CHAPTER 197: FIRST LEG (GT)

Lukas placed the ball carefully, almost ceremonially, on the trimmed green surface. This time, unlike the earlier set piece in the first half, there was no Skhiri beside him. No disguise. No trick. Just him, the ball, the arc of possibility, and a goalkeeper who could suddenly feel every heartbeat in his neck.

Agirrezabala meticulously arranged the wall, repositioned Nico Williams to lie flat behind it, and took three small steps left, then two right, then left again. He looked unsure of everything except the fact that he would probably need a miracle.

The referee walked backward, blew the whistle, and the stadium held its breath.

Lukas never took his eyes off the goal. His breathing slowed, his shoulders loosened, and his hands hung calmly by his thighs before he lifted them slightly—left arm out for balance, right arm tucked in just a little. He leaned forward, three quick steps, each one sharper than the last, planting his right foot just beside the ball and whipping his left across it.

The strike was pure. Clean. Elegant. A stroke, not a smash.

The ball curled beautifully through the air—not with violence, but with artistry—gliding around the edge of the wall. Then it kissed the inside of the left post with a soft tock, bent itself lovingly into the side netting, and settled in the back of the net.

Agirrezabala had flown, stretching every fiber in his frame, but he was late by a full lifetime.

San Mamés collapsed into stunned silence.

"OH MY WORD!" Andrés Cordero yelled, voice cracking. "Would you LOOK at that! The kid does it AGAIN! Lukas Brandt... sixteen years of age... in this cauldron of noise... and he bends one into the corner like he’s in his backyard!"

Chris could barely contain himself.

"This is unreal. This is generational. He has dragged Frankfurt level TWICE now—inside the Cathedral—and he’s doing it with absolute ice in his veins."

Toppmöller erupted on the touchline, pumping both fists as his staff swarmed him. The Frankfurt bench was a riot of limbs and shouts. Even players warming up on the far side sprinted toward the corner flag where Lukas had dropped to one knee, sliding across the grass before throwing both arms wide with a grin that screamed defiance.

Skhiri tackled him from behind in celebration, shouting something incomprehensible but joyous. The rest piled in — Ekitike, Götze, Larsson, Collins, Brown, all crashing into the moment.

Ernesto Valverde stood frozen, hands on his head, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

This was not arrogance.

This was not disrespect.

This was witnessing something he knew he might never see again.

The same man who had coached Lionel Messi at the peak of his powers, was now watching in awe as a 16 year old, reminded him of his good days at Barcelona. Of a time where he could almost always expect one man to step up and deliver.

But now the tables had turned. He was now on the receiving end of it.

A sixteen-year-old had just walked into the Cathedral and turned the altar upside down.

The match had become a blur of stretched legs, tired minds, and raw instinct. Every possession now felt like it carried the weight of the entire tie with it. Athletic pushed because they knew a draw would haunt them in Frankfurt. Frankfurt pushed because Lukas refused to let the night swallow them whole.

For almost ten full minutes, the game tilted violently from one end to the other — a long diagonal from Iñaki Williams, a substitute, here, a floated pass from Larsson there, a desperate clearance, a foul, a throw-in, a half-chance, a blocked shot, a roar from the home crowd, a surge from the away fans. Bilbao kept the ball when they could, Frankfurt survived when they had to, and whenever things looked like they were about to break, the ball found its way back to Lukas.

Every time he touched it, San Mamés erupted — boos cascading down like waves trying to drown him. But he handled it like a metronome in chaos. Sometimes he drew a foul to slow the tempo. Sometimes he slipped a disguised pass to send Frankfurt forward a few meters. Sometimes he simply protected the ball and waited. In the storm, he remained the one point of calm. The commentators called him "a pressure valve." The home fans called him every name possible. His teammates just called his name, over and over again, whenever they needed help.

And then came the final minutes.

Six of the seven added minutes had already evaporated.

Frankfurt had one last push.

Ekitike drove into the box after Lukas fed him a delicate pass inside the channel, but his shot was smothered by Agirrezabala at the near post. The ball spilled past the line and out for a corner. The Frankfurt bench sprang up immediately, waving Kaua forward.

"Yes — they’re sending the goalkeeper!" Wittyngham exclaimed.

"This is it. This is the last ball of the match," Codero followed.

Kaua sprinted forward, gloves raised, chin up, as the away end roared him on. Lukas jogged to the corner flag, placed the ball down with careful precision, took three steps back, then raised his left hand — the signal.

The stadium held its breath. Even the jeers went silent for a second.

He swung it in beautifully.

A vicious, dipping arc.

Koch rose highest, towering over Vivian, meeting the ball squarely with his forehead.

"KOCH! OH THIS MIGHT BE IT—!!" the commentator shouted.

It looked perfect.

Destined.

Inevitable.

But Vivian, running back toward his own goal, launched himself desperately at the ball and somehow — impossibly — headed it off the line. San Mamés exploded as if they had scored.

The clearance fell straight to the edge of the box where Tuta waited.

He froze.

For a split second, he could have volleyed it. He could have cleared it. He could have hit it anywhere, in any direction, and it would have bought Frankfurt time to reorganize.

But instead — disastrously — he tried to bring it down.

"A meal served up for Sancet!" Codero cried. "What is he doing!?"

Sancet pounced before Tuta could blink, stealing the ball cleanly and turning with it in one motion. Lukas was already sprinting back, teeth clenched, lungs burning, legs screaming. Kaua, who had barely crossed the halfway line, turned around and began to run full-speed toward his goal, but he was too far — far too far.

Sancet didn’t hold it for long.

He released it immediately.

To Nico Williams.

A collective roar from 50,000 throats shook the stadium as the ball rolled into his stride. Somehow, after ninety-plus minutes of relentless running, Williams still had the explosiveness in his legs to glide away from Kristensen, who was on the verge of collapsing. Lukas, desperate, dug deep — deeper than any sprint he had made all night — and chased after Williams with everything left in him. His hand stretched out, desperate to grab the Spaniard’s shirt, desperate to stop the inevitable.

But Williams was gone.

The gap between their starting positions was just a bit too great to cover in time.

Kaua was still sprinting, nowhere near his box.

And Williams... didn’t hesitate.

From just as he crossed into the final third, he simply passed the ball into the empty net.

San Mamés erupted.

A volcanic roar.

A gut punch for Frankfurt.