(Naoki perspective)
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The referee's whistle tore through the cold December air, but I didn't move. Not yet. Both teams surged for the ball like desperate animals chasing scraps. That wasn't my role. My role was different—observer, orchestrator, the man behind the curtain.
And as I expected, the first mask slipped early.
Scarlet's opening sprint—sluggish, restrained, almost human. To the untrained eye she seemed slower than the rumors painted her. But I've seen enough illusions to recognize one instantly. She was coiling a spring, waiting for the moment to shatter the freshmen's naive pressing scheme.
Dusk touched the ball first, plain as day. The boy looked like an unremarkable shadow, but his movement betrayed him—deliberate, measured. He ran forward just far enough to bait fools into pressing. Predictable. And predictable prey came running: Daiko, eager and overcommitted, followed by Reika. Ayame hesitated, her overthinking written across her face. Rika, however… she was retreating. Interesting.
Daiko shouted for help, desperate to swarm Dusk. Ayame broke from her hesitation and joined, and suddenly three of my supposed "teammates" were caught in a net of their own weaving.
Dusk's smirk was the punchline. Without even glancing to his right, he passed into emptiness. Or at least, what looked like emptiness.
Then it happened—the kind of play that turns heads, that terrifies lesser defenders. Scarlet exploded into view, a blur that shredded the field. She wasn't sprinting, she was devouring space, outpacing even the idea of reaction. Ayame froze, Reika stumbled in hesitation, Daiko could only gape. None of them even slowed her down.
Scarlet played a game of cat and mouse with herself—touching the ball forward, sprinting to reclaim it, again and again, daring anyone to match her pace. The wingbacks lunged in desperation, but she bypassed them with the same cruel simplicity.
I turned to my fellow central defender. Sweat was already rolling down his temple. Pathetic.
I turned again, this time toward Minato in goal. His breathing was steady, controlled. Focus sharpened in his eyes. At least someone understood that panic was a choice.
Scarlet surged again—this time kicking the ball high, preparing to chase her own pass into oblivion. The crowd gasped, already convinced they were about to witness something divine. But I noticed the quiet detail: Rika, who had been retreating all this time. Anticipation, not fear. Clever girl.
She leapt, performing a bicycle kick that startled even me. Not because it was genius—merely because it was so sudden, so bold. The shot screamed through the air, bypassing the midfield and defensive line, aimed squarely at destiny.
Iron rose to meet it, tall and smug, confident in his reach. But the ball curved—mocking him, eluding him. For a fraction of a second, I wondered if Rika might actually snatch glory from inevitability.
But the goalpost denied her. The rebound crashed upward, a cruel reminder that luck is never loyal.
The ball fell into midfield, and like a vulture waiting for scraps, Reika pounced. Her dribbling was raw, aggressive—less strategy, more hunger. She drove forward and struck hard at the goal.
Enter Dusk again. His body arced through the air, replicating Rika's bicycle kick perfectly. A parasite copying another's brilliance, too proud to create his own. Ayame's shout confirmed what I'd already concluded: *he's a mirror, not a mind.*
The shot curved dangerously, but I did nothing. Why should I? I wanted to see Minato's answer.
And the boy did not disappoint.
His eyes narrowed, and for the briefest moment I saw it—Flow state. Pure focus, unshakable calm. Then came the audacity: a backflip save, redirecting the ball not with desperation but with artistry, making a controlled pass to the midfielders.
Even I blinked at that.
From there the play flowed: defensive mids to the wingbacks, wingbacks to Daiko. His strike downward propelled the ball to Reika, who darted forward once again. She and Daiko exchanged, a quick give-and-go. Iron bit on the feint, expecting a direct shot, but Reika received the ball in stride. Her smirk was arrogance distilled.
"I, the Queen, will reclaim my throne," she declared before striking.
And against all logic, all preparation… the net rippled.
Goal.
The crowd erupted. Freshmen screamed triumph, seniors scowled, and for a fleeting instant it seemed like hope had a place in this farce.
I scoffed.
"It was nothing but a coincidence. A fragment of luck dressed up as destiny," I murmured to myself, a faint smile curling at my lips. "And luck… is the most fragile foundation to build a victory on."
Inside, I already knew: this was the bait, the opening act. They were celebrating a spark, unaware of the inferno looming over them.
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### Rika's POV Rewrite
The whistle pierced the air.
The ball was thrown into the middle of the field, and once again everyone surged forward. My eyes immediately sought Scarlet, expecting her usual trick of lurking behind the play to strike later. But then—
**She sprinted. Full speed.**
She cut through the air like a blade, reaching the ball before anyone could react. Ayame moved to intercept, but Scarlet passed her as if she didn't exist. Reika followed, arms pumping, but her speed was no match. Even Daiko—so eager to prove himself—was a step too slow.
"Tch… so she's not hiding this time."
I darted forward, reading her trajectory. At the last possible moment, I slid into her path, forcing her to halt. My voice cut through the chaos:
"**Box her in! Now!**"
Reika obeyed, circling behind Scarlet. Daiko moved left, and Ayame filled the gap on the right. Four against one. Numbers and positioning—an unbreakable cage.
Scarlet only smiled.
Her leg swung violently, sending the ball screaming toward the seniors' goalkeeper.
"What—?" My brows knit together. "Why would she—?"
The answer came a heartbeat later. The keeper didn't catch it. He launched it. High. Far. A deliberate clearance.
The ball arced, dropping fast. I raced to claim it, but another figure was already there—Dusk.
His timing was flawless. He landed with the ball at his feet, already sprinting forward. My eyes widened slightly. He was moving fast—too fast. Not Scarlet's supernatural pace, but faster than me, faster than anyone else on this field.
And he wasn't alone.
The entire senior team surged forward as one, eight players storming into our half, leaving only their goalkeeper and Iron to defend.
A coordinated counterattack.
"Damn it… I didn't anticipate this."
The others were scattered, scrambling to catch up. Our midfield collapsed. Only Naoki, another center-back, and Minato stood between us and disaster.
Scarlet rejoined the charge, effortlessly linking passes with Dusk. Their rhythm was frightening—her speed, his vision. Naoki and the other defender tried to break their flow, but their resistance was nothing but a temporary nuisance.
I clenched my fists. *They've already breached the penalty area.*
The four of us regrouped at last, rushing back in a desperate attempt to shield the goal.
Scarlet had the ball. I sprinted to intercept. But just as I closed in, she slipped it to Dusk.
"Not so fast!" I lunged at him.
He didn't shoot. Instead, he crossed.
A tall shadow rose above us all. Iron.
"…What the hell…!?" My breath caught. *A center-back, this high up the pitch?*
Ayame darted to block his run, while Minato steadied himself in the goalmouth. If Iron struck directly, he'd be stopped.
But Iron didn't shoot. His header angled left. A redirection. A setup.
And I already knew who it was meant for.
Scarlet.
She blazed forward, Daiko throwing himself in her path, but she flicked the ball past him with surgical precision. Her body turned sharply, cutting at exactly a 44-degree angle.
Her shot tore through our defense.
And the net rippled.
**Goal.**
The scoreboard now read 1-1.
I stood still, my jaw tight, my pulse steady despite the gnawing frustration. This wasn't random. It wasn't luck.
That attack—the timing, the spacing, the unorthodox positioning of Iron, the final release to Scarlet—
It all came from one mind.
"…Dusk."
My eyes narrowed. *He was the architect. Scarlet may have been the blade, but he forged the strike.*
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