Leicester City continued their relentless march toward the Championship title, securing a hard-fought victory over fourth-pced Derby County at the King Power Stadium. The win extended their unbeaten run, keeping them firmly at the top of the standings.

  But this was no time to rex.

  Their lead remained under siege. Burnley and Queens Park Rangers, both breathing down their necks, had also secured victories, refusing to let Leicester pull away.

  And now, another test awaited.

  Elnd Road. Leeds United.

  "Next week's going to be tough," the commentator had said after Leicester's st match. "Leeds United is dangerous going forward. And pying away? That's never easy."

  They weren't wrong.

  The moment Leicester's team bus arrived, the hostility was palpable.

  The streets outside Elnd Road were a storm of white shirts. Leeds supporters lined the roads, chanting, booing, banging on the sides of the bus as it rolled in.

  Inside, the Leicester pyers remained composed. This wasn't new. This was football.

  But as they stepped off the bus, heading into the tunnel, the roar from the home fans shook the concrete walls.

  They weren't just here to win.

  They were here to intimidate.

  The pyers emerged from the tunnel and onto the pitch for warm-ups, greeted by a wall of noise.

  Tens of thousands of Leeds fans, singing, jeering, whistling.

  The Leicester away section, vastly outnumbered, tried to make themselves heard, waving their blue scarves proudly.

  From the first whistle, Leeds came out swinging.

  Their midfield, aggressive and relentless, pressed high, harried Leicester's pymakers, snapping into tackles.

  For the first 20 minutes, Leicester struggled to settle. Every time they tried to build from the back, Leeds swarmed them, forcing rushed passes, mistakes, and turnovers.

  Michael Brown, the 36-year-old enforcer in Leeds' midfield, set the tone. Every tackle was heavy. Every challenge left a mark.

  It was ugly.

  It was exactly what Leeds wanted.

  "This is a real battle in midfield," the commentator observed. "Leicester are struggling to find any rhythm!"

  Leeds wasn't just defending.

  They attacked with pace, directness, and venom.

  And then they almost broke the deadlock.

  A corner.

  Ross McCormack, Leeds' top scorer, rose highest.

  His header smashed against the crossbar.

  Gasps filled Elnd Road.

  The ball bounced out, away from danger.

  McCormack fell to his knees, gripping his hair.

  "Unbelievable!" the commentator roared. "Leeds United was inches away from taking the lead!"

  In the Leicester box, Kasper Schmeichel and Wes Morgan exhaled, shaking their heads.

  Too close.

  On the touchline, Nigel Pearson had seen enough.

  He turned to his substitutes.

  "Tristan. Mahrez. You're up."

  As Tristan Hale and Riyad Mahrez approached the sideline, the Leicester away fans erupted.

  The noise grew louder.

  "Incredible support from the away fans," the commentator noted with a chuckle. "Leicester City is ready to make a substitution. No. 22 Tristan Hale and No. 26 Riyad Mahrez are standing on the sidelines, ready to make an impact."

  The Leicester supporters erupted in cheers, waving scarves, pounding their chests. The traveling fans had made their presence known all match, but now? Now, they could feel it.

  Meanwhile, the home crowd responded with a wall of hostility—boos, jeers, curses raining down on the two Leicester substitutes.

  Tristan heard them.

  Every insult. Every chant meant to get in his head.

  But he didn't react.

  Instead, as he stepped onto the pitch, he simply exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his expression unreadable.

  Mahrez leaned over as they jogged into position. "They hate you already."

  Tristan smirked. "They'll hate me even more soon."

  The whistle blew, and Tristan high-fived the pyer he was repcing before settling into his position.

  Leicester's shape shifted immediately.

  A bold tactical move—switching from a 4-4-2 to a 4-2-3-1. Pearson was sending a message: We're not here for a draw. We're here to win.

  Leeds United manager Brian McDermott saw the shift and reacted instantly.

  "Watch the new guy! No. 22—don't let him settle!" he barked at his midfielders, gesturing toward Tristan.

  Brown, Leeds' midfield enforcer, smirked. He already had one target in mind.

  For the first half, Leeds had dictated the game.

  Their high press had suffocated Leicester. Schmeichel's goal had been under siege.

  But now?

  Everything changed.

  The moment Tristan got his first touch, the game shifted gears.

  The rhythm, the tempo, the flow of the match—it was suddenly his.

  He moved effortlessly, gliding between Leeds pyers, picking passes, controlling possession.

  Then came Mahrez.

  The Algerian was a menace on the wing, twisting and turning past defenders, dragging Leeds out of shape.

  Leicester's attack came alive.

  "This is more like it!" the commentator excimed. "Tristan Hale is beginning to find his rhythm!"

  Suddenly, Leeds looked vulnerable.

  Michael Brown wasn't having it.

  The 36-year-old veteran, a pyer known for his ruthless tackling, wasn't about to let some teenager control the game.

  And as Tristan received the ball in midfield, Brown saw his chance.

  "Little brat, I told you to pass it!" he growled.

  He charged.

  Tristan sensed it.

  A quick sidestep. A flick of the ball.

  Brown missed completely.

  Elnd Road gasped.

  "Oh, Tristan Hale saw that coming a mile away!" the commentator ughed.

  But Brown's eyes fshed with anger.

  He wasn't done.

  Tristan had barely completed a pass to Drinkwater before Brown came again.

  This time, it wasn't about the ball.

  It was about sending a message.

  Brown smmed into Tristan's side, shoulder-first.

  A cheap hit.

  Tristan stumbled, catching himself at the st second.

  Drinkwater turned toward the ref, arms raised. "That's gotta be a foul!"

  But the referee waved it off.

  Py on.

  Tristan didn't react.

  He just turned, staring at Brown.

  The Leeds midfielder smirked.

  "Mad, you want to trick me? You'll regret that, kid."

  Tristan didn't say a word.

  He just smiled.

  The match continued at full speed.

  Tristan was everywhere—orchestrating Leicester's attacks, setting the tempo, picking apart Leeds' defensive shape.

  The home fans grew restless.

  Their team was losing control.

  And then—it happened.

  Tristan received the ball just outside the center circle.

  One touch.

  Two.

  Brown saw red.

  He sprinted forward, full force.

  "Not so fast, kid!" he snarled.

  Tristan turned—but it was too te.

  Brown lunged.

  No attempt at the ball. Pure aggression.

  His entire body crashed into Tristan, fttening him.

  A sickening thud.

  Tristan hit the ground hard.

  Gasps rippled through the stadium.

  The referee's whistle shrieked.

  Mahrez rushed in, shoving Brown hard.

  "What the hell was that?!"

  Leicester pyers swarmed the scene, furious.

  Brown raised his hands in innocence, pying dumb.

  The referee wasn't fooled.

  Yellow card.

  Tristan y there, chest rising and falling.