The tunnel leading to the pitch felt like a prison corridor.
On the left side stood the Indonesian squad. They looked like a walking infirmary. Bambang wore a black carbon-fiber face mask to protect his broken nose, making him look like a muzzled dog. Rio's chest was taped heavily under his jersey, visible through the fabric. Three other players had bandages on their knees or heads.
On the right side stood Argentina.
They didn't look like U-20 footballers. They looked like bouncers at a rough nightclub. They were broad-shouldered, covered in tattoos, and chewing gum aggressively.
At the front stood their captain, Lisandro Martinez (nicknamed "The Butcher"). He had a shaved head and eyes that looked devoid of empathy.
Martinez leaned over toward Rio. He sniffed the air theatrically.
"I smell fear," Martinez whispered in broken English, grinning to reveal a chipped front tooth. "Or maybe it is the smell of hospital? Did you escape from the ICU, little boy?"
Rio didn't look at him. He adjusted his captain's armband, staring straight ahead at the light at the end of the tunnel.
[SYSTEM SCAN][Target: Lisandro Martinez][Class: Destroyer][Aggression: 99/100][Hidden Trait: "Dark Arts" (High proficiency in concealed fouls)]
"Don't talk to him," Rio ordered his team, keeping his voice low but firm. "Don't look them in the eye. Remember the protocol. If you hold the ball for more than two seconds, you bleed."
The referee walked out, oblivious to the tension. "Let's go."
KICK-OFF.
The atmosphere was hostile. The Argentine fans were chanting war songs, the drums beating like a march to execution.
Argentina started with a high press. They didn't care about the ball. They ran straight at the player.
An Indonesian defender received the pass. Immediately, an Argentine striker slid in—studs up. The defender panicked and kicked the ball away just milliseconds before the impact.
STOMP.
The Argentine boot landed squarely on the defender's toe. The defender yelped, but the referee waved "Play On" because the ball was already gone.
"Welcome to the kitchen!" Martinez laughed, shoving the limping defender as he ran past.
"Keep moving!" Rio shouted. "Don't stop!"
The ball came to Rio. Martinez abandoned his position instantly. He charged at Rio like a bull seeing red. He wasn't slowing down. He was aiming his shoulder directly for Rio's ribs—the exact spot where Rio was injured.
[WARNING: COLLISION IMMINENT]
Rio didn't brace for impact. He didn't dribble. Before the ball even reached his foot, Rio had already scanned the grid.
[SKILL: THE SURGEON'S TOUCH (Continuous Mode)]
Rio tapped the ball with the outside of his heel. A one-touch redirect. The ball spun away to the left. Rio jumped sideways.
Martinez flew past him, missing Rio's body by inches. The wind from the tackle ruffled Rio's loose jersey.
"Coward!" Martinez spat, turning around. "Stand and fight!"
Rio ignored him. "Move! Triangle formation!"
Thus began Protocol: Ghost.
It was the ugliest, most desperate style of football the world had ever seen. Indonesia didn't dribble. Not once. They played "Hot Potato."
Pass. Pass. Pass.
It wasn't elegant tiki-taka like Barcelona. It was panic passing. The moment a player got the ball, they got rid of it instantly, terrified of the Argentine tackle coming their way.
But... it was working.
Martinez and his thugs were chasing shadows. Every time they went to smash a bone, the ball—and the player—was gone.
Minute 20. Possession: Indonesia 60% - Argentina 40%. Fouls Committed: Argentina 8 - Indonesia 0.
Rio scanned the field with [Vulture's Eye]. He saw it. The Argentine midfield was losing discipline. "They are getting frustrated," Rio muttered. "Martinez is leaving his zone to hunt me. There's a hole in the middle."
Rio received the ball again. This time, two Argentines converged on him. Martinez and a defensive midfielder. They were trying to sandwich him.
"Break his legs!" a fan screamed from the stands.
Rio waited. He held the ball for 0.5 seconds longer than usual. Baiting the trap.
Martinez lunged. "Got you!"
Rio activated [Vulture's Eye]. He saw the passing lane that didn't exist for normal humans. A lane between Martinez's open legs.
Tap.
Rio nutmegged The Butcher.
The ball rolled through Martinez's legs into the open space behind him. And who was waiting in that empty space?
The Ghost. Ole Romeny.
Ole received the ball. He turned. He was free. The Argentine defense had overcommitted to kill Rio.
"Shoot!" Rio yelled, dodging a late elbow from Martinez.
Ole sprinted toward the goal. He was just outside the penalty box. One-on-one with the keeper. He winded up his leg.
But just as he was about to shoot, a shadow fell over him. An Argentine defender, desperate to stop the goal, didn't go for the ball. He grabbed Ole's jersey from behind and yanked him down.
RIP.
The jersey tore. Ole was thrown backward like a ragdoll. He slammed into the ground hard just inches outside the box.
Fweeeeeet!
The referee blew the whistle. He reached into his pocket. RED CARD.
The Argentine defender was sent off. DOGSO (Denial of an Obvious Goal-Scoring Opportunity).
"Yes!" Bambang pumped his fist. "10 men! We have the advantage!"
But Rio wasn't celebrating. He was looking at Martinez. The Butcher wasn't arguing with the referee. He was looking at his teammates. He made a hand signal. A slicing motion across his throat.
[SYSTEM ALERT][Opponent Strategy Shift: TERMINATION][Objective: Neutralize Key Players]
"Bambang, watch out!" Rio screamed.
But it was too late. The free-kick was taken quickly. The ball bounced loose near the sideline. Bambang chased it. Martinez chased Bambang.
Bambang was faster. He got to the ball first and poked it away. Martinez knew he was beaten. He didn't stop. He turned his body, pretending to block, but swung his elbow backward with vicious force.
It was a "Dark Art." Concealed by his body from the referee's angle.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening, distinct even over the crowd noise. Martinez's elbow slammed directly into Bambang's carbon-fiber face mask.
The mask shattered. Bambang dropped like a stone, motionless.
The referee didn't see the impact. He only saw the collision. The linesman was blocked by another player.
"Play on!" the referee waved.
Rio froze. He looked at Bambang's unmoving body. Then he looked at Martinez, who was jogging away with an innocent look on his face, hands raised in a "I didn't do anything" gesture.
Rage. Pure, white-hot rage flooded Rio's system. It overrode the pain, the fatigue, and the logic.
[EMOTION DETECTED: VENGEANCE][WARNING: Heart Rate Spiking to 180 BPM][System Offer: Unlock "Berserker Mode"?][Cost: Unknown]
Rio walked over to Martinez. He grabbed The Butcher by the collar.
"You think this is a game?" Rio hissed, his eyes glowing dangerously red.
Martinez smirked, leaning close so only Rio could hear. "It's a man's game, little boy. If you want to dance, you have to pay the price."
Rio shoved him away before he lost control. He looked at the medical team rushing onto the field.
Bambang was carried off on a stretcher. He gave a thumbs up, but it was weak, and blood was soaking the stretcher.
10 men against 11... no. It was 10 men vs 10 men now. But Argentina had lost a defender. Indonesia had lost their "Mad Dog".
Rio stood in the center circle. The fear was gone. The Ghost Protocol was over.
"Ole," Rio called out. The Ghost appeared beside him, looking pale and shaken. "Stop passing," Rio said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "They want a fight? Fine."
Rio looked at the notification floating in the air. [Unlock Berserker Mode?]
"Yes."