Become A Football Legend Chapter 402: Perfection

Peter Drury felt it coming before the pass was played. "Brandt again... Dorgu commits... and Brandt escapes him again."

Gary Neville's voice was quieter, almost resigned. "You can't keep diving in like that. You just can't."

Lukas was still close to the halfway line when he struck the pass. With the outside of his left boot, he wrapped his foot around the ball and sent a curling trivela through the air, bending it around Luke Shaw and De Ligt as if the pass had been drawn with a compass. Shaw was labouring to get back, legs heavy after an afternoon of chasing shadows, while De Ligt stretched desperately to intercept, throwing one leg into the passing lane. The ball swerved around the end of his boot by inches and dropped perfectly into Haaland's path just outside the penalty area.

Bayındır froze.

For one fatal second, the United goalkeeper could not decide whether to come out and clear it or retreat to his line. That hesitation left him stranded in no man's land. Yoro tried to recover, leaning into Haaland as the striker took his first touch, but Haaland barely moved. He absorbed the contact, shrugged the defender aside and, seeing Bayındır caught halfway, clipped the ball delicately over him.

The chip floated.

Dropped.

And nestled into the net.

The Etihad erupted again, this time with the delirious laughter of supporters who could barely believe how complete the afternoon had become.

"HAALAND SCORES!" Drury shouted. "But once more, look at the pass! Look at the vision from Lukas Brandt! From the halfway line, with the outside of the left boot, around Shaw, around De Ligt, into the stride of Haaland. Manchester City are putting on an exhibition, and the Manchester derby has become Lukas Brandt's personal show."

Gary Neville exhaled heavily. "It's a ridiculous ball. Haaland still has to finish it, and he does it beautifully, but that pass is outrageous. United are broken. They're absolutely broken."

Haaland turned away from goal immediately and pointed both hands toward Lukas.

Lukas sprinted after him and jumped onto his back, laughing as Haaland carried him for a few steps in front of the celebrating City supporters. The Norwegian kept pointing over his shoulder at him, making sure the crowd knew exactly where the goal had come from, while Lukas clung to him with a grin that finally looked free of every headline, every question, every waiting statistic from the first three league matches.

On the touchline, Pep Guardiola put both hands on top of his head, laughing despite himself. Cherki, standing ready to come on, only shook his head slowly, half smiling, half disbelieving, as if wondering what exactly he was supposed to do after entering a match like this. Behind him, the City bench rose again. Teammates clapped, staff embraced, and Pep Lijnders looked toward Guardiola with the expression of a man watching something turn from promise into reality in real time.

The scoreboard changed.

Manchester City 5–0 Manchester United.

Lukas Brandt: 3 goals, 2 assists.

A perfect game.

As the players jogged back toward the halfway line, the fourth official lifted the substitution board.

The red number appeared first.

17

For a second, the Etihad seemed to recognize what was happening before Lukas did.

Then the whole stadium, all at once, rose to their feet.

"Have a look at this, absolute perfection, he has delivered a 10 out of 10 performance tonight, in the biggest game of the season so far, when the pressure has been the highest, the youngest has proven to simply be, the best. Lukas Brandt receiving a standing ovation at the Manchester derby, a sublime performance, we hope to see more of him as the season progresses."

The applause rolled down from every stand, thick and thunderous, as Lukas slowed near the touchline and looked around. He had imagined ovations before. Every footballer did. But this was different. This was derby day. This was Manchester United. This was the crowd that had waited weeks for his first Premier League goal and had received three, plus two assists, in barely over an hour.

Cherki stood on the touchline smiling.

Lukas walked toward him, clapping above his head as he turned to each side of the stadium. The City supporters kept applauding, kept shouting his name, and even a few people in the hospitality seats seemed unable to do anything but stand and witness the moment. Joanna had both hands raised, screaming through a smile. Javi clapped slowly, eyes fixed on his son. Jane stood still, smiling faintly, the noise around her almost fading into the background as Lukas applauded the crowd. Lexi, despite the United shirt on her back, clapped too, shaking her head as if she had just watched something unfair.

At the touchline, Lukas and Cherki clasped hands.

"You're making it hard for the rest of us," Cherki said with a grin.

Lukas laughed, breathless. "Go enjoy yourself."

Cherki sprinted on.

Lukas stepped off.

Guardiola was waiting.

The manager clapped as Lukas approached, then pulled him into a firm hug, holding him for a second longer than usual before patting the back of his head.

"Perfect," Pep said into his ear. "That was perfect."

Lukas smiled, still breathing hard, still flushed from the run, the goals, the noise.

He moved down the bench, shaking hands with every teammate, receiving slaps on the back, hugs, laughter and disbelief. Haaland, now back on the pitch for the restart, was still pointing toward him from distance, grinning as the fans continued to applaud.

When Lukas finally sat down, the surreal weight of it hit him.

The Etihad was still singing.

His name was still moving around the stadium.

He looked at the pitch, then at the scoreboard, then down at his own boots.

3 goals and 2 assists. A Manchester derby ripped open and signed with his name. It was the kind of performance people would talk about for years.

After Lukas left the pitch, the Etihad did not calm down.

If anything, the noise became more playful, more merciless, the kind of joy that only arrived when a derby had long since stopped being a contest and turned into a party. With the score at 5–0, City no longer needed to force the game, yet they still kept the ball with the same cruel patience, moving United from one side of the pitch to the other while the home supporters began bouncing with their backs to the pitch.

The Poznań spread across the stands.

One block started it, then another, and soon enough almost the entire stadium was jumping in rhythm, arms over shoulders, mocking and celebrating at the same time as United's players sank deeper and deeper into a low block that looked less like a tactical choice and more like an act of self-preservation.

On the bench, Lukas sat in his jacket with the match ball already waiting beside him, still breathing through the last of the adrenaline. Every so often a teammate leaned over to say something, to slap his knee, to shake his head in disbelief, and every time he only smiled faintly, as if the full weight of what he had done still had not settled properly in his mind. Foden, who had already been substituted as well, kept replaying the third goal with his hands, pointing to where Lukas had arrived at the edge of the box and then shaking his head as though the finish still made no sense.

On the pitch, Cherki was enjoying himself.