The final whistle didn't sound like a relief; it sounded like a death knell. Thiago was face-down in the red Brazilian dirt, his lungs feeling like they had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
The "Neymar Essence" had evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a body that remembered it hadn't done a push-up since the second Obama administration.
[ TRIAL CONCLUDED. ]
[ PHYSICAL DEBUFF: 'THE NOODLE EFFECT' ACTIVE. ]
[ ENERGY LEVEL: 2% (SURVIVAL MODE ONLY). ]
On the touchline, the village of Vila Rosa was eating itself alive.
"I'm telling you, Jorge, the boy is a vessel for the Divine!" Zezinho screamed, waving his megaphone at Old Man Jorge. "Did you see that elastico? That wasn't Thiago! That was the ghost of 1958!"
"Divine? It was a fluke!" Jorge roared back, his face a shade of purple that matched a bruised plum. "He's a fluke! He hit the post on an open goal, didn't he? He's still the same 'Tongue'! I've got fifty Reais that says he can't even walk to the penalty spot without his knees snapping!"
The crowd was a riot of conflicting interests. Half the village was ready to build a statue of Thiago in the town square; the other half—mostly those who had bet against the Association—was convinced he was a fraud who had simply caught a "very lucky heart attack."
Back on the pitch, Gilberto was looking at a list of names scribbled on a soggy napkin.
"Okay," Gilberto wheezed, "The Veterans are exhausted, but they're farmers. They'll kick the ball through a brick wall. We need hitters. Zezinho's cousin, you're first. Me, second... and Thiago, you're fifth."
"Fifth?" Thiago squeaked from the ground, his voice reaching a pitch only dogs could hear. "Gilberto, I can't feel my toes. I think my soul left my body around the eighty-seventh minute. I'm just a tactical advisor again! I'll give you the psychological profile of the keeper instead!"
"You're fifth," Gilberto snapped, grabbing Thiago by the collar and hauling him upright. The protagonist wobbled like a jelly sculpture in a hurricane. "The Veterans are terrified of you. Even if you just stand there and breathe heavily, you're in their heads."
The shootout began under the flickering, orange glow of the village's only two working floodlights. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and terror.
The first round set the tone. The Veterans' striker stepped up and smashed a ball so hard it nearly took the Association keeper's head off. The keeper didn't even dive; he just flinched as the net groaned. In response, Zezinho's cousin approached the ball with the confidence of a man walking to his execution. He hit a timid tap that the Veterans' keeper caught while mid-yawn. [ 0 - 1 ]
By the third round, the tension had turned the pitch into a pressure cooker. A Veteran farmer sent the ball screaming into the neighboring cow pasture, causing a distant moo of protest. Gilberto stepped up for the Association, closing his eyes and praying to every saint in the calendar. He poked the ball with his toe, and it bobbled into the bottom corner like a drunken sailor. [ 1 - 1 ]
The fourth round was a disaster for the spirit of the game. The Veterans scored a clinical strike. Then, the Association's youngest player, a boy whose knees were knocking loud enough to be heard in the next town, hit the post so hard the goal-frame vibrated for a full ten seconds. The ball ricocheted out, hitting a stray chicken. [ 1 - 2 ]
The Veterans' fifth kicker—a burly man nicknamed "The Hammer"—stepped up. If he scored, it was over. The Betting Association would lose their shirts, their pride, and their barbecue. He looked at Thiago, who was currently leaning against a goalpost just to stay vertical.
The Hammer got spooked. He tried to be too cute with a Panenka, but it lacked the lift. It dropped into the Association keeper's grateful hands.
The score remained 1 - 2. Because of a previous Association goal that had been contested and eventually allowed (after a ten-minute argument involving three grandmothers and a priest), it all came down to this. If Thiago scored, they went to sudden death. If he missed, the "Talker Around" would be chased out of the village.
Thiago dragged his feet toward the spot. Every step felt like wading through wet cement. The system interface flickered weakly in his vision.
[ CURRENT CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 12% ]
[ SUGGESTION: TRY NOT TO VOMIT ON THE BALL. ]
The silence was absolute. Even Old Man Jorge held his breath. Thiago looked at the keeper—a man known as "The Wall" who looked like he ate tractors for breakfast.
"Hey," the keeper hissed. "I know your secret, Mouth. You're empty. You've got nothing left but a loud voice."
Thiago looked at the ball. He looked at the Betting Association members, their eyes filled with a terrifying mix of hope and impending disappointment. He leaned over, ostensibly to fix his sock, but really to whisper to the dirt.
"System," Thiago wheezed. "I don't need Neymar. I just need a miracle. Or at least a very favorable gust of wind."
[ ...CALCULATING... ]
[ NEW OBJECTIVE: THE GAMBLER'S BLUFF. ]
Thiago stood up. He didn't look at the goal. He looked at the keeper and began to laugh—a high, manic sound. He started "jazzing" again, leaning into the only skill he had left: his mouth.
"You're leaning right, Tiao," Thiago chirped, his voice cracking but confident. "I've seen your last twelve penalties on YouTube. Your left ankle is weak. I'm going to put this exactly where your fear lives."
The keeper's eyes widened. He didn't have a YouTube. He didn't even have a smartphone. But Thiago's sheer, unadulterated confidence was a weapon. Thiago took a three-step run-up. His legs screamed. His heart hammered. He swung his foot.