The message from 'Echo' burned a hole in Kairo's consciousness. A hidden gem, a defender with playmaking instincts—it was the exact kind of long-term solution their squad desperately needed. But the coordinates pointed to a remote server sector, a journey that would take the better part of a day. With the Dragoons match looming in forty-eight hours, it was a luxury he couldn't afford. The kingdom was under immediate threat; securing a future asset would have to wait. He saved the coordinates, a promise to himself for later, and turned his full focus to the fire at his gates.
The final training session before the away match was held in a simulated version of the Dragoons' home arena, the "Vermilion Forge." The environment was deliberately oppressive—the crowd noise was a constant, hostile roar, the pitch seemed narrower, and the lighting cast long, intimidating shadows. Coach Silas was leaving nothing to chance.
"They will come at you from the first second," Silas's voice was calm through the team comms, a steady counterpoint to the simulated chaos. "They feed on hesitation. Your first touch must be forward. Your first thought must be movement."
The 3-5-2 formation was put through its paces. It was a brutal, unglamorous system. Kenji would collect the ball, and instead of his usual composed distribution, he would launch a long, arcing pass towards the wings where Taro and Sora were positioned high and wide. The objective was simple: win the aerial duel, or force a 50/50 challenge.
The first few attempts were messy. Taro, under pressure from a bot mimicking the Dragoons' aggressive full-back, would often lose the header or be forced into a rushed, inaccurate cross. The midfield, comprising Kairo, Daichi, and another player, was tasked with the dirty work of winning the "second ball"—the unpredictable ricochet from the initial aerial contest.
This was where Kairo's idea, born from his late-night film session, began to take shape. During a brief water break, he pulled Ren aside.
"Their center-backs," Kairo said, pulling up a hologram. "They're aggressive. When the ball goes wide, they push out to support their full-back, expecting a cross. It leaves a channel right through the middle." He drew a line splitting the two central defenders. "When the ball is in the air to Taro, I don't want you to fight for position in the box. I want you to start from a deeper position, and the moment it leaves Kenji's hands, I want you to run. Not towards the ball, but through that channel."
Ren looked at the diagram, his brow furrowed. "A through ball? But the pass is going to the wing…"
"Not a through ball from the wing," Kairo clarified, a spark in his eyes. "A cut-back. I'm going to tell Taro not to cross. I want him to win the ball and play it back, low and hard, into that space you're running into. It's a direct pass from the wing into the center of the goal. They won't expect it."
It was a high-risk, high-reward play. It relied on Taro winning his duel and having the presence of mind to pick out a difficult pass instead of launching a hopeful cross. It relied on Ren timing his run perfectly to avoid the offside trap. And it relied on the Dragoons' defenders being as predictable as Kairo believed.
They practiced it. The first ten times were a disaster. Ren was offside. Taro's passes were overhit or intercepted. But slowly, the timing improved. The
It was a single, beautiful goal in a session of otherwise gritty, unattractive football. But it was a weapon. A secret arrow for their quiver.
The journey to the Vermilion Forge server was a silent, tense affair. The team was sequestered in a virtual transport, the looming match draining all conversation. Kairo could see the anxiety on his teammates' faces, especially Yumi and the other squad defender who were about to be thrown into the fire. He used the time to review the 'Echo' clip again, the defender's flawless technique a stark contrast to the brutal battle that awaited them.
When they arrived, the arena lived up to its name. It was a colossal, bowl-shaped stadium forged from dark, rust-colored metal, with glowing magma-like fissures running along its walls. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the heat and noise of fifty thousand hostile fans, all clad in vibrant red. The atmosphere was not just loud; it was suffocating.
As they walked onto the pitch for warm-ups, the Dragoons were already there. They moved with a sharp, predatory energy, their drills a blur of rapid passing and aggressive pressing shadows. They barely acknowledged Aethelgard's presence, their focus absolute. It was the confidence of a pack that knew it was the hunter.
Back in the locker room for final preparations, Silas was succinct. "Stick to the plan. The first fifteen minutes will be a hurricane. Survive it. Do not give them an early goal. Their belief is their greatest weapon; shatter it by withstanding their initial onslaught. Then, look for the opportunity."
The whistle blew.
The hurricane began instantly.
From the kick-off, the Dragoons swarmed. Their press was even more intense in person—a coordinated, suffocating wave of red that seemed to come from all directions. Every Aethelgard player was marked, every passing lane was blocked. The plan to go long was immediately put to the test.
Kenji collected a back-pass and, under immense pressure, booted it long towards Taro. The Dragoons' left-back, a player with the "Relentless" trait, climbed all over Taro, but the winger managed to get a flick on, the ball bouncing loosely into midfield. It was exactly the kind of second-ball chaos the Dragoons loved. They won it, and in three swift passes, had a shooter in the box who forced a spectacular, sprawling save from Kenji.
It was a pattern that repeated for the first ten minutes. Aethelgard was like a boxer covering up, absorbing blow after blow, relying on Kenji's heroics and last-ditch blocks to stay afloat. They couldn't string two passes together. The symphony was silent, replaced by the dissonant clang of survival.
But they survived. The initial hurricane, designed to score an early goal and break their spirit, did not find the net. As the clock ticked past the fifteen-minute mark, a subtle shift occurred. The Dragoons' pressure, while still intense, was no longer quite as coordinated. They had expended a massive amount of energy. Aethelgard's direct, if ugly, strategy was preventing them from establishing a stranglehold.
In the 21st minute, the moment Kairo had waited for arrived.
Kenji collected a weak Dragoons cross and immediately launched another long ball towards Taro on the right. This time, Taro won the header cleanly, nodding it down into the space in front of him. He controlled it, and the Dragoons' left-back closed in, expecting the cross.
But Taro remembered the play. He saw Ren, a blue dart, already on the move, slicing between the two Dragoons center-backs who had stepped up expecting a cross.
Instead of lifting the ball, Taro took a touch inside and drilled a low, hard pass back across the face of the penalty area, directly into the path of Ren's run.
It was perfect.
The entire Dragoons defense was wrong-footed, their momentum carrying them towards their own goal line as the ball was cut back into the space they had just vacated. Ren met the pass with a first-time shot, a powerful, side-footed effort that left the goalkeeper no chance.
GOAL.
Aethelgard FC 1 - 0 Vermilion Dragoons.
The Vermilion Forge fell into a state of shocked, disbelieving silence. The few traveling Aethelgard fans erupted in a pocket of pure joy.
It was a goal of stunning intelligence and execution, a diamond forged in the pressure of the anvil. They had not just survived; they had struck a devastating counter-punch.
As the Dragoons stared in disbelief and Aethelgard celebrated their improbable lead, Kairo allowed himself a moment of fierce satisfaction. They had adapted. They had taken a broken violin and, for one brilliant moment, made it sing a song of pure, tactical genius. The kingdom had not just held; it had launched a raid of its own.
But as he looked at the furious, determined faces of the Dragoons preparing for the restart, he knew one thing for certain: the anvil was about to get much, much hotter.