The midday sun bore down mercilessly on the 5 v 5 field at Saint Marx College.
Heat shimmered above the artificial turf, warping the air and making the white field markings blur slightly at the edges.
Sweat clung to skin, uniforms stuck uncomfortably to backs, and the faint smell of rubber and dust mixed with the sharp scent of anticipation.
It was the kind of heat that made tempers short and moments feel heavier, as if every second carried weight.
A crowd had gathered around the makeshift sidelines, murmuring and whispering, anticipation buzzing in the air like electricity.
Learners stood shoulder to shoulder, some perched on backpacks, others shielding their eyes from the sun as they craned their necks for a better view.
First-years, second-years, even a few bored-looking seniors had been drawn in, pulled by rumors of the Shadow Kings and the strange newcomer who had dared to challenge them.
Suddenly a big guy with the build of a second or even third year appeared cutting the dramatic silence.
He stepped onto the field without urgency, towering over most of the players, his broad shoulders stretching his uniform.
His presence alone shifted the atmosphere, like a sudden pressure drop before a storm.
Scratching his head he asks "Did I miss anything"
Tlapa, Arabeile, and Tsebo froze, eyes wide and mouths agape.
Then, almost in perfect unison, they toppled backward, sprawled across the field in exaggerated shock.
The crowd burst into laughter, some clapping, others pointing. The reaction alone confirmed it—this late arrival was no ordinary fighter.
"HEY YOUU!!!"
The shout ripped through the air, sharp and furious.
Treasure stepped forward, veins visible on his neck, his dominance momentarily cracked by irritation.
"You show up late and walk like your on a red carpet get over here your lucky the last team was trash, or else you would have had another walk to the gates of hell!"
The big guy only grinned lazily, jogging into position as if the insult were nothing more than background noise.
Bapala's team—a haphazard group of fighters plucked randomly from the sidelines—was about to face the Shadow Kings, the most feared 5 v 5 Squad on the grade 8 field.
Standing among his teammates, Bapala felt the imbalance clearly.
His squad shifted nervously, eyes darting, feet shuffling. These weren't hardened competitors; they were learners pulled in by chance, courage, or curiosity.
Across from them stood legends—fighters whose names carried weight, whose movements inspired fear before the ball even rolled.
As the whistle blew, the ball was immediately dominated by Ofenste, one of the Shadow Kings' most lethal fighters and the tardy big guy
The moment the ball touched his foot, it was as if gravity bent around him. He moved with deceptive ease, long strides eating up space, his touches soft yet commanding.
He danced past each of Bapala's random squadmates, flicking the ball over one, then nutmegging another with such fluid precision that it seemed as though the opponents didn't exist.
Gasps and whispers rose from the crowd. Some laughed in disbelief, others shook their heads, already convinced the match was over.
Bapala's heart pounded as he tried to intercept, stepping forward with determination. He planted his foot, timing his approach, eyes locked on the ball.
But in the blink of an eye, Ofenste performed a slick nutmeg on him.
The ball slipped through Bapala's legs, and he froze—staring in disbelief as the crowd erupted in laughter.
Heat flushed his face. Shame burned in his chest like fire. The sound of laughter echoed louder than any insult, drilling straight into his pride.
Before he could recover, Ofenste passed the ball to Treasure, the self-proclaimed King of the Field, who moved with almost supernatural poise.
A single, precise tap and the ball was in the net. 1-0.
The net rippled softly, almost mockingly.
Treasure barely even looked at the goal as he scored, his grin radiating arrogance, eyes glinting with the thrill of dominance.
He spread his arms slightly, soaking in the reaction, feeding off the silence of Bapala's team and the cheers of the crowd.
Bapala's squad scrambled.
The ball was back in their possession, and Bapala quickly passed to a random fighter who darted down the wing with surprising speed.
The random fighter from Bapala's Squad attempted a cross back toward Bapala, aiming for a creative counter.
But the pass sailed over his head.
Bapala lunged, stretching every sinew to stop the ball from crossing the line. His boots scraped the turf, muscles screaming in protest as he twisted his body.
But the Shadow Kings pressed with relentless aggression, closing space instantly, suffocating every option.
Ofenste came forward, intent on intercepting, yet every time he approached the ball, Bapala reacted with lightning speed.
His movements were almost preternatural, his instincts kicking in with impossible precision.
He blitzed the ball left, then right, seemingly in multiple directions at once. His body moved before his thoughts, something deep within him guiding each touch.
The crowd froze. Whispers turned to shouts.
"Did he just—?"
"No way… he passed him!"
Bapala then executed a sudden, perfectly timed nutmeg on Ofenste.
The Shadow King fell to the ground, red-faced with shame, unable to even look up.
The silence from the crowd was deafening—shock painted across every student's face. Mouths hung open, laughter died instantly, and even Treasure's confident posture stiffened.
For a moment, it seemed as though Bapala might pull off a miracle.
The field felt different, charged, as if something unseen had shifted.
But then, a shadow loomed over him.
Tlapa Šoma, the Great Wall of China, charged.
In a blur of strength and precision, he collided with Bapala. Their cores clashing in the collision.
The impact sent him flying nearly three meters across the field.
The sheer force left the air around him vibrating, as though life itself had been momentarily expelled from his body.
Bapala hit the turf hard, breath ripped from his lungs, the world spinning violently.
His eyes, which had burned with a near-robotic, devious focus seconds ago, now flickered out, replaced by stunned disorientation.
Treasure smirked from the center of the pitch, arms crossed.
His voice cut through the shocked silence like a blade.
"Know your place. That's where you belong—on the ground, at my feet."
Bapala groaned, trying to rise, but the weight of humiliation pressed down harder than the collision had. His hands trembled as he pushed against the turf, every muscle protesting.
The crowd's murmurs escalated, whispers of awe, fear, and disbelief mixing into a tense cacophony. Some pitied him. Others feared him.
A few watched with renewed interest.
Amid the chaos, Tsebo Maatla, The Academic, leaned casually against the sideline, a small, knowing smile on his face.
He had seen enough—he knew something everyone else didn't.
There was more to Bapala than met the eye, and today, this battle would only hint at his potential.
The alarm blared. Fifteen minutes were up. The final whistle echoed through the small stadium: 1-0, Shadow Kings.
Treasure's grin widened, teeth glinting in the sunlight.
The Shadow Kings had done it again, dominating yet another first-year team, their reputation untouchable.
Cheers erupted, mixed with scattered applause. Victory felt routine for them—expected.
But before Bapala could gather his pride, before he could even fully stand, Tsebo stepped onto the field.
He walked straight toward Treasure, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to the King of the Field's arrogance. Each step was deliberate, confident, unhurried.
"I'm quitting the Shadow Kings," Tsebo said, voice steady, eyes unwavering.
The crowd went silent. Gasps echoed. Students nudged each other, unsure if they had heard correctly.
Treasure's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of rage.
"What?!" Treasure bellowed. "Fine! We don't need you! You're replaceable, just like everybody else!"
The words hit the air like stones, sharp and cruel. Yet Tsebo remained unfazed, his expression unchanged.
He took another step forward, and to everyone's shock—including Bapala—he turned and faced the young first-year directly.
Then, with a calm authority that seemed to bend the chaos of the field, Tsebo spoke.
"Lets play soccer together."
The crowd erupted in disbelief. Whispers became excited chatter, voices overlapping, theories spreading like wildfire.
Bapala blinked, his shock quickly morphing into a grin that split his face.
The randomness, the awkwardness, the unpolished scheme of his team suddenly felt like an opportunity rather than a flaw.
The field, the ball, the Shadow Kings—it was no longer about humiliation or fear. It was about defiance.
About beginnings.
The 5 v 5 battlefield had just shifted. And Bapala? He was ready.
Verse of the Chapter
The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.
— Psalms 118:22