In a quiet, glass-walled conference room, twelve people sat around an oval table. At the far end, occupying the seat of authority, sat a man in a black suit with a crimson blazer draped over his shoulders like a mantle.
They were discussing football.
The man—Kingsley Alexander—leaned forward, clasped his hands, and asked a question that made several heads rise.
"What is football?"
He answered himself before anyone could speak.
"It is a sport filled with a beautiful, chaotic spark."
His voice echoed softly against the pristine walls. He continued, eyes sharp with conviction.
"And that is why I've decided to create a team of Super Eleven. A team that will surpass anything the world has ever seen."
Murmurs spread around the table. A few exchanged skeptical glances.
Kingsley only smiled.
"I know you think it's far-fetched. But I know it's possible. Before the team is formed, however… there is a program I intend to initiate."
One of the board members leaned forward.
"How? And why start something like this?"
Kingsley chuckled quietly.
"Because I'm tired of the football I see today. Too much inconsistency. Too many so-called 'powerful' teams falling apart under pressure."
His gaze hardened.
"I want a team that never loses. No matter the circumstances."
A hush fell. He stood up slowly, and as he did, the screen behind him came to life.
An emblem appeared: the number 11 intertwined with a pink rose, surrounded by a badge of sharp, coiling thorns.
Kingsley struck the table with his palm, his grin widening.
"This is only the beginning."
"I will build a facility here—Project Eleven."
He pointed to the emblem.
"And I will gather eleven players for every position. Eleven strikers, eleven wingers, eleven midfielders, eleven defenders, eleven goalkeepers. They will compete until one rises above the rest."
He spread his arms.
"The best in Japan will face the best from overseas. And I, Kingsley Alexander, will forge them into a perfect team."
The room was silent.
Then, almost inevitably, the Japan Football Association—JFA—agreed to his proposal.
By the end of the week, Kingsley had already hired scouts, sending them across continents to search for raw talent, hidden prodigies, and players whose brilliance had yet to be discovered.
The program, "Project Eleven" had begun.
...
The evening sky burned orange as the stadium lights flickered to life, swallowing the field in a bright white glow. The stands were packed—students, teachers, parents—everyone came to watch the regional semifinal.
Tokaji High vs. Seishin Academy.
One match away from the finals and one match away from history.
Tetsuya Hoshino stood near the halfway line, stretching his legs, silver hair with black tips tied loosely behind him. Even from afar, his red, slitted pupils glowed under the lights like a predator sizing up prey.
People whispered when he stepped onto the pitch.
He was the star. The ace. The one who made football look like art.
And today… he was in perfect form.
[Second Half — 2–1]
The scoreboard glowed brightly, visible to every spectator in the stadium—and to every player on the field.
Tokaji's coach with sweat moving down his already pale face, cried out, "Hoshino! End it!"
Tetsuya nodded, wiping sweat from his jaw. I will.
Seishin pressed hard, but Tetsuya weaved through them like he was made of smoke.
He took the ball from midfield and burst forward—one touch, two touches—each step accelerating.
A defender lunged.
Tetsuya flicked the ball between his legs and sprinted past.
"WHOOA!!"
The crowd roared.
The next defender tried to body-check him.
Tetsuya stopped suddenly—
—the defender stumbled—
—and Tetsuya exploded past him with a burst of speed.
"Go, Hoshinoooo!!"
He was unstoppable.
By the time he reached the final third, Seishin's players were scrambling. Three converged on him at once.
Tight space, he thought. But I can break through.
He tapped the ball with the outside of his foot, rolled it between two defenders, and slipped through the gap before they could even react. A fourth player tried to slide-tackle—
—but Tetsuya jumped over him, landing cleanly as the ball bounced perfectly back to his feet
Now he was in the box.
The keeper looked nervous.
The goal was there. So close he could taste it.
This is it, He thought.
His heart pounded against his ribs. His foot pulled back for the strike—
Until he heard it:
"TETSUYA! I'M OPEN!!!"
Kazuma Ito. The captain. Arms waving frantically.
Wide open near the penalty spot.
Kazuma, who always told him to trust the team.
Kazuma, who always accused him of being too selfish.
Tetsuya froze for half a second.
If I shoot and miss…
…they'll blame me.
If Kazuma scores…
…we win.
He bit his lip.
His foot changed direction.
He passed. There was no other way.
A perfect ball. The kind of assist coaches dream about.
Kazuma stepped forward, wound up—
—and MISSED.
The ball sailed over the bar.
Far. Too far.
The stadium gasped in a single unified breath.
And then—
The whistle blew. Almost mockingly.
Full time. [2–1]!
Tokaji High loses.
Seishin celebrated. Their fans cheered.
Tokaji players collapsed to the ground.
Kazuma fell to his knees, hands on his head.
The coach stared blankly and the bench cried quietly.
Tetsuya however… stood still.
His legs felt numb. His lungs tight.
He stared at the exact blade of grass where he had been.
Where he could've taken the shot.
Where he should've taken the shot.
A slow, hollow ache spread through his chest.
This is my fault.
He swallowed really hard.
If I shot…
His fingertips trembled.
…we would have won.
...
Rain started falling in thin, cold droplets.
The world was blurry — either from the rain or from the tears he refused to let fall.
He walked alone down the street, hair sticking to his face, uniform soaked. His breaths came uneven, deep, and shaky.
The farther he walked, the heavier everything felt.
Until, halfway down the empty road…
…he stopped.
His vision was blurred.
His chest clenched.
And finally—
he broke.
His knees hit the wet pavement as a choked sound escaped him.
He covered his face with both hands and cried —
not quietly
not heroically
but with the raw pain of someone who loved the game too much to forgive himself.
"I should've taken it…"
His voice cracked.
"I knew I should've taken it…"
The rain masked his tears, but nothing silenced the tremble in his voice.
For minutes, he stayed like that —
a boy shattered by a single moment.
Eventually, he forced himself up, wiping his face, breathing in deep.
He walked home slowly, legs heavy, eyes still stinging.
When he reached his doorstep, something black caught his eye.
A sleek envelope.
Dry and unopened.
Stamped with a silver number:
11
Tetsuya picked it up with trembling fingers.
Inside was a card:
"Tetsuya Hoshino,
You have been selected for PROJECT ELEVEN.
A program to create the strongest football team in history."
He stared at the card as raindrops slid down his cheeks.
What is this. Is this a prank or something.
He wasn't sure whether to believe what he was seeing or not.
I mean, yeah, creating a big team I see, but besides that…recruiting me?
Then his eyes hardened into something sharp.
"Fine…" he whispered.
"If the world needs the strongest player…
…I'll become him."
The regret in his chest didn't disappear
It transformed.
Into something that may very well change the football industry.