Sorry for the no chapter yesterday. Webnovel was updating and I wasn't sure how long it was gonna take.
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April 14, 2016 | King Power Stadium – 89th Minute
The rain had eased but the noise hadn't.
The King Power was alive, a wall of thunder, scarves waving like flags of defiance. Sevilla pushed forward with desperation, but Leicester stood tall, shoulders squared and boots braced for war.
"One minute plus stoppage time," Rob Hawthorne said, his voice laced with adrenaline. "Sevilla need two goals. It's all or nothing now."
"And Tristan has just put them halfway to the semi finals," added Andy Hinchcliffe. "A lethal finish and again, he's done it when it mattered most. A big-game player. Every. Single. Time."
Replay screens flickered around the stadium, showing Tristan's goal again, the late run, the angled pass from Vardy, the faint touch to kill the bounce, then the rocket across the keeper into the far corner.
4–1 on aggregate. 2–1 tonight with Vardy scoring the first goal.
Game almost done.
"Composed as ever," Hawthorne continued. "His numbers I thought I would only ever see from Messi and Ronaldo."
Down on the touchline, Ranieri clapped adjusting his scarf, looked up at the scoreboard, then at the referee's watch.
Ninety minutes.
+3.
Sevilla were throwing everything forward now. Banega clipped in one final ball too deep. Schmeichel rose to punch it and collided with his own man. The ball dropped loose but Kanté was there.
Of course he was.
He stabbed it clear, and suddenly the crowd roared as Vardy sprinted like a man possessed.
"Still Vardy! Still going!" Hawthorne shouted. "He's just running out the clock now!"
Vardy slowed near the corner flag, held it up, earned a throw, then leaned on the ball as two Sevilla defenders tried to wrestle it free.
A whistle blew. Not full time but close.
Seconds ticked. The fans were on their feet now, all of them. Every hand raised. Every breath held.
Then—
FWEEEEET.
Full time.
Leicester 2 – 1 Sevilla
(4 – 1 on aggregate)
They had done it. They were one step closer to football immortality.
The King Power exploded.
Scarves were flung into the air. Fans climbed over each other just to scream into the night. Ranieri lifted his arms once, then dropped his head and clapped — soft, proud, overwhelmed.
The players collapsed into each other.
"Four-one on aggregate!" Andy Hinchcliffe called over the crowd noise. "Sevilla the kings of the Europa League out! And it's Leicester City who go through!"
"They've beaten every club they came across, beaten Sevilla… and now," Hawthorne added, "they get a shot at revenge."
The broadcast screen changed — slowly, deliberately.
UEFA EUROPA LEAGUE SEMI-FINAL DRAW:
⚽ Leicester City vs SSC Napoli
⚽ Liverpool vs Villarreal
"You couldn't script this," Andy said. "Leicester against the team that knocked them out last year. Same stage. Same competition. And I'll tell you what, this Leciester team is a different beast compared to last season."
"Yes," Hawthorne agreed. "Now they're a team of champions undefeated across all competitions."
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The locker room doors burst open like floodgates.
Showers of water. Screaming. Shirts flung. Boots kicked halfway across the floor. Mahrez danced in front of his locker with his socks still on, already shouting for someone to turn on the speaker.
"Oi, Kanté! You're the lucky charm. You pick the playlist!"
"I pick?" Kanté blinked. "Okay. French rap."
"NOOOO!" came the unified scream.
Vardy was standing on the bench like a messiah preaching to the masses, both arms raised above his head.
"I WANT MY GOLDEN BOOT!" he bellowed. "And I want you all to pass me the f*cking ball until the season ends!"
Laughter rippled through the room.
"You think this was about you today?" Mahrez fired back. "Tristan and I dragged you to that hat trick last match!"
"Dragged me? I ran more than both of you combined!" Vardy jumped off the bench and fake tackled Mahrez, sending both of them into the wall laughing.
Tristan peeled off his boots quietly in the corner. His shirt was soaked, his curls matted to his forehead, eyes still gleaming from the goal.
Chilwell threw a towel at him. "Oi. Don't think we didn't see you jog the whole first half."
"Managed the game," Tristan muttered, deadpan.
"Oh, is that what it's called when you stroll like you're walking Biscuit?"
He burst out laughing. "Hey, it's working. Now I understand why Messi does this."
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Twenty minutes later, when the noise had finally dimmed into scattered laughter and music, Tristan was pulled aside.
A BBC reporter caught him just outside the dressing room, mic already raised. Tristan still had damp hair curling over his forehead, a towel slung round his neck, cheeks flushed from both the match and the mayhem inside.
"Tristan," the reporter began, his voice pitched above the echoing chants still rumbling outside, "congratulations. A goal tonight, Sevilla out, Leicester into the semi-finals. Can you even describe what this means?"
"We are just one step closer to winning the Europa League," he said simply. "Last year, we were knocked out in the quarter finals. Tonight we went past that. That's football. That's growth. We've come too far to stop now."
The reporter nodded. "And now… Napoli. Revenge tie. Same stage, same competition. Are Leicester ready?"
Tristan's mouth curved, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "We've been ready since August."
The reporter laughed under his breath, visibly impressed. "Same opponent, but not the same Leicester, huh?"
Tristan nodded once, wiping his face with the towel. "Not even close."
He thanked the crew with a handshake, then stepped back into the tunnel. The noise inside the stadium was still echoing like aftershocks. Leicester fans were still singing.
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April 25, 2016 | SSC Napoli Training Centre – Film Room
The room was dark, save for the glowing projection on the screen. Sevilla's defenders scrambled in slow motion. Tristan peeled off the shoulder of his man, met Vardy's pass, and smashed it across the keeper. A goal that looked inevitable like the ball had always been destined to hit net.
Napoli manager Maurizio Sarri paused the clip with a click.
He turned to his players, standing in a half-circle around him, arms crossed, faces serious.
"I want you to forget everything about last season," he said calmly. "Leicester is not the same team."
He clicked the remote again. The screen jumped to highlights from April 17th, the FA Cup semifinal at Wembley. Tristan cut through Liverpool's midfield like water splitting around a blade. A left-footed curler from the edge of the box. Then a right-footed volley on the counter. 2–1.
"This is what we face now. Not a Cinderella story. A team of champions."
The screen changed again. April 21st. Leicester vs. Swansea. Tristan didn't score. He didn't need to. Two pinpoint assists to Vardy. Surgical. Cold. Unbothered.
Sarri turned off the projector.
"That is a man with over 100 goal contributions this season," he said, voice rising just enough to silence the room. "He's been coasting lately. Saving his legs. Playing facilitator. But against Sevilla… he reminded everyone who he is."
He held up a clipboard but didn't look at it. "Tristan is one of the best dribblers in the world. His balance, control, and acceleration out of a turn, elite. His passing? Surgical. You give him even half a second, he splits your backline like a ripe fruit."
Sarri stepped closer to the front row. "And finishing, left foot, right foot, inside the box, outside the box… free kicks. He has the full catalog. He can destroy a game in one moment."
The room was quiet.
"You will hear people say he's being lazy now. You will hear pundits say he's slacking." Sarri's mouth twitched into a slight smile. "They're fools. He's not slacking. He's conserving. Like a wolf that's already eaten. And now? Now he's hungry again."
He jabbed a finger toward the screen.
"You think you're prepared because we beat them last year? No. This version of Leicester with all its stars have come to kill."
He clicked the remote one final time.
"Watch the games again Then get your boots on."
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April 28, 2016 | Stadio San Paolo – Europa League Semi-Final, 1st Leg
The Napoli ultras were still singing, still hurling chants from the stands, when Tristan pulled away from his marker and changed the game.
It was the 14th minute when Mahrez slid a pass into the channel. Most players would've taken a touch wide. Tristan didn't. One touch to open his body and bang. A strike off his laces, through Koulibaly's legs, bending away from Reina and inside the far post.
1–0 Leicester.
Silence from the ultras.
By the 40th, it was Mahrez again on the end of it, this time a reverse ball from Tristan that defied physics. A nutmeg. A thread-the-needle. Mahrez didn't even celebrate. He just pointed back at Tristan and laughed.
2–0 Leicester.
Napoli pulled one back after halftime, a set piece header. But they didn't control the match. Not for long.
In the 78th, it came again. Kanté won it. Vardy carried it. And Tristan? Tristan waited at the edge of the box like he had all the time in the world.
Cut inside. Fake shot. Left foot.
Top corner.
3–1.
And as the whistle blew, Napoli can only watch as Leciester celebrated in their own stadium.
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I don't plan to write much of the matches until the finals of the Europa League and FA Cup. And we are so close to the end of this season. Like no more than 6 chapters.