Pheeeewww!
The shrill whistle echoed across Oakland Stadium, barely audible over the roaring rain. Dark clouds loomed overhead, drenching the field and washing the paint off the touchlines. The pitch was soaked. The air was electric. Match day had arrived.
News reporters lined the edge of the field, plastic covers shielding cameras, microphones trembling in their hands.
"This is Gary live at Oakland Stadium!" the commentator yelled over the static of the storm. "It's wet, it's wild, and it's war on grass! The Suns Academy take on West Ridge in the semi-final! Let's get into it!"
On the sidelines, a familiar cocky grin flashed.
"Yo, Ken!" a reporter shouted, jogging beside the striker with a mic. "Titans Academy just won. Think they're going to the finals?"
Ken snorted. "Doesn't matter. Wind Academy had all that talent and still lost. Pathetic. We're winning this either way. The best player's right here." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Back off."
In the VIP booth above, Anderson from Bastion Munich frowned slightly. "Such an attitude," he murmured.
Mira, the scout next to him, adjusted her glasses. "His stats are insane, though." "Still, not our main target." Anderson's voice dropped. "Focus on Scott Mason. Add him to the list. One more talent doesn't hurt." Below them, the whistle blew.
Kick-off.
Ken tapped the ball back to a defender, who passed it to their keeper, Joe—nicknamed The Human Wall. The Suns midfield shifted forward, unaware of the storm to come. Suddenly, Rodrigo—the young Brazilian winger—burst down the left wing like a bolt of lightning.
"Whoa! Rodrigo's off!" Gary shouted. "It's caught Suns completely off guard!"
Joe sent a booming long ball toward Rodrigo, and Suns were too high, too slow.
Scott turned, eyes wide. "No!"
Rodrigo didn't hesitate. A cut, a sprint, then a pinpoint pass into the center. Ken waited, unmarked, just outside the box. One touch. One breath. One shot.
BOOM.
The ball slammed into the top corner. GOAAAALLLLL!
"WHAT A START! WEST RIDGE STRIKES IN THE FIRST MINUTE!"
The Suns were stunned.
What followed was hell.
Wanda—West Ridge's monstrous defender—became a wall, snuffing out every counter. Even with Charles, Derick, and Scott working the midfield, their attacks were crushed. Pressure built. Mistakes crept in. In the 30th minute, Karl made a reckless slide just outside the box.
Whistle. "Free kick to West Ridge!"
Ken stepped up but faked it—passing to Kendrick, their crafty midfielder. Kendrick whipped it far post.
THUMP!
Wanda soared, smashing the ball with a brutal header. The Suns keeper leapt… too late.
2-0.
Gary was howling in the booth. "The keeper's still flying! And Suns… are falling apart!"
Halftime.
Coach Bradley stood in the locker room like a furnace ready to explode. His face was red. His breath was fire.
"You mutts—what was that?!" he screamed. "Even my grandma could've defended better, and she's got arthritis in both knees!"
No one spoke.
"We're switching formation," he growled. "5-3-2. Charles, Derick, you're up front. Manny—you're subbing in for Karl."
"And me, Coach?" Scott asked.
Bradley turned slowly, his eyes distant.
"You… play it safe. No risks. Too much is on the line."
Scott nodded, fingers clenched. "Yes, Coach." But something was off. When Bradley said that, there was a look in his eyes—something hollow. Fear?
The second half began.
Gary's voice rang out again: "Welcome back folks! Will it be a beating or a spanking? Suns have forty-five minutes to avoid humiliation!"
This time, Suns Academy played safe. They didn't chase the game. They waited.
Then… at the 70th minute, a crack in the armor. Manny made a fierce tackle at midfield, stealing the ball. With a glance, he launched a long pass over the top.
Charles and Derick took off like rockets, and Scott sprinted too—acting as bait, dragging two defenders with him.
Then it happened.
Karl, trailing behind, collected the ball.
Everyone expected a pass.
Instead, he struck it. From 70 meters.
The ball screamed through the air like a bullet.
The West Ridge keeper backpedaled, gloves outstretched—but it was too late.
GOAAAAALLLLLL!
"WHAT A STRIKE!" Gary bellowed. "A SCREAMER FROM KARL! 2-1! THE SUNS ARE BACK IN IT!"
Suns players roared in celebration. Captain Brian raised a fist. "Defense! Composure! One more, and we equalize! Extra time, boys! Then penalties—and they know penalties are death!"
The game entered its final stretch. West Ridge grew cautious. Suns grew bold.
Then—89th minute.
Scott picked up the ball near the center. His boots danced across the wet turf. He spun past one, then another, the roar of the crowd muffled under adrenaline.
Charles made a run on the left. "Pass!" he called. "Scott!"
Scott paused. Time slowed.
Rain fell in slow motion. The world went dark.
A familiar voice whispered.
[He's going to miss, Scott. Just shoot. You know you want to. You always did.]
The Shadow.
Scott's fingers trembled. "Yes… I must—"
[Exactly.]
Then—a memory Coach's voice echoed. "Be a spark… not a wildfire."
Scott blinked.
This was a team sport
He passed.Charles took the shot. And missed
Whistle.
Full-time.
West Ridge 2 – Suns 1.
Scott didn't hear the whistle.
He didn't feel the cold rain soaking through his kit. Didn't see the players shaking hands. He stood there, motionless, staring at the goal where the shot had gone wide. The stadium buzzed, but in his head, there was only silence. Then—laughter.
[What did you expect? You passed. You tried to be a good boy. That's the result.]
The Shadow's voice
"Shut up," Scott mumbled under his breath, fists trembling
[It's karma, Scott. You reap what you sow.]
Scott fell to his knees on the pitch, fists pressed into the wet grass, teeth clenched as tears mixed with the rain. "I was trying to do what was right…"
[Right? You wanted to avoid blame. You didn't pass for the team. You passed to save yourself. Just admit it.]
He squeezed his eyes shut
"Hey! You okay, kid?" a voice called from the sidelines.
Scott turned his head. A man in a long coat approached, umbrella barely shielding his sharp suit. Behind him, a black Mercedes SUV pulled up. The woman in the driver's seat nodded at the man.
"I'm Anderson," he said, offering a hand. "Scout for Bastion Munich."
Scott blinked. "You… you're here for me?"
Anderson chuckled. "You have the talent. Decision-making aside." He raised a brow. "Still, that pass showed you aren't selfish. That's rare. That's valuable. We're offering a developmental contract. Full scholarship. When you turn eighteen, we'll move you to Team A. You'll train alongside legends like Agent Robin and Funk Bibery."
Scott's heart stuttered. "For real?"
"Very real," Mira added from the car window. "Hop in. Let's visit your parents and finalize it." The rain still poured as Scott climbed into the luxurious back seat. The leather was soft, the engine purred, and Mira drove smoothly through the London streets.
[Classy, this one,] the Shadow whispered. [Too bad they don't know you're not the hero they think you are.]
Scott ignored it.
They arrived at a modest townhouse. His father, John Mason, opened the door.
"Scott! What's all this?"
"Mr. Mason," Anderson said, extending a hand. "Your son's exceptional. We want him at Bastion. Full ride. Professional track." Scott's father looked stunned. "That… that's incredible."
Mira handed over the paperwork. "All we need is a signature."
Inside, they sat at the dinner table. John read through every line carefully, then looked at his son. "You sure, Scott?"
Scott nodded. "Yes, Dad."
"Then sign it." He did.
A future had just been sealed.
The Week of the Finals.
Scott spent the days quietly. With Suns eliminated, he had no training. No pressure. His father took time off work, and together they toured the streets of London. They visited old pubs and stadiums, places Scott's grandfather had played.
"You know," John said one evening, "your grandpa—Elliot Mason—was the first pro in our family. But he never made it far. Injury took him out early. He would've been proud of you."
They passed a mural of Elliot—arms raised, frozen in glory from decades ago.
"I'm proud of you," his father said.
They returned home. Daphne, Scott's mother, had cooked stew and roasted potatoes.
They ate in silence. For once, everything felt… calm.
Final Day.
Oakland Stadium was packed again. But this time, Suns weren't playing.
West Ridge Academy, having crushed Suns in the semi, were now facing Titans United—the favorites. Scott sat high in the stands beside Anderson and Mira, hood up, face unreadable.
The match began. And then… it was destruction.
7-3.
Ken scored a hat-trick, celebrating with arms spread wide like a god. Rodrigo danced past defenders for a brace. Two more goals came from midfielders. It wasn't a match.
It was a massacre.
And the final whistle only made it worse.
Gary's voice rang out: "West Ridge are the CHAMPIONS! WHAT A SHOW!"
The reporter shoved a mic in Ken's face.
"Ken! Anything to say to your fans?"
Ken smirked. "Yeah. Some guy thought he was the best. Even got scouted by Bastion."
He looked up.
Straight into the camera.
"But the truth is… I'm better. And he knows it. He tapped his chest.
"Red Devil United just gave me an offer. That's real power. And unlike some people—I finish my chances."
BOOM.
Scott's heart cracked.
His breath left his lungs. The stands spun. His vision darkened.
He staggered. "You…"
[Ooooh… poor boy. You feel that? That sting? That burning? That's failure, Scott. That's your legacy.]
Scott collapsed.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
White lights. Blurry ceiling tiles.
"Mmmh…"
"John, he's awake!"
"Mom?" Scott whispered, eyes fluttering open. His head throbbed.
"You passed out at the stadium, sweetheart."
A mocking voice echoed:
[A little comment rattled you that much? Weak. Pathetic.]
"Get out of my head," Scott whispered. His mother stroked his hair. "Just rest, my little boy. You've had enough excitement for a lifetime. "He shut his eyes. Then..The Shadow's voice returned.
[Well… all conditions have been fulfilled.]
[Contract. Pain. Realization.]
[The system recognizes your suffering.]
[PLAYER has been initiated.]
Scott's eyes shot open.
"Shadow…?"
Silence.
Only the heart monitor's rhythmic beep remained.