Total Domination

Normally, if a team records three sacks in a game, it's considered an impressive defensive performance, putting immense pressure on the quarterback.

But tonight, the New England Patriots were rewriting franchise history. Before the second quarter even ended, they had already sacked Smith six times.

Six times.

Smith was trapped in a relentless storm, completely disoriented and helpless.

Despite being a quick-release quarterback with a strong short-passing game, he was still overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the Patriots' pass rush. The pressure was constant, and it was disrupting everything.

The Chiefs' offensive line was crumbling.

There was one key factor at play—

The Patriots had not shown this level of pass-rushing dominance all season. How had they suddenly transformed overnight?

The answer lay in strategy.

It was true that New England's pass rush wasn't elite. They didn't have any superstar pass rushers or innovative defensive schemes. But Belichick had one crucial ability—when the offense struggled, he found ways to win with defense.

First, the Patriots maintained a relentless five-man pass rush.

They were willing to take risks.

Despite the danger of allowing big plays, they committed at least five defenders to the pass rush on nearly every play.

This forced constant strain on the Chiefs' offensive line.

A few snaps of intense pressure might not have been a big deal. But when it continued non-stop, it became mentally and physically exhausting. Belichick had made up his mind—he was going to break the Chiefs' pocket protection.

Second, they kept **sending extra defenders to the line—**whether it was a cornerback, a linebacker, or even a safety. Sometimes, they weren't even blitzing—just threatening to.

With the pass rush already creating chaos, adding an extra body hovering at the line was like having a bomber plane circling overhead, always a threat.

And then, when the moment was right—they blitzed.

Belichick had made a calculated decision—he was all-in on disrupting the pocket, even at the cost of leaving the secondary exposed.

After all, the Patriots' pass defense was already one of the worst in the league. Instead of trying to fix a weakness, Belichick chose to double down on aggression.

It was a tactical masterstroke.

He had identified exactly where to hit the Chiefs, outmaneuvering Reid before the game even started. He had attacked a weak spot no one expected—and completely blindsided Kansas City.

There was no sugarcoating it—the Patriots were destroying the Chiefs' offense.

And it wasn't just Smith who was struggling.

The relentless pressure was disrupting everything, like a domino effect. Lance was also getting smothered.

There was no space. No time. No room to breathe.

And to make things worse, the weather wasn't helping.

Cold-weather games impacted players in two major ways:

First, physical performance.

No matter how much they warmed up, their bodies felt sluggish. It was hard to loosen up, hard to explode, hard to find top speed.

Second, field conditions.

The football itself **felt different—**harder, slicker. The ground was slippery, making sharp cuts nearly impossible.

Ball security became a major concern, which meant players had to be extra cautious—taking away a split second of reaction time that could be the difference between breaking free or getting tackled.

And just like that, Lance's explosive ability was neutralized.

The pressure had completely clogged the Chiefs' offense.

Smith had been sacked six times.

Lance had been stuffed four times on direct runs.

Reid had even tried subbing in Hunt to change the rhythm, but it only got worse. Hunt fumbled—just his second fumble of the entire season.

With no other choice, Lance and Hunt had to rotate carries, trying to split the burden.

It was brutal.

This was, without question, Lance's worst game so far. Even worse than the Steelers matchup.

By the end of the second quarter, the Chiefs had managed **only five first downs—**a season low.

57 passing yards.

21 rushing yards.

Lifeless. Stagnant. Stuck.

The situation was dire.

And it wasn't just the Patriots' defense causing problems.

Their offense was on fire, too.

Brady was playing possessed.

From the very first snap, New England had come out swinging. They had won the coin toss, elected to receive, and Brady immediately put on a clinic.

The offense was running like a well-oiled machine.

Every throw was crisp. Every play was executed with surgical precision. The Chiefs' defense, which had been so solid all season, was getting picked apart.

And Brady never let up.

New England's offensive dominance gave their defense even more confidence. With points on the board and momentum on their side, they played fearlessly.

Meanwhile, Lance and Kelce kept slipping on the turf, failing to get traction. The Chiefs' offense couldn't generate anything.

The scoreboard told the story:

0 - 21.

Kansas City: 0.

New England: 21.

Boom!

After Gronkowski hauled in a third-down catch for yet another Patriots touchdown, Brady erupted.

He didn't celebrate like it was just another score—he celebrated like it was the game-winner.

Fists clenched. Roaring. Jumping into the air.

28/24 completions.

85.7% completion rate.

257 passing yards.

3 passing touchdowns.

And it was only halftime.

Brady was playing at a Super Bowl MVP level.

Forget the Patriots' defensive dominance—Brady alone was crushing the Chiefs.

And he was sending a message.

After the touchdown, he turned—looking directly at the Chiefs' sideline.

Eyes locked onto Lance.

No hesitation. No subtlety.

Pure, unfiltered intensity.

And then—he roared.

A war cry. A challenge. A warning.

If Lance wanted a war—he'd get one.

A real war.

Brady would make sure he learned why he was a champion—

And why Lance was still nothing.

He would make sure this night was burned into Lance's memory forever.

So that he'd never forget who he had challenged.

So that he'd never make the same mistake again.

Veins bulging. Fists trembling. Every muscle in his body coiled with energy.

Brady had gone Super Saiyan.

And every single person in the stadium—every single viewer watching at home—could feel it.

The battlefield was set.

The war had begun.

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Powerstones?

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