American Football: Domination

Artie Burns stumbled slightly in his stride. After escaping Kelce's entanglement, he had no time to breathe—he threw his body forward with full force, momentum and centrifugal force carrying him ahead, wind howling past.

Push off. Push off. Push off.

In Burns' eyes and mind, all he could see was the red No. 23—Lance.

Teeth clenched, muscles taut, he launched himself fully at his target.

Closer, closer—

Lance didn't dodge. And neither would Burns let him. Burns locked onto Lance, prepared for any sudden change of direction, ready to respond to every shake or twitch of movement.

But it didn't come.

A flicker of triumph.

Burns knew his judgment was correct—he was about to make the perfect tackle. Still, his muscles remained tensed, maxed out.

Huff.

Held his breath.

The next second, Burns saw Lance switch the ball to his left hand, and his right arm extend straight, creating a pillar between them—

Stiff arm!

Warning bells blared.

Burns shifted his weight, doubling down, throwing his full body into it, gambling everything on powering through the tackle.

Collision. Head-on.

Boom.

Burns felt a tidal wave of force surge into his left shoulder—he couldn't even gasp before his chest tightened and the force drove him back, Lance's right shoulder compounding it all in a devastating burst.

One hit.

Just one brief hit.

Burns spun like a top, sent flying like a kite with a cut string.

The world, spinning and upside-down.

Burns: Damn.

"Stiff arm block!"

"Brilliant!"

"Lance with a one-handed takedown of Burns! Burns went flying like a rag doll—no chance whatsoever! Beast mode lights up Arrowhead again!"

"Lance is unstoppable!"

"Thirty-five-yard line! First down secured—but no one can stop Lance!"

"The entire Steelers secondary is converging!"

"T.J. Watt! Vince Williams! Sean Davis! Terrell Edmunds!"

"Steelers defenders flood in from all directions to swarm Lance!"

"But the Chiefs' offense assembles like the Avengers—Kelce and Watkins are charging in!"

"Lance—Lance is at full speed now!"

"Without a doubt, Lance remains one of the fastest running backs in the league. Watt is in full sprint, but the gap isn't closing."

"My God! This is like an Olympic 100-meter final!"

"Lance—wait, Lance!"

Suddenly, in full sprint, Lance braked hard—completely without warning.

Stunned silence—even Michaels' commentary cut off, making people think the mic had failed.

Everyone else was off rhythm.

T.J. misjudged the stop, unbelievably shooting right past Lance.

But his reflexes kicked in fast. He skidded, spun around clockwise on the spot—and saw that smirk beneath Lance's helmet, devilish and taunting.

What's going on?

Alarm bells pounded in T.J.'s chest. He reacted instinctively, moving to match Lance's lateral motion.

Lance moved left.

T.J. followed—and just as he lunged, he hit something.

He'd collided with teammate Vince Williams, both of them flailing.

And Lance was gone—darting out from behind Williams, continuing forward.

Ahead, safeties Davis and Edmunds were closing in, shifting their weight for a second surge.

Edmunds stepped up—straight into Kelce.

Now only Davis remained between Lance and the end zone.

Thirty-yard line!

Twenty-five!

In a flash, Lance covered another ten yards—then Davis stood before him like a final wall.

Lance didn't hesitate. He readied for a head-on clash—then spotted a red blur on his right—

Watkins.

Without missing a beat, Lance veered two steps left, opening the lane. Watkins burst forward and crashed into Davis.

Lance scanned quickly—end zone just ahead.

But behind him—a black figure still chased relentlessly.

T.J. Watt.

"Watt is chasing! God, Watt's at full speed now."

"But!"

"Lance is accelerating! Unbelievable! Lance is going even faster!"

"Fifteen-yard line!"

"He's pulling away—Watt is falling behind!"

T.J.'s eyes filled with despair, watching Lance's red jersey grow smaller and smaller. The burst—undeniable.

Ten-yard line.

Five-yard line.

And then—

"Touchdown!"

"Touch—down—(Toooooooouchdown)!"

"Lance!"

"Kansas City Chiefs No. 23, Lance, completes a 42-yard rushing touchdown—his third of the game!"

"Jesus Christ—last season's Super Bowl MVP shows no mercy to the Steelers."

"Listen to Arrowhead roar!"

Felix was the first to leap up, singing at the top of his lungs:

"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere—he's the edge walker, Lance, Lance, Lance!"

Joy radiated from every face, hearts pounding, ready to burst.

Arrowhead erupted like magma—wave after wave of red fury.

Crimson heat spilled from the screens, drenching everything.

Ah! Ahhhh!

Bell clenched his fists, overwhelmed by the thrill and pride, leaping up and shouting.

And not just him—everyone in the villa, friends and family, turned into a crashing tide of cheers for Lance.

It wasn't just because it was the Steelers.

More than Lance humiliating the Steelers for Bell's revenge—Lance was proving the value of elite running backs.

Maybe running backs aren't quarterbacks; maybe they don't control the game like QBs. But they're indispensable to football. Elite backs and average backs are not interchangeable. RBs are not disposable tools.

Today, the Steelers disregarded Bell—and that echoed a league-wide coldness toward running backs.

If he could, Bell wouldn't have held out—he would've stood on the field and faced Lance, head-on, to see who truly was the best RB in the league.

But things had come to this. Watching from home, branded "greedy," Bell fought for recognition—for himself, and all RBs.

So he admired Lance—

They were rivals, maybe even enemies. But Lance had stood tall, speaking out in his own way.

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Powerstones?

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