The roar of the Gelora Bung Karno Stadium was deafening, but to Rio Valdes, it sounded like he was underwater.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His heartbeat was too loud. It hammered against his ribs like a prisoner trying to break out of a cage.
"Pass it to Rio!"
"He's making a run! Stop him!"
Rio didn't look back. The ball was glued to his feet. He was seventeen years old, and this was the National U-19 Selection match. The scouts from Europe were in the VIP box. This was the moment he had sacrificed everything for.
He shifted his weight, feinting left before exploding to the right. The opposing defender crumbled, his ankles broken by the sheer suddenness of the move.
Just the goalkeeper left.
The goal gaped open like a hungry mouth. Ten meters. Five meters.
Rio pulled his leg back. He could already visualize the net rippling. He could taste the victory.
But then, the hammer inside his chest swung down.
CRACK.
Pain—sharp, white-hot, and absolute—exploded in the center of his chest. It felt as if an invisible spear had pierced him from behind.
The world tilted sideways. The green grass rushed up to meet his face.
He didn't feel the impact of his body hitting the ground. He only saw the ball, rolling slowly, pathetically, into the goalkeeper's arms.
The cheers died instantly, replaced by a horrified silence.
"Rio!"
"Medic! Get the medic!"
As darkness swallowed his vision, Rio had only one thought.
Not now. Please, God, not now.
The smell of cut grass and sweat was replaced by the stinging scent of antiseptic.
Rio opened his eyes. The ceiling was white. Annoyingly white.
"You're awake," a heavy voice said.
Rio turned his head. A doctor in a white coat stood by his bedside, holding a clipboard. His face was grim, the look of a man who had delivered too much bad news in one lifetime.
"The selection..." Rio croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Did I... make the cut?"
The doctor didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his glasses, avoiding Rio's eyes. "We found something, Rio. It's called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy."
Rio frowned. "Sounds expensive. Just give me some pills, Doc. I have training tomorrow."
"You don't understand," the doctor said sharply. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Your heart muscle is abnormally thick. It's struggling to pump blood. What happened on the field wasn't just fatigue. It was a cardiac arrest."
The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating.
"If you run again, you will die. If you play football again, you will die."
Rio stared at him. The words didn't make sense. It was like the doctor was speaking a foreign language. "I'm a striker. Running is what I do."
"Not anymore," the doctor said ruthlessly. "From today, you are a patient. Bed rest. Minimal exertion. With medication and strict care, we can manage the symptoms."
"Manage?" Rio laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "For how long?"
The doctor hesitated. He looked at the chart again. "Given the severity... I'd give you three months. Ninety days."
Ninety days.
A standard football match was ninety minutes. Rio Valdes had been given a ninety-day match. But there was no extra time. No penalties. Just the final whistle waiting to blow.
"I see," Rio whispered. He turned his head away, staring out the window at the gray, weeping sky. "Leave me alone."
Night fell over the hospital. The room was dark, save for the rhythmic blinking of the heart monitor.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
Rio lay still. He felt empty. Hollow. Football wasn't just a hobby; it was his escape from poverty, his identity, his soul. Without it, he was just a dying boy in a charity ward.
Suddenly, the beeping stopped.
Not just the machine. The rain outside stopped hitting the glass. The hum of the air conditioner died.
Silence. Absolute, unnatural silence.
Then came the smell. Not antiseptic, but... tobacco? Expensive, rich tobacco smoke.
"Pathetic."
A voice rasped from the corner of the room.
Rio bolted upright—ignoring the twinge in his chest. "Who's there?"
Blue smoke curled from the shadows, coalescing into a figure. A man sat in the visitor's chair, legs crossed, looking completely at ease. He wore a beige trench coat and a fedora hat straight out of a 1990s noir film. A cigar hung from his lips, glowing with an eerie blue light.
The man was translucent. Rio could see the wall outlet through his chest.
"A ghost?" Rio blinked. "Great. Now I'm hallucinating."
"I prefer the term 'Spirit Advisor'," the old man grunted, blowing a smoke ring. "Name's Specter. And you, kid, are a disgrace. You have the eyes of a hawk but the heart of a hamster."
Rio grit his teeth. "Did you come here just to mock a dying man?"
"I came here to offer you a trade," Specter said. He stood up and floated—literally floated—toward the bed. "I died on the sideline of a World Cup Final. Heart attack. Same as you. I have unfinished business with this sport."
Specter pointed a spectral finger at Rio's chest.
"You want to live? You want to play?"
"I'd give anything," Rio said, his voice trembling with a sudden, dangerous hope.
"Anything?" Specter grinned, revealing gold teeth. "Even your time?"
Snap.
Specter snapped his fingers.
Immediately, a blue holographic screen materialized in front of Rio's face. It hummed with digital energy, illuminating the dark room.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED: SOUL BALL]
[HOST: Rio Valdes][STATUS: CRITICAL]
A large red countdown timer appeared in the center of the screen.
[CURRENT LIFESPAN: 89 Days, 23 Hours, 45 Minutes]
"This is your bank account now," Specter explained, leaning over Rio's shoulder. "The currency is time. You want to fix that broken heart of yours? You have to buy it. You want the skills to dominate the world? You have to gamble for them."
Rio read the text scrolling below the timer.
WIN MATCH: +7 Days Lifespan.
SCORE GOAL: +2 Days Lifespan.
LOSE MATCH:-30 Days Lifespan.
"Lose, and you lose a month of your life," Specter whispered. "Lose three times in a row, and you drop dead on the pitch. No respawn. Game Over."
Rio stared at the screen. It was insane. It was a devil's contract. But then he thought of the ball rolling into the goalkeeper's arms. He thought of the pity in the doctor's eyes.
He looked at the countdown. 89 Days.
"If I sign this," Rio asked, looking at the ghost, "can I become the best?"
"Kid," Specter smirked. "If you survive this, you'll be a God."
Rio didn't hesitate. He didn't think about the risk. He didn't think about the pain. He reached out and pressed the glowing blue button marked [ACCEPT].
ZAP!
A jolt of electricity surged through his veins, hotter than fire. His heart slammed against his ribs, not in pain, but in power.
[CONTRACT SEALED][WELCOME TO THE GAME, STRIKER.]
Specter laughed, a dry, rasping sound that faded into the night.
"Get some sleep, Rio. Training starts at dawn. And trust me... you're going to wish you were dead."