The Pirelli Stadium was alive with anticipation, a buzz of energy coursing through the stands as Burton Albion prepared for their final match of the season. Securing their place in League One had already brought relief to fans and players alike. Victor Kane had made it clear to his team that tonight was about pride and dominance. Their opponents, Port Vale, sat seventh in the table, a strong side that had narrowly missed out on the playoffs. They had come determined to end their season on a high, but they were about to face a team transformed under Kane's leadership.
Victor Kane stood on the touchline, a picture of calm amidst the storm of noise around him. His sharp gaze swept the pitch, analyzing Port Vale's warm-up drills. Their aggressive tactics would pose a challenge, he knew, but Kane was not interested in merely matching their effort. His tactics tonight would overwhelm them, leaving no question about Burton's resurgence. The Snake Tactics Manual in Victor's mind offered everything he needed to turn this final fixture into a masterclass.
The opening minutes saw Port Vale execute their game plan to perfection, pressing high and forcing Burton's midfield into defensive positions. Passes were intercepted, tackles were hard, and for a moment, Port Vale seemed in control. Their manager, Gareth Holloway, shouted instructions from the sideline, his confidence growing as the pressure mounted on Burton. This was the style of football he had drilled into his players—a relentless press designed to suffocate opponents and capitalize on errors. But Holloway couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.
Burton's movements were beginning to change. It was subtle at first—just an extra beat of precision in their rotations, a slight tightening of their formation. The pressure on Port Vale's players increased gradually, like the air itself was thickening around them. Burton's midfield began finding space where there had been none, their passes threading through Port Vale's press with uncanny accuracy. Holloway exchanged a glance with his assistant, Mark Fletcher, who whispered, "It's like they're setting traps."
Victor raised his left hand, circling his index finger in the air. The signal was clear to his players. Sidewinder Drift had begun. In seconds, Burton's midfield ramped up their rotations, the ball zipping between players as if connected by invisible lines. Port Vale's press faltered. They found themselves chasing shadows, their positions unraveling as Burton's movement pulled them apart. What had been a tense, balanced game was transforming into something else entirely.
David Fletcher, the commentator covering the match, leaned forward in awe. "Look at the way Burton's midfield is moving," he exclaimed. "The patterns—this is Sidewinder Drift in full effect." Richard Barnes, his co-commentator, frowned. "It's like the space just disappeared. Port Vale can't seem to find their footing."
The shift came to a head when Stephen Quinn intercepted a poorly aimed pass. Without hesitation, he launched the ball forward to Templeton, whose blistering pace carried him past two defenders. Templeton's cut inside was sharp, his square pass to Akins perfectly timed. Akins didn't hesitate. His curling shot soared into the top corner, leaving the keeper rooted to the spot.
The roar from the Burton fans was deafening. Pirelli Stadium erupted in chants, the joy of survival now replaced by the thrill of dominance. At The Yellow Lion Pub, Martin jumped from his seat, spilling his pint in the process. "That's what I'm talking about!" he shouted. "—they're destroying them!" Gary raised his glass, grinning. "Victor Kane, mate. He's got them playing like gods."
Holloway's frustration was evident as he barked orders from the touchline. "Increase the press! Get tighter! Don't let them through!" His players adjusted, pushing forward aggressively, but Victor was already anticipating their next move. He raised his right hand, slowly clenching it into a fist. The Coil Maneuver was activated.
Burton's defensive line shifted back, pulling Port Vale's attackers further into their half. From the stands, it looked like Burton was retreating under pressure, but Victor's players knew better. This was bait, a calculated move to open gaps in Port Vale's formation. Holloway's players charged forward, believing they had Burton pinned down. Quinn struck again, intercepting the ball with precision and sending a long pass down the wing to Templeton. The winger's pace was devastating, his cross into the box landing perfectly at Jamie Allen's feet. Allen's volley was unstoppable, rocketing past the keeper and into the back of the net.
Burton fans roared as the scoreboard showed 2-0. Liam clapped his hands, turning to Gary with wide eyes. "They're tearing them apart. This isn't football—it's art." At The Yellow Lion, the crowd broke into chants of "Victor Kane!" while the TV replayed Allen's goal from every angle.
On the touchline, Holloway stood frozen. "They're warping the game," he muttered to Fletcher. Fletcher nodded, his expression grim. "Victor Kane football," he said simply. Holloway ran a hand through his hair, watching as his players struggled to regroup. Burton wasn't just playing better—they were dismantling his team piece by piece.
Victor allowed himself a faint smile. His players had executed the Drift and the Coil flawlessly, leaving Port Vale scrambling to keep up. But Kane wasn't satisfied with two goals. The Snake Tactics Manual pulsed in his mind, reminding him of the possibilities still untapped. The first half wasn't over, and neither was the hunt.