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December 22, 2026.
The so-called "Sports Festival Exam." A laughable premise, really—an elaborate stage play disguised as teamwork and camaraderie.
The bus ride was quiet, but I could feel the tension ripple through the air the moment we entered the stadium's inner halls. Eleven of us, dressed in matching uniforms, each pretending we were equals. Pretending.
I glanced at my teammates, noting every detail, every crack in their masks.
Reika kept her distance, shrinking into herself like a shadow of what she once pretended to be. Yesterday's humiliation had crushed her pride beyond repair. Once a queen, now a beggar without her crown. She dared not even look at Ayame.
Ah, Ayame. She sat across from me, casting sharp, silent glances at Reika like a predator toying with prey. The faintest curl of her lips betrayed her satisfaction. She had tasted blood, and she wanted more.
Then there was Rika. Unlike the others, her eyes weren't locked on Reika. No, they were locked on me. She was sharp—too sharp. While the rest of them bought into my smile, my carefully constructed warmth, she didn't. Her suspicion was refreshing, but ultimately insignificant. She was new. She didn't yet understand how thoroughly I could erase doubt with a single gesture. Still… her gaze was worth filing away.
The counselor droned on about logistics until the principal himself appeared, plastered with his saccharine smile.
*"Good morning everyone. Sorry to wake you so early, but we want this exam to create a bond for all of us. Because, after all, we are one big family."*
That word—family—hung in the air like poison.
Predictably, Daiko from Class C erupted with his brutish honesty.
*"I would rather vomit than hear those words again."*
Pathetic. He thought his defiance made him strong, when in reality, it only marked him as a fool with no sense of restraint.
Still, he wasn't wrong. There *was* something deeply rotten about the principal. His words dripped with an insincerity that matched my own, though without the artistry. A poor imitation of manipulation. There was a darkness there, one I intended to uncover.
The principal departed with his laughable cheer. And as the room began to shift, Minato, ever the dull one, asked:
*"Does anyone know who our opponents are?"*
Ayame answered, *"I heard there's this trio in senior year—they call themselves Scarlet, Dusk, and Iron."*
Rika stepped in, her tone clinical, as though she were giving a report.
Scarlet—the fastest in the school.
Dusk—the so-called mastermind playmaker.
Iron—the immovable wall, the best defender they had.
The team absorbed her words as though she'd descended from heaven with sacred knowledge. I, however, remained unimpressed.
Speed without intelligence is nothing but a child running in circles.
Brains without power is a weapon without a blade.
And walls, no matter how tall, crumble if you strike the right foundation.
Simple. Predictable. Beatable.
Then Ayame, so full of false bravado, puffed herself up with her "strategic gamble."
*"We'll have three strikers and a shadow striker,"* she announced.
Rika's hesitation was immediate. *"But that's too much offense—"*
*"We need to put pressure on their defense,"* Ayame cut her off, conviction dripping from her words.
That was my cue. I allowed my smile to widen, just slightly—warmth that cloaked the dagger in my words.
*"Forgive me for disrupting,"* I began, my tone perfectly measured, *"but don't you think we should prioritize defense a little more?"*
I paused, letting them hang on my words before dismantling their so-called strategy.
*"If Scarlet is truly the fastest in the school, then your plan collapses the moment she cuts through our overextended offense. With nearly half our team wasted in the attack, our midfield will be hollow. We will lose control of the match before it even begins."*
The room fell quiet. Even Ayame's eyes flickered—caught between irritation and curiosity.
I leaned forward, feigning humility, and continued:
*"Here's my suggestion: I'll serve as a ball-playing central defender, alongside another. Two defensive midfielders to anchor us, two wingbacks for width, and, of course, a keeper. That balance ensures we shut down Scarlet's runs and cut off Dusk's passes before they reach her. Iron's defense means nothing if we choke their attack from the root."*
I sat back, smile unwavering. I didn't need credit. Credit was for those desperate to be seen.
Ayame nodded slowly. *"You're totally right… that is a nice suggestion."*
Exactly as I intended. The words were mine, the idea was mine, but the credit was hers. That was the beauty of subtle manipulation. Blend in. Let them believe they are the architects, while you quietly design the blueprint.
The game hadn't even begun, and already the board was set.
In less than half an hour, we would step onto the field.
And when we did, it wouldn't be the "Sports Festival Exam."
It would be a stage.
My stage.
---
(a few minutes later)
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The meeting felt less like a strategy discussion and more like Ayame trying to crown herself queen of the board. She stood tall, voice confident, as though each word she spoke was gospel carved in stone.
"I've decided, based on the information I have, that I will be the main striker."
I listened quietly. Careful, patient, like a snake warming under the sun.
Her eyes swept across the group, assigning roles with the confidence of a dictator hiding behind a smile. Rika as playmaker. Reika as winger and secondary striker. Daiko—a shadow striker, unpredictable movement, chaos in human form. Wingbacks, defensive mids, pivots. She spoke with clarity, but clarity and wisdom are not the same thing.
Then her gaze finally landed on me.
"I'm sorry," she said, feigning politeness, "I didn't quite get your name. What was it?"
I offered her the mask I always wear—a pleasant, harmless smile.
"Most of you may not know me. My name is Naoki. You may be hearing a lot from me later."
The irony nearly made me laugh. They would never imagine the truth: the president of the student government sitting silently among them, biding his time. Why spoil the surprise before the curtain rises?
Ayame continued her sermon, weaving me into her formation like another piece on her chessboard. "Naoki will be one of our central defenders, linking plays from the back. A ball-playing defender. He'll distribute to the midfielders or directly to me or Rika."
On the surface, it was logical. On the inside, I could see every crack.
Their strategy was brittle glass dressed up as diamond. A "gambling lineup" she called it—yes, a gamble where the dealer rigs the table against herself. Four players pressing Scarlet at once? Wingbacks abandoning the flanks? Midfielders tasked with miracles every possession? The arrogance was almost poetic.
I raised my hand slightly, voice calm but piercing, just enough to thread into their ears like silk.
"I'm sorry," I began, still smiling, "but I still have to note a couple of flaws."
Ayame gave me that polite nod, half-interested. "Yes, what did you notice?"
"Imagine this: Scarlet beats our press. Not impossible—inevitable, perhaps. What happens when all four of you—Ayame, Rika, Reika, and Daiko—have committed forward? Our wingbacks, tied to Reika, are stranded. Scarlet passes them easily, and suddenly, the burden falls to our defensive mids. They scramble. Then to me and the other defender. Scarlet sees the gap and slides past us. And then—" I looked at Minato, whose nervous fists clenched at his sides. "Our goalkeeper becomes the final wall."
Minato puffed his chest. "I'll be the goalkeeper. You can trust me, everyone."
Such resolve… and yet, in truth, the resolve of a lamb walking into the slaughterhouse.
I continued, still wearing that gentle smile. "And let us not forget: this plan demands more stamina than most of you possess. To overwhelm their defense, to press relentlessly, to rotate endlessly… all it takes is a single slip, one miscommunication, and we collapse. The Athletic 3 do not need to be better than us. They only need us to make one mistake."
Ayame didn't flinch. She returned my words with that same determined fire. "And that's why this is our gambling lineup."
How naïve. She dressed recklessness in courage and called it strategy. A lesser mind would have argued. I did not. I simply nodded, smile unwavering, and thought to myself:
*Very well. Let the children play their little game of chance. I'll watch. And when their gamble comes crashing down, I'll be the one left standing, untouched by the rubble.*
The counselor entered, breaking the tension. "It's time. The field awaits."
We rose together, though I walked with different intent. Their footsteps were heavy with nerves, but mine were light—almost amused. As we climbed the stairs and the blinding light of the stadium poured down, I looked out into the sea of faces. Over a thousand people, filling every seat, their voices merging into a single thunderous wave.
My knuckles cracked softly as I stretched my fingers. Across the field, the seniors were waiting. Scarlet, dusk, Iron—their so-called Athletic 3.
The referee stood at the center, ball in hand.
Yes… this was the perfect stage. A stage where fools gamble, pawns clash, and kings remain unseen until the right moment.
The game was about to begin.