Dunn couldn’t help but squint his eyes, but the white light didn’t disappear—instead, it spread across the entire world.

What the hell is going on? Am I at a rock concert?

Cursing inwardly, Dunn opened his eyes, only to be confronted by a huge, terrifying face. A sweat-soaked, black face, with hot breath blasting from two nostrils beneath a wide nose, so close it seemed to touch his own. The gaping mouth revealed wild, white teeth like those of a beast, and of course, there was the stench of bad breath pouring out.

Next came a violent, head-on collision. Dunn felt as if he’d been punched hard in the jaw, his whole body knocked backward.

Crash! They toppled a crate of water bottles behind them. The weight of both men crushed the poor plastic bottles, which gave way with a crack. Water splashed everywhere, and a jet even shot from one bottle’s mouth, spraying directly onto the face of a “benchwarmer” behind them. The other “benchwarmers” scattered like startled sparrows.

“Damn it!”

“What the hell!”

“What’s going on?!”

“Medic! Medic!”

“How did you kick?”

“I was shoved over by that damn number 14… I didn’t mean to…”

Dunn lay on the ground, staring blankly at the unfamiliar faces crowding around him. Some looked anxious, some were gloating, and some covered their faces so he couldn’t see their expressions. The surroundings were still noisy, but the earlier uproar had changed in tone, now mixed with boos and laughter.

Where is this? Who are they? What’s happening?

“Oh, oh! Wait, let’s see what’s happening on the sidelines!” The live commentator suddenly became excited, standing up and craning his neck from the top tier to look down. “Forest’s starting striker, David Johnson (David Johnson), was knocked toward the coaching area in a tussle with an opposing player. Poor coach Tony Dunn just happened to be standing on the sideline giving instructions… Oh! Look at the mess on the ground—this is a collision of titans! This is way more interesting than the dull match itself!”

Dunn lay on the ground, his light gray suit soaked through, wrinkled and smeared with grass and mud, looking like a used rag.

A man with a big nose and black mustache, somewhat resembling Super Mario, appeared in his field of vision. He deftly pulled white gloves from a brown leather bag and put them on, then began examining Dunn’s body.

“Any obvious pain in the ribs?” He pressed down hard on Dunn’s chest with both hands. “Jaw… hmm, a bit bruised. Any loose teeth?” He pried open Dunn’s mouth, tilting his head to check. Though he kept asking questions, it was clear he didn’t expect any answers—this was just his habit of talking to himself. “And now… the eyes.” He focused on Dunn’s eyes and noticed something: Dunn’s eyeballs hadn’t moved, his eyelids hadn’t blinked, and his expression was blank—no frown, no cry of pain, silent as a corpse…

A corpse!

Damn, it looks like he landed on the back of his head!

“Hey, Tony, Tony? Can you hear me?” He waved his hand in front of Dunn’s eyes, his tone much more anxious than before.

Dunn’s eyes finally moved, focusing on the man’s face—unfamiliar, yet somehow familiar…

“The referee has blown the whistle to pause the match, and he’s running to the sideline… In my thirty-one years of commentating football, this is the first time I’ve seen a head coach injured by his own player! I bet coach Tony Dunn is going to make the news, though he probably won’t like becoming famous this way…” BBC commentator John Motson (John Motson) continued his rambling. “Forest are really down on their luck—two goals behind, and now their acting head coach Tony Dunn has been injured by his own player. And this is their home ground! Their home ground!”

Meanwhile, the TV screen began replaying the scene over and over. David Johnson, in a fierce tussle with the opposing number 14, was shoved hard, and the big man barreled sideways toward Tony Dunn on the sideline. Strangely, Dunn could have dodged—he had plenty of time—but instead stood there like a puppet, watching his own player crash into him. Then came the moment that made the commentator squint, turn away, and grimace, saying, “Oh, God!”

Forest’s players crowded anxiously around the bench, with Dunn lying at the center. The guilty black striker, David Johnson, was even kneeling on the ground, praying nonstop. If anything happened to his coach, he’d be the first player ever to kill his own head coach on the pitch.

Unlike the tense Forest players, their opponents mostly stood on the field with arms crossed, watching the show. Some, driven by curiosity, took on the role of team scouts, running over to check out the commotion, then running back to share what they’d seen with their teammates.