The atmosphere over the Krow City training grounds had shifted from a mere recruitment scrimmage to a high-stakes psychological war. The equalizer—that sudden, jagged strike that had leveled the score at 1-1—had done more than just change the numbers on the scoreboard. It had stung the "Veterans'" pride. For the first time, the Absolute Sovereigns of the academy were feeling the heat from the mud-caked boots of the newcomers. They weren't just playing against trialists anymore; they were facing a threat to their hierarchy.
On the sidelines, Coach Ninan stood as still as a statue, the collar of his jacket turned up against the rising wind. His eyes darted between his clipboard and the center circle, capturing the tactical shifts that a normal observer would miss. He scribbled a few words in his notebook with a trembling hand: "Raw talent in its purest form. The Director's gamble is paying off. These kids have the hunger, the 'Tiger' instinct. But now, we enter the true crucible. Let's see if these 'Rookies' can withstand the weight of real elite pressure. Talent wins games, but survival wins empires."
On the pitch, Belt pushed himself up from the damp turf. He wiped a smear of mud from his forehead with a mechanical gesture, his gaze locked onto Bill Maël. The Captain looked unruffled, his jersey remarkably clean, his aura radiating a serene but lethal calm. But Belt, with his analytical mind, could see the slight dilation in Maël's pupils. The "Eagle" was no longer observing; he was beginning to hunt.
"If you are the Lions of this system," Belt whispered to himself, his voice low and raspy, a dark promise directed at the grass beneath his feet, "then I will be the Tiger who breaks your ankles and tears down your throne."
He gathered Snick and Nans in a tight circle. His eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth or the typical camaraderie one might expect from a teammate. To Belt, they weren't friends; they were assets—calculated variables in his complex equation for dominance.
"Snick, listen to me. Your role is simple: you are the decoy. Move like you're the soul of the play. Every time you touch the ball, make them believe I am your only target. Draw their eyes, pull their defense toward the right, but the second you see the gap, you feed Nans on the opposite wing. Do not hesitate. If you doubt, we lose."
"And what about me?" Nans asked, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his nerves clearly frayed by the intensity of the veterans.
"You wait for the signal," Belt commanded, holding up four fingers briefly against his chest. "When I show you this, you launch the ball behind their defensive line. No hesitation. No questioning the physics of it. Just execution. Trust the space I will create."
The King's Counter-Attack
The game resumed, and the air seemed to grow heavier, charged with the static of an impending storm. The Rookies, dressed in their white trialist vests, tried to build a fluid tiki-taka. Snick was brilliant, his body feints sending the Veteran midfielders the wrong way, his low center of gravity allowing him to spin through challenges. The ball moved like a living thing, zipping across the grass. But they had made a fatal error: they had forgotten about the "Joker" in the pack.
Bobby.
The Number 7 appeared as if he had phased through reality, his presence suddenly manifesting behind Snick. He intercepted a soft pass with the casual grace of a man picking a flower in a garden. With a single, dry dribble, he erased a defender, leaving him stumbling in the mud as if his legs had turned to water. The Rookies' defense collapsed toward him, terrified by his unpredictability. Everyone expected a shot. Instead, Bobby performed a blind backheel into what looked like a void of empty space.
It wasn't empty.
Bill Maël swooped in like an eagle catching a thermal. He didn't even break his stride, his movement so fluid it looked pre-recorded. Without a run-up, he unleashed a surgical, dry shot. The ball didn't spin; it cut through the air like a laser beam, lodging itself into the top corner with a sound like a whip-crack against the netting.
2-1. The Veterans had reclaimed the lead in less than thirty seconds.
Belt clenched his teeth, the metallic taste of adrenaline and frustration sharp in his mouth. "This duo is monstrous. Bobby reads the game's flow; Bill executes the final verdict. It's a hive-mind connection, a social and tactical bond I cannot yet mirror. To win, I must sever the link. I must isolate the King."
But the Veterans weren't finished. They were out to prove a point. Minutes later, Maël recovered the ball in the midfield. He moved with a disconcerting ease, performing a roulette that left Snick dizzy, followed by a nutmeg on a second defender and a sharp hook that made the trialists look like they were standing in wet cement. With a nonchalant flick of his ankle, he sent a perfect lob pass over the defense to Sagnol, the Veteran Number 15. Sagnol didn't even have to jump; he simply let the ball hit his chest and pushed it into the net.
3-1. The match looked like a massacre in the making.
Nans ran to Belt, his face pale and eyes wide with panic, the smell of defeat already clinging to him. "What do we do?! They're playing a different game! We're getting destroyed, Belt! Help us!"
Belt remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the way Maël was adjusting his captain's brassard. He was analyzing the Captain's recovery time, his positioning, the micro-movements of his ankles. "Not yet," Belt said, his voice as cold as a mountain stream. "Don't let your fear cloud the data. I've found a crack in their perfection. Every empire has a fault line. I've found theirs."
The Tiger's Trap
The rain began to fall more heavily, slicking the pitch. Belt turned to Snick and raised four fingers. The signal.
Snick received the ball and immediately began a desperate-looking sprint toward the right wing. Two Veteran defenders rushed toward him, smelling blood, assuming the rookie was cornered. Snick, displaying a flash of brilliance that justified Ninan's interest, lifted the ball in a delicate lob pass toward Belt in the center.
Bill Maël, who had been marking Belt like a shadow, jumped. He was an elite athlete, his vertical leap putting his head well above the trialist. He was certain he would intercept the aerial ball and launch another counter-attack. It was exactly what Belt had calculated.
"To be a predator, you must first be a clever prey," Belt thought as he felt the Captain's shadow over him.
In the air, instead of contesting the ball, Belt performed an acrobatic volley—backward. He didn't try to control it; he sent the leather zipping back to the left, into the massive empty space Maël had left by committing to the tight mark. The trap snapped shut. The entire Veteran defense had followed the Captain's lead, leaving the flank wide open.
Nans was alone. He recovered the ball and charged toward the box, his heart hammering against his ribs. Bobby tried to sprint back in a desperate recovery, but Nans was fueled by the sudden hope of the play. He slid the ball through Bobby's legs—a humiliating nutmeg—straight to Snick, who had continued his run into the box.
Snick struck it true, his foot meeting the ball with a resonant thud.
GOAL. 3-2. The Rookies were breathing down the Kings' necks again, and the silence from the veterans was deafening.
The Legendary Equalizer
Two minutes remained on Coach Ninan's watch. The Rookies were pressing with a ferocity that defied their status as trialists. They were playing for their lives. Snick recovered the ball near the corner flag and sent a hard, low cross in front of the goal. The ball hit the crossbar with a terrifying, metallic clang that echoed across the entire facility like a funeral bell.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The defenders watched the ball bounce high into the air, assuming the action was over, their training telling them the threat had passed.
Except for two monsters.
Belt and Bill Maël moved at the exact same moment, their reaction times nearly identical. It was a duel of pure, raw speed—a race toward the drop point. Belt, pushed by a primal rage and the need to prove his "Absolute Sovereignty," arrived a fraction of a second faster. He didn't wait for the ball to land. He launched his body into the air, horizontal to the ground, a perfect acrobatic volley.
"You are going to witness the birth of a new King!" Belt screamed as his boot connected with the leather. "Eat this!"
The ball flew like a comet, a streak of white crossing the grey sky, before lodging itself in the opposite top corner with such force that the net bulged outward.
3-3. The impossible equalizer.
Coach Ninan dropped his whistle, his jaw agape. He had seen thousands of players, but this... this was different. "This kid... he's not just a player. He's a rough diamond that's already starting to cut through the elite."
Belt hit the ground hard, breathless and covered in mud, but he scrambled to his feet instantly. He looked at Maël, expecting to see his pride shattered. He expected to see the fear of a fallen monarch. Instead, Bill Maël was smiling. It was a frightening, predatory smile, the kind of expression a god might wear before delivering a flood.
"Perfect, kid. Thank you," Maël said, his voice chillingly calm, his breathing not even labored. "I was worried I wouldn't get to enjoy this trial. Now, I can finally stop holding back. Welcome to the real Krow City."
The Divine Punishment
The referee hadn't blown the whistle. There were seven seconds left.
The Veteran goalkeeper relaunched the ball instantly to Maël. The Captain stood in his own half, sixty meters away from the Rookies' goal. He didn't run. He didn't dribble. He simply lifted his head, his eyes scanning the entire field in a micro-second, as if he were looking at a tactical map.
He cocked his leg and struck a long, cross-field pass. The ball left his foot like a laser beam, crossing the entire pitch at a velocity that seemed to defy the laws of physics. It wasn't a shot at the goal. It was a pass intended for Bobby, who was lingering at the edge of the opposing box.
The ball changed its trajectory at the last possible moment—a "knuckle" effect that made it dip sharply—falling perfectly onto Bobby's foot. Bobby, without even controlling it, hit an instant lobbed volley. The Rookie goalkeeper, caught too far off his line by the sheer speed of the play, could only watch in despair.
The ball died in the back of the net with a soft, mocking rustle.
4-3.
The final whistle blew immediately, the sound shrill and final in the rain. In seven seconds, the Kings had reclaimed their throne with a display of power that felt less like football and more like divine punishment. They had allowed the rookies to hope, only to crush that hope in the blink of an eye.
Belt remained on his knees, his lungs burning, his eyes fixed on the grass. He was soaked to the bone, his body aching, but the pain in his pride was far worse. He had just understood a brutal, soul-crushing lesson. He had talent, yes. He had the "Mirror." He had the rage of a tiger. But opposite him were monsters playing at a level of existence he hadn't even imagined. They weren't just better; they were a different species.
He had touched the sun, and the sun had burned him. As the rain began to fall more heavily, soaking into his white jersey until it turned grey, Belt realized that the war for Krow City hadn't just begun—it had just claimed its first victim. He wasn't the King yet. He was just a tiger who had realized he was still trapped in a cage made of elite iron. Maël and Bobby weren't just players; they were the architects of the system he so desperately wanted to destroy.
The road to the Absolute Sovereignty was paved with the blood of trialists like him. And as he looked up at Maël, who was walking toward the locker room without a single word, Belt knew: he would either become a monster or he would be consumed by them.