The training camp was finally over.
For sixty days, the high walls of the National Training Center had hidden a brutal transformation. No media was allowed inside. No social media posts were allowed out. To the outside world, the U-20 National Team had simply vanished.
Now, the gates were opening.
A throng of journalists, cameramen, and die-hard fans gathered at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport. They held banners, cameras flashing in anticipation. They expected to see the usual sight: young players with trendy haircuts, designer backpacks, waving to the cameras, smiling for selfies, looking nervous but happy to be celebrities.
But when the team bus arrived and the doors hissed open, the crowd went quiet.
The first one off the bus was Rio Valdes.
He wore the official team suit, but on him, it looked less like formal wear and more like a military uniform. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharper than before. His skin was tanned from the relentless sun. His eyes scanned the crowd not with joy, but with the cold detachment of a soldier assessing a battlefield.
Behind him came Adrian Vance. The scrawny tactician was tapping away on a tablet, ignoring the flashing lights entirely, muttering about pass completion rates.
Then came Ole Romeny. He moved so quietly that half the photographers missed him entirely, focusing their lenses on the empty space behind him.
But the biggest shock was the rest of the squad.
Bambang, the former "King of Social Media," stepped out.
Gone was the pomade. Gone was the arrogant swagger. His head was shaved into a severe buzz-cut. There was a healing scar above his eyebrow—a souvenir from a collision during a defensive drill. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He kept his head up, jaw set, carrying his own luggage with a grip that turned his knuckles white.
The other players followed suit. No headphones. No giggling. They walked in perfect unison, their footsteps echoing on the pavement. They looked lean, hungry, and dangerous.
A whisper rippled through the press area. "Is that Bambang?" "They look... scary." "What happened inside those walls?"
[SYSTEM STATUS][Team Aura: INTIMIDATION][Cohesion: 88%][Readiness: COMBAT READY]
Rio glanced at the HUD overlay. 88%. Not perfect, but it will have to do.
A brave reporter from a major sports channel shoved a microphone toward Rio as he approached the check-in counter.
"Rio! Rio! A quick statement for the fans? You are heading to the World Cup to face France and Argentina in the 'Group of Death'. The public is predicting three straight losses. Do you have a promise for the nation? Will you do your best?"
Rio stopped. The entire team stopped behind him instantly, like a single organism. The discipline was terrifying.
Rio looked directly into the camera lens.
"We are not going there to 'do our best'," Rio said. His voice was raspy, unused to speaking to civilians. "We are not going there to gain experience. We are going there to hunt."
"Hunt?" the reporter blinked, confused. "But... the opponents are giants."
"Pray for us," Rio added darkly. "Not for us to win, but for us to survive. Because if we die, we are taking them with us."
He turned and walked through the security gates. The team followed without a word. The "Dogs of War" had been unleashed.
Twelve Hours Later. Host Nation.
The hotel lobby was lavish, dripping with gold and marble. This was the hub for Group A.
As the Indonesian team walked in with their luggage, the atmosphere shifted. The air conditioning was cold, but the tension was colder.
Across the lobby, lounging on the expensive Italian sofas, was the French U-20 National Team.
They were monsters. Even sitting down, they looked enormous. They were laughing loudly, relaxed, confident in their status as tournament favorites. They wore designer clothes, draped in the aura of European elites.
In the center of them sat a giant. Jean-Luc Pierre. The French captain. He was 6'4", built like a heavyweight boxer, yet known for having the speed of a sprinter. He was eating a green apple, looking bored.
When Rio's squad entered, the French players went quiet for a second, scanning the newcomers. They saw the shaved heads, the grim faces, the smaller statures.
Jean-Luc looked up. His eyes met Rio's.
[SYSTEM ALERT!][THREAT DETECTED][Name: Jean-Luc Pierre][Role: The Titan][Threat Level: SSS][Winning Probability: 0.2%]
A red warning flashed in Rio's vision. 0.2%.
Jean-Luc didn't scowl. He didn't sneer. He simply... smiled. It was a polite, dismissive smile. The kind of smile a lion gives to a mouse that just walked into its den.
"Cute," Jean-Luc muttered in English, loud enough to be heard. He took a loud crunch of his apple. "The tourists have arrived."
The French players erupted in laughter.
Bambang, the new "Mad Dog", twitched. His fists clenched at his sides. The old Bambang would have shrunk away. The new Bambang wanted to tear Jean-Luc's throat out. He took a step forward.
But a hand stopped him.
It wasn't Rio. It was Ole Romeny. The ghost-like striker didn't look at Jean-Luc. He looked at the apple in Jean-Luc's hand.
"Don't," Ole whispered to Bambang. "Barking gives away your position. Wait until we can bite."
Rio walked past the French team without breaking stride. He didn't acknowledge Jean-Luc's taunt. He kept his eyes fixed on the elevator.
Laugh while you can, Rio thought, feeling the familiar burn of the bionic heart in his chest. Giants fall harder when you cut their tendons.
Later that night. Rio's Hotel Room.
Rio stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He gripped the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white.
"Status," he whispered.
[LIFESPAN GACHA SYSTEM][User: Rio Valdes][Current Lifespan: 64 Days][Condition: STABLE (Warning: High Stress)]
64 Days. He had gained some days from the "Tyrant" quest, but the training camp had taken a toll. If they got knocked out in the Group Stage (3 matches), he would have barely two months left to live.
He had to win. He needed the quest rewards from the World Cup matches.
Knock. Knock.
Rio rinsed his face and opened the door. Adrian Vance stood there, holding a tablet and a stack of papers. He looked pale.
"I analyzed the footage of France's last friendly match," Adrian said, walking in without asking. He threw the tablet onto the bed. "It's bad, Rio. It's really bad."
"Jean-Luc?" Rio asked.
"Not just him," Adrian paced the room nervously. "Their midfield is a fortress. Their defense is disciplined. They are faster, stronger, and taller in every position. If we play a standard formation, we lose 5-0 by halftime."
Rio sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the tactical simulation on the screen. It showed red dots (Indonesia) being overrun by blue dots (France).
"So?" Rio asked calmly.
"So," Adrian pushed his glasses up, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. "I came up with something crazy. It's risky. It requires Bambang to basically run until he passes out, and it leaves our defense exposed to counter-attacks."
Rio swiped through the tablet. He saw the chaotic lines, the "Guerrilla" tactics pushed to the extreme. It wasn't football; it was terrorism on a pitch.
"Will it work?" Rio asked.
"Mathematically? We have a 15% chance," Adrian said seriously. "Which is significantly better than the 0.2% the System probably gave you."
Rio smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.
"15 percent," Rio murmured. "That's high."
He looked out the window at the stadium lights glowing in the distance. Tomorrow, the world would see the Rejects play.
"Prepare the briefing, Adrian," Rio commanded. "We execute Protocol: Chaos."