit through.

And.

Li Wei ran faster and faster, swiftly dumping Gilmore.

Gilmore: That freak!