THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME

Even with Zachary Bemba's absence, Manchester City could barely keep up with the raging Reds. Two red cards down, they were nothing more than passengers on the pitch, desperately trying to contain a Liverpool side that showed no mercy.

Then came the 81st minute, and with it, another dagger to City's humiliation.

Trent Alexander-Arnold, still full of energy despite the match nearing its end, surged forward on the right flank, scanning for options. Spotting a gap in the exhausted City defense, he whipped in a precise low cross into the box.

Racing onto the cross was Georginio Wijnaldum, the man who had replaced Zachary. With a calm first touch, he tapped the ball past Ederson, sending the Liverpool fans into another frenzy.

0-5.

And still, Liverpool weren't done.

As the game drifted into stoppage time, Mohamed Salah received the ball near the edge of the box. With a quick drop of his shoulder, he skipped past Aymeric Laporte, leaving the City defender in his wake. Then, with the composure of a man who had done this a hundred times before, he slotted a low shot past Ederson and into the back of the net.

0-6.

The Etihad was a ghost town. City fans had long started filing out, their faces blank with disbelief. Their worst nightmare had come to life—a humiliating defeat on their own turf at the hands of their fiercest challengers.

But even in victory, there was no pure joy for Liverpool.

The euphoria of crushing Manchester City was dampened by one haunting thought—Zachary's injury.

-----

Emily Anderson sat stiffly on the couch in her apartment in London, England, her fingers gripping her phone tightly as the post-match broadcast continued on the TV screen.

Her husband, Sebastian Sykes, sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her knee, offering silent comfort. But it did little to ease the storm of emotions raging inside her.

She hadn't traveled to Manchester for the game, deciding instead to stay home with Sebastian. After all, she was recently married, and Zachary had been in top form. She hadn't expected anything to go wrong.

And then it had.

The moment Fernandinho lunged in, she had gasped so loudly that Sebastian had snapped his head toward her in alarm. And when she saw Zachary clutching his ankle, writhing in pain, her heart had leaped into her throat.

Now, even though the match had ended with Liverpool's emphatic victory, she couldn't celebrate. Not when Zachary had been stretchered off, his future uncertain.

She wasn't just his agent.

She was his friend.

She had been there when he was just a young, upcoming teenage prodigy trying to navigate the ruthless world of professional football. She had been there when his grandmother passed away, when he had stood at her gravesite, silent but broken. She had been there when he signed his first big contract for Juventus, when he made his debut for Liverpool, when he scored his first Premier League goal.

And now?

She was here, powerless, waiting for news.

On the TV screen, Jürgen Klopp's post-match interview had begun. The reporter congratulated him on the victory before asking about the team's performance.

Klopp, always expressive, responded, "The boys worked really, really hard tonight. It was a fantastic performance. But the only unfortunate thing is Zachary's injury."

The mention of his name made Emily's grip on her phone tighten.

The reporter, picking up on Klopp's concern, pressed further. "Do you have any updates on the severity of his injury?"

Klopp shook his head. "Not yet. The medical team is assessing him. We will provide an update as soon as we know more."

Emily exhaled sharply.

Still no answers.

From the side, Sebastian's voice was soft. "Are you considering going to Manchester?"

She nodded immediately. "I want to."

But Sebastian, ever the voice of reason, raised a hand. "Before you rush off, call someone first. Maybe he won't even be in the hospital for long. You don't want to travel all the way there only to find out he's already heading back to Liverpool."

He was right.

Emily quickly scrolled through her contacts and pressed the name Kristin Stein, Zachary's personal assistant and close friend.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

Emily felt frustration creeping in, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. Maybe Kristin was busy dealing with Zachary's situation. Maybe she'd call back soon.

For now, she had to wait. And Emily Anderson hated waiting.

-----

Zachary felt like his world had turned upside down.

The ride to Manchester Royal Infirmary had been a blur—flashing city lights, the quiet hum of the ambulance, the distant murmur of voices. His ankle had been stabilized, wrapped tightly in bandages by the medical team, and the immediate shock of the pain had dulled into a throbbing ache. But the discomfort in his leg was nothing compared to the chaos in his mind.

Just hours ago, he had been on top of the world—two goals, a dominant victory, leading the Premier League's goal-scoring charts. Now, he was lying on a hospital bed, waiting for a diagnosis that could determine his future.

Beside him, Kristin Stein sat close, her face lined with worry. She had rushed from the stadium the moment she saw him stretchered off, clearly concerned.

"You hanging in there?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

Zachary managed a small smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Barely."

Kristin let out a sigh, her fingers gripping her phone. No updates from the team yet, no word from the doctors. Just waiting—the worst part of all this.

Minutes later, a middle-aged doctor in a white coat, his ID badge reading 'Dr. Alan Whitmore, Orthopedic Specialist,' walked in, accompanied by a nurse. His expression was neutral, but there was something in his posture—a careful restraint—that made Zachary's stomach tighten.

"Mr. Bemba," Dr. Whitmore greeted, pulling up a chair beside the hospital bed. "I understand you sustained an injury to your left ankle during tonight's match. We're going to need to run a series of scans—X-rays and an MRI—to determine the extent of the damage. But from the initial assessment, there's definitely concern about ligament involvement."

Kristin straightened. "Ligament?"

Dr. Whitmore nodded. "Yes. Given the way the tackle happened, we suspect a rupture of the anterior talofibular ligament—a key ligament in the ankle. But we won't confirm anything until after the scans."

Zachary inhaled sharply, but he refused to panic. Not yet.

"Alright," he said, voice steady. "Let's get it done."

The next two hours dragged on in a haze of movement—wheeled from one department to another, the cold touch of medical scanners, the low hum of machines. The MRI took longer than expected, but eventually, the tests were done, and he was back in his hospital room, waiting once again.

Kristin never left his side, but the silence between them spoke louder than words.

Finally, Dr. Whitmore returned, a clipboard in his hands, his expression unreadable.

Kristin stood, her arms crossed tightly. Zachary, still reclining on the bed, felt his fingers clench the sheets.

"Alright, I won't sugarcoat it," the doctor began, his voice professional and calm. "You've suffered a Grade 3 tear of the anterior talofibular ligament, along with a partial tear of the calcaneofibular ligament. The good news is that there are no fractures, but the ligament damage is significant."

Zachary's jaw tightened. He knew ligament injuries were no joke.

Kristin was the first to ask the question hanging in the air. "How long is he out?"

Dr. Whitmore exhaled. "If you opt for a non-surgical recovery, it could take around four to six months, but there's a risk that your ankle won't regain full stability. Given your profession, I strongly advise surgery to properly repair the ligaments. The recovery timeline would be around five to six months, but it would ensure that your ankle heals without compromising your future performance."

Zachary sat up slightly, his mind racing. Six months! Half a year without football! Half a year watching from the sidelines while Liverpool fought for the Premier League title.

"Will I be the same player after this?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

Dr. Whitmore didn't hesitate. "If you follow the right recovery plan, do your rehab properly, and don't rush back too soon, yes. You can return at the same level. But the key is patience. You'll have to be disciplined, and most importantly, you can't cut corners on rehabilitation."

Zachary nodded slowly, taking it all in. Six months. It felt like an eternity.

Kristin's voice broke through his thoughts. "Zach, surgery is the best option."

He knew she was right. But still, he would have to consult the club about this before making any decision. After all, this was part of his contract with Liverpool.

"Doc," he said, his voice steady. "I appreciate your assessment, but Liverpool will want their own specialists to review this. I can't make a decision on surgery until I've spoken to them."

Dr. Whitmore nodded, as if he had expected this. "That's understandable. Your club will have access to some of the best orthopedic surgeons in the world. I'll make sure all your scans and reports are forwarded to Liverpool's medical team immediately."

Kristin, still holding her phone, was already texting someone—likely the club's medical staff.

"Will I be discharged tonight?" Zachary asked.

"We'd prefer to monitor you for a few more hours," Dr. Whitmore explained. "We need to manage the swelling before any further travel. But once your club's medical team gives the go-ahead, you can be transported to Liverpool or wherever they decide to proceed with the next steps."

Zachary nodded, his jaw tight. This wasn't just about getting back on his feet—it was about ensuring his career wasn't jeopardized.

Kristin gave him a reassuring look. "Don't worry, Zach. Liverpool will handle everything. You're in good hands."

But deep down, frustration churned inside him like a raging storm.

He had been unstoppable this season. And now, his momentum had been ripped away in an instant.

If only, he still had the system…

Previously, he had relied on the system, on the elixirs that could mend injuries in days—sometimes even hours. But now, that safety net was gone. He had no shortcuts, no miraculous recovery to fall back on.

His mind drifted back to the mysterious phantom, the enigmatic figure who had stripped the system away. Before vanishing, the phantom had left him with a cryptic warning:

"Hard times are coming."

Was this what it meant?

Was this the beginning of the storm?

His hands clenched into fists. Six months. That was the reality now. A long, grueling recovery, every step forward earned through sweat and pain.

Would he still be the same player when he returned?

Would he still be able to carry Liverpool's title charge when the time came?

There were no answers now.

For now, all he could do was wait for the club's next move.