The world was bathed in golden light.
A football stadium stretched endlessly in every direction, its towering stands packed with bodies—thousands upon thousands of spectators crammed into every available seat, their faces blurred but their presence undeniable. The roar of their voices crashed against Kurosawa Kaito's ears like ocean waves breaking against ancient cliffs, rhythmic and thunderous and utterly intoxicating. Red and white banners rippled in the warm breeze that swept across the immaculate pitch, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and the electric tension of a match reaching its climax.
Kaito stood at the edge of the penalty area, his chest heaving with controlled breaths, sweat trickling down the sides of his face and dripping from his jawline onto the pristine white of his jersey. The number 10 blazed across his back in bold crimson letters—the playmaker's number, the creator's number, the number worn by legends. His calf muscles burned with the exertion of ninety minutes of relentless running, but the pain was distant, muffled by the adrenaline surging through his veins like liquid fire.
The scoreboard loomed at the far end of the stadium, its digital display casting harsh light against the darkening sky: HOME 2 - AWAY 2. Ninety-third minute. Injury time. The dying seconds of a match that would determine everything.
Kaito's eyes tracked the ball as it arced through the air toward him, launched by a desperate clearance from the opposition's defense. Time seemed to slow, the world around him compressing into a single crystalline moment of absolute clarity. He could see the rotation of the ball, the way the leather panels caught the floodlights as it spun lazily against the backdrop of purple-orange twilight. He could hear his own heartbeat, steady and strong, pounding against his ribs like a war drum calling him to battle.
His muscles coiled, storing energy like a compressed spring. His eyes never left the ball as it descended toward him, calculating trajectory, velocity, the precise moment of impact. The defenders were converging—he could sense them without looking, their desperate footsteps thundering across the turf, their labored breathing harsh in the humid evening air. They were too slow. They would always be too slow.
Kaito launched himself into the air.
His body twisted, spine arching backward in a move that defied conventional physics. The world inverted as he rose, the stadium lights becoming stars beneath him, the pitch becoming a green sky above. His right leg extended, muscles firing in perfect synchronization, foot positioned at the exact angle required to redirect the ball's momentum. The roar of the crowd faded to silence as time stretched into infinity.
Contact.
The ball compressed against his instep for a fraction of a second—he could feel every dimple of its surface, every thread of the stitching pressing against his boot—and then it was gone, rocketing away from him with devastating velocity. Kaito hung suspended in the air, watching the ball's trajectory as if in slow motion. It curved through the space between defenders, bending away from the goalkeeper's desperate dive, kissing the inside of the far post before burying itself in the back of the net.
The crowd erupted.
"KAITO! KAITO! KAITO!"
The chant washed over him as he landed gracefully on the turf, arms spread wide, face tilted toward the heavens. Tears streamed down his cheeks—tears of joy, of vindication, of triumph over every obstacle that had ever stood in his path. His teammates swarmed him, lifting him onto their shoulders, their screams of celebration blending with the thunderous approval of a hundred thousand voices united in worship of the beautiful goal they had just witnessed.
This was his destiny. This was his—
"Kurosawa! Are you listening?"
The stadium shattered.
The roaring crowd dissolved into mocking whispers. The golden light faded to the sterile fluorescence of ceiling-mounted tubes. The weight of his teammates' hands became the oppressive pressure of thirty judgmental stares boring into the back of his skull.
Kaito blinked rapidly, disorientation washing over him like cold water. His eyes struggled to adjust, the afterimage of the stadium's floodlights slowly giving way to the harsh reality of Classroom 2-B at Yokohama International School. The desk beneath his elbows was smooth polished wood, imported from Finland according to the school's promotional materials—the same materials that boasted about the institution's ninety-eight percent university admission rate and its alumni network that included cabinet ministers, Fortune 500 executives, and two Nobel laureates.
The whiteboard at the front of the room displayed a complex calculus equation, the black marker strokes precise and unforgiving. Matsuda-sensei stood beside it, his hand frozen mid-gesture, thin lips pressed into a line of barely contained irritation beneath his meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache. His charcoal suit was immaculately pressed, not a single crease visible despite the late afternoon hour, and his wire-rimmed glasses caught the light as he tilted his head in a way that made Kaito feel like an insect being examined through a magnifying lens.
"I asked you to solve the equation on the board," Matsuda-sensei repeated, his voice carrying the particular tone of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed immediately and without question. "Unless, of course, you find the view outside more educational than my lecture?"
A ripple of laughter spread through the classroom like a disease. Kaito could feel it on his skin—the barely concealed derision, the smug satisfaction of his classmates at witnessing his humiliation. The sound was familiar, as intimate as his own breathing. He had heard it every day for the past three years.
The classroom itself was a monument to wealth and privilege. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the eastern wall, offering a panoramic view of the school's meticulously landscaped gardens—cherry blossom trees arranged in geometric patterns, a koi pond glittering beneath the afternoon sun, stone pathways winding between perfectly trimmed hedges. The desks were arranged in precise rows, each one equipped with an integrated tablet computer and a personal charging station. The air conditioning hummed at exactly twenty-two degrees Celsius, maintaining a climate of perpetual comfort regardless of the season.
Kaito straightened in his seat, his spine pressing against the ergonomic backrest. His eyes quickly scanned the equation on the board—a differential calculus problem involving multiple variables and a trigonometric function. The symbols arranged themselves in his mind, connections forming automatically, the solution crystallizing in a matter of seconds.
"X equals 3.75," he answered, his voice quiet but certain.
A moment of silence.
Matsuda-sensei's eyebrows rose by approximately three millimeters—the most expression Kaito had ever seen from the perpetually stoic mathematics instructor. He turned back to the board, marker moving swiftly as he worked through the problem. The seconds stretched uncomfortably as the entire class watched, some leaning forward in their seats with predatory anticipation, eager to witness Kaito's mistake.
The marker stopped.
"Correct," Matsuda-sensei said, the single word carrying a note of grudging acknowledgment. "Pay attention next time instead of staring out the window. Your scholarship does not entitle you to waste my time."
The reminder was unnecessary but deliberate. Scholarship student. The two words that defined Kaito's existence within these walls, that set him apart from his classmates as surely as a brand burned into his flesh. Everyone knew that Yokohama International School's tuition exceeded two and a half million yen per year—more than his mother earned in the same period. Everyone knew that Kaito was here only because of an academic scholarship that covered eighty percent of his fees, with the remaining twenty percent scraped together through his mother's second job and carefully rationed savings.
Everyone knew, and no one let him forget.
A few seats away, in the second row from the window, Suzuki Akira clicked his tongue with theatrical displeasure. "Lucky guess," he muttered, his voice pitched at exactly the right volume to reach the surrounding students while maintaining plausible deniability. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day."
Laughter rippled outward from Suzuki's desk like waves from a stone dropped in still water. His friends—sycophants, really, drawn to his family's wealth and influence like moths to a flame—echoed his amusement with well-practiced synchronization. The sound was a knife sliding between Kaito's ribs, finding the gaps in his armor with the precision of long experience.
Suzuki Akira was everything Kaito was not. Tall and athletic, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of someone who had access to personal trainers, nutritionists, and cutting-edge sports science since childhood. His hair was styled with an artfully casual messiness that probably required an hour and several thousand yen worth of product to achieve. His uniform was identical to everyone else's in design—white button-down shirt, navy blazer with the school crest, gray slacks—but the quality was visibly superior, the fabric draping with a softness that spoke of custom tailoring and premium materials.
The watch on Suzuki's wrist caught the afternoon sunlight as he raised his hand to answer the next question, the diamond-studded bezel throwing prismatic reflections across the ceiling like scattered stars. A Patek Philippe, Kaito recognized distantly. Limited edition. Worth more than everything his family owned combined—apartment, furniture, savings, everything. Suzuki wore it carelessly, as if it were nothing more than a functional timepiece rather than a statement of dynastic wealth that stretched back generations.
**"Pathetic."**
The voice slithered into Kaito's consciousness without warning, cold and familiar and utterly unwelcome. It settled behind his eyes like a physical presence, a weight that pressed against the inside of his skull.
**"You'll never be anything but a bench warmer. A placeholder. A charity case tolerated by your betters because it makes them feel generous."**
Kaito's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his mechanical pencil—a cheap convenience store purchase that had come free with a package of instant noodles—and squeezed until the plastic creaked in protest. The voice had been his constant companion for three years now, ever since that night. That terrible, rain-soaked night when everything changed.
**"They're right to mock you, you know. What have you accomplished in your fifteen years of worthless existence? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."**
The voice was wrong. Kaito knew it was wrong. And yet, wrapped in the suffocating atmosphere of this classroom, surrounded by the heirs of Japan's elite, he found it difficult to summon a counterargument. What had he accomplished? He had survived. He had endured. But survival and endurance were not achievements—they were merely the baseline requirements for continued existence.
He forced himself to loosen his grip on the pencil before it snapped. He couldn't afford to replace it this month. The budget was too tight, every yen allocated with military precision. New shoes for Mei, whose feet seemed to grow larger every week. Mio's art supplies for her school project. The electricity bill that had somehow increased despite their careful conservation efforts. There was no room in that budget for a replacement pencil, not until next month at the earliest.
The remainder of the class passed in a blur of equations and whispered mockery. Kaito kept his eyes fixed on his notebook, hand moving mechanically as he copied down formulas and solutions he had already memorized weeks ago. The voice offered occasional commentary, a running critique of his posture, his handwriting, his very existence, but he had long since learned to tune it out. Or at least, to pretend he could tune it out.
The final bell rang at precisely 3:30 PM, its electronic chime cutting through the classroom with the authority of divine proclamation. Students erupted from their seats with the enthusiasm of prisoners granted unexpected parole, gathering bags and devices and heading for the door in chattering clusters. Plans were made—karaoke in Shibuya, shopping in Minato Mirai, dinner at that new French restaurant everyone was talking about. The currency of social capital exchanged hands with practiced ease, invitations extended and accepted based on calculations of status and mutual benefit.
No one invited Kaito.
He packed his worn textbooks into his bag slowly, methodically, using the task as an excuse to avoid eye contact with his departing classmates. The bag itself was plain black nylon, its edges fraying slightly where the stitching had begun to loosen after years of daily use. It had belonged to his father once—one of the few possessions Kaito had claimed from the wreckage of that former life.
**"Look at them,"** the voice murmured as the last group of students disappeared through the doorway. **"Friends. Connections. Futures already mapped out in corner offices and board rooms. What do you have, Kurosawa Kaito? What awaits you beyond these walls?"**
"Nothing," Kaito whispered, so softly that even he could barely hear the word. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and made his way toward the door, steps measured and unhurried.
The hallways of Yokohama International School were designed to intimidate. Ceilings soared four meters overhead, supported by columns of polished marble imported from Italy. The floors gleamed with a mirror-like finish, reflecting the afternoon light that streamed through arched windows overlooking the central courtyard. Trophy cases lined the walls at regular intervals, their glass fronts protecting decades of academic, athletic, and artistic achievements. Debate championships. Science olympiad medals. Football tournament victories.
Kaito paused before one of the cases, his reflection ghosting across the glass like a specter. Inside, arranged on velvet pedestals, were the trophies won by the school's football team over the years. Regional championships, prefectural cups, invitational tournament victories. The names of star players were engraved on commemorative plates beneath each trophy—Yamamoto, Suzuki, Tanaka, Nakamura. Names that belonged to the sons and grandsons of families whose wealth could purchase entire city blocks.
Kurosawa was nowhere to be found.
**"Did you expect differently?"** the voice asked, its tone dripping with false sympathy. **"Did you imagine your name would appear among theirs? You, who cannot even afford proper boots? You, who begs for scraps from their table?"**
Kaito turned away from the trophy case and continued walking.
The school's football field came into view as he descended the main staircase, its emerald expanse stretching beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ground floor corridor. The pitch was immaculate—FIFA-certified artificial turf maintained by a dedicated grounds crew, lined with precision accuracy, surrounded by aluminum bleachers capable of seating two thousand spectators. Two full-sized goals stood at either end, their white frames gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Kobayashi-san was visible near the midfield line, his weathered hands guiding a line-painting machine with the practiced ease of decades of experience. The elderly groundskeeper had worked at YIS for nearly thirty years, tending to the various athletic facilities with a dedication that bordered on religious devotion. His khaki uniform was perpetually stained with grass and dirt, his face lined with the deep wrinkles of someone who had spent a lifetime outdoors.
He noticed Kaito watching through the window and raised one hand in a brief wave. Kaito returned the gesture, allowing himself a small nod of acknowledgment. Kobayashi-san was one of the few people at this school who treated him with genuine respect—perhaps because he, too, understood what it meant to be invisible in a world built by and for the wealthy.
Several members of the Phoenix FC were already on the field, their premium training gear catching the light as they went through warm-up routines. The school crest—a stylized phoenix rising from crimson flames—was emblazoned across their chests, marking them as members of an elite fraternity. Their movements were confident, almost arrogant, the product of years of professional coaching and unlimited access to facilities that most aspiring players could only dream of.
Kaito ducked into the locker room through a side entrance, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a metallic clang that echoed off the tiled walls. The space was large and well-appointed, with individual lockers arranged in neat rows, wooden benches running between them, and a separate area for showers and changing. The air carried the mingled scents of sports detergent, body spray, and the faint undertone of sweat that no amount of ventilation could completely eliminate.
His locker was in the far corner, separated from the prime real estate near the center of the room by a deliberate distance that spoke volumes about his position within the team's hierarchy. Unlike the personalized lockers of the starting players—which featured nameplates, combination locks, and interior organizers—his was unmarked and slightly dented, the result of someone's foot impacting the door with considerable force during an incident Kaito preferred not to remember.
He changed quickly, pulling on the practice jersey that was a size too large for his lean frame. The fabric hung loosely around his shoulders, the hem reaching nearly to his mid-thighs. A hand-me-down from last year's graduating class, it still bore the ghost of its previous owner's name—TANAKA—visible beneath the new number they'd assigned him. Twenty-three. Not a starter's number. Not even a substitute's number. A number reserved for players who existed only to fill out the roster, to make up the numbers during training exercises, to provide bodies for the first team to practice against.
His cleats were decent quality but visibly worn, the black leather scuffed from countless hours of solitary practice on public pitches, the studs filed down unevenly from contact with unforgiving concrete surfaces. He laced them with careful attention, ensuring each loop was tight enough to provide support without restricting blood flow.
From the bottom of his locker, wrapped in a clean towel that his mother had folded with characteristic precision, Kaito retrieved his father's boots.
They were old—eight years old, to be exact—and the wear was evident in every crease of the leather, every faded patch of color, every imperfection that told the story of their history. Adidas Predators, a model that had long since been discontinued, their once-vibrant red and black coloring muted by time and use. The soles were still intact, the studs still functional, the construction still solid despite their age.
On the heel of the right boot, written in fading black marker that had been touched up dozens of times over the years, was a single word: TAKESHI.
His father's name.
Kaito held the boots for a moment, his thumbs tracing the familiar contours of the leather. Memories flickered at the edges of his consciousness—his father demonstrating proper shooting technique in their tiny apartment, furniture pushed against the walls to create space; weekend trips to Nissan Stadium to watch Yokohama F. Marinos play, his father's hand warm and steady on his shoulder as they cheered together; late-night conversations about European football, about Cristiano Ronaldo's work ethic and dedication, about the path that could take a talented young player from Japan to the pinnacle of the world stage.
Those memories were precious.
They were also painful.
He placed the boots back in the locker, positioning them carefully at the bottom where they would be protected from accidental damage. He never wore them for practice—they were too valuable, too irreplaceable, too sacred. He saved them for matches, for the rare occasions when Coach Yamamoto deigned to let him set foot on the pitch during an actual game. Those moments were few and far between, but they existed, and when they came, Kaito wanted to honor his father's memory by wearing the boots that had once carried Takeshi Kurosawa's own dreams of football glory.
"Hey, poverty-boy! Better hurry up before Coach gives your bench spot to someone else!"
The voice cut through Kaito's reverie like a blade through silk. He turned to find Ito Haruki standing in the doorway of the locker room, flanked by two other players whose names Kaito had never bothered to learn. Ito's perfectly styled hair—a carefully constructed arrangement of artful spikes and strategic highlights—didn't move as he laughed at his own joke, held in place by what was undoubtedly an obscene amount of premium styling product.
In his hand, the latest iPhone Pro Max gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights, its camera lens pointed in Kaito's direction with unmistakable intent. Ito was always filming, always capturing, always curating content for the social media accounts that documented his privileged existence for thousands of envious followers. Kaito had appeared in those videos more times than he cared to count, always as the punchline, always as the object of ridicule.
He said nothing in response to Ito's taunt. He had learned long ago that engagement only encouraged them, that any reaction—anger, hurt, defiance—was fuel for their entertainment. Silence was his shield, invisibility his armor. He focused on lacing up his worn cleats, fingers moving with mechanical precision while his face remained carefully blank.
**"Smart,"** the voice commented, its tone almost approving. **"Hide. Endure. That's all you're good for, after all."**
Kaito finished with his cleats and stood, grabbing a water bottle from his locker before heading for the door. He moved past Ito and his companions without acknowledgment, keeping his eyes fixed forward, his posture neutral, his expression empty.
"Don't ignore me, charity case," Ito called after him, but there was no real heat in the words. The game was less fun when the prey refused to react.
The practice field awaited.
Coach Yamamoto Takuya was already present when Kaito emerged from the locker room, his imposing figure silhouetted against the afternoon sun. At forty-three years old, the former J-League defender still possessed the physique of a professional athlete—broad shoulders, powerful legs, a posture that communicated authority with every controlled movement. His tracksuit bore the logos of both YIS and Yokohama F. Marinos, a reminder of his connections to the professional club that occasionally sent scouts to observe promising young players.
Not that those scouts ever observed Kaito.
Yamamoto was arranging training cones in a complex pattern across the center of the pitch, his movements precise and economical. His face was set in its perpetual expression of stern evaluation, dark eyes scanning the emerging players with the critical gaze of a man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of football excellence. Or at least, to the pursuit of molding wealthy young men into reasonable facsimiles of football players.
"Circle up!" he barked as the team assembled, his voice carrying across the field with the authority of long practice.
Twenty-two players formed a ring around their coach, bodies still loose from warm-up stretches, faces bright with the particular enthusiasm of youth and privilege. Kaito found his position at the edge of the circle, slightly behind and to the left of Yamada Kenji's imposing frame. The defensive midfielder was built like a small tank—broad, muscular, with arms thick as tree trunks and hands that could palm a football with ease. His father was rumored to have connections to certain organizations that operated in the gray areas of Japanese society, though no one spoke of such things openly.
"Today we're focusing on transition play," Yamamoto announced, his gaze sweeping across the assembled players. "The friendly against Keio is next week, and their counter-attack destroyed us last season. We conceded three goals in the final twenty minutes because our midfield forgot how to track runners." His eyes lingered briefly on several players, communicating specific displeasure without the need for names. "That won't happen again."
Suzuki Akira raised his hand with the casual confidence of someone who knew his voice would be heard. "Coach, my father secured box seats for the scouts from Tokyo Verdy. They're specifically coming to watch me, but it would be good if the team looked sharp." The smug smile that accompanied these words was barely concealed, a thin veneer of false modesty over genuine arrogance.
"Good work, Suzuki." Yamamoto nodded approvingly, and something cold twisted in Kaito's stomach at the sight. "That's exactly the kind of initiative I like to see. Your father is a valuable supporter of this program."
The unspoken implication hung in the air like a bad smell: wealth and connections mattered more than talent. More than dedication. More than love of the game itself.
"Alright, first team on the west side, second string on the east." Yamamoto consulted his clipboard briefly before his eyes landed on Kaito with sudden sharpness. "Kurosawa! You'll run the drill stations. Make sure the cones are properly spaced."
**"See?"** the voice crooned, its pleasure at his humiliation almost palpable. **"Not even good enough to practice with the reserves. You're a servant, Kurosawa Kaito. A glorified equipment manager. That's all you'll ever be."**
"Yes, Coach," Kaito replied, his face carefully blank as he jogged toward the equipment bag. The familiar weight of the canvas strap settled across his shoulder, dozens of cones and markers shifting with a muffled clatter. This was his role—had been his role for the past eighteen months. Servant. Afterthought. Invisible.
As he set up the agility ladder near the eastern touchline, stretching the nylon straps across the turf with practiced precision, he watched the first team run through their passing drills. The ball moved between them with crisp efficiency—inside of the foot, outside, chest trap, volley pass—a choreographed dance of technical ability and spatial awareness.
Suzuki occupied the central attacking midfield position, the number 10 role that demanded creativity, vision, and the ability to unlock defenses with a single moment of inspiration. It was Kaito's natural position. The role his father had trained him for since he could walk, spending hours in their cramped apartment practicing first touch, body feints, the subtle shifts of weight that could send a defender stumbling in the wrong direction.
Suzuki was good—Kaito could admit that much. His technique was clean, his movement intelligent, his understanding of space above average for a player his age. But there was something missing from his game, something that couldn't be purchased with money or connections. A hunger. A desperation. The understanding that football was not merely a sport or a hobby, but life itself.
Suzuki played like someone who knew that failure would be forgiven. Kaito would have played like someone who knew that failure meant death.
If only he were ever given the chance.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as practice progressed, its heat baking into the artificial turf until waves of distortion rippled across the pitch like mirages in a desert. Kaito moved between stations, adjusting equipment and retrieving stray balls that had escaped the boundaries of various drills. His legs burned with the constant motion, his lungs worked steadily against the humid air, sweat soaking through his too-large practice jersey until the fabric clung to his skin.
Occasionally, Yamamoto would bark orders at him to demonstrate a drill, calling him onto the field with an imperious gesture. These moments were the cruelest—not because of the physical demands, but because of what they represented. He was a prop. A visual aid. A negative example.
"See how Kurosawa's first touch is too heavy? That's why control drills matter!" The coach pointed out to the attentive first-team players, who nodded solemnly while exchanging knowing smirks. "You need to cushion the ball, not fight against it. Watch."
What Yamamoto didn't know—what none of them knew—was that Kaito had deliberately dampened his technique. The one time he'd shown his true skill level, nearly a year ago now, the punishment had been swift and absolute. Two weeks of cleaning duty. Exclusion from practices entirely. A private conversation with Coach Yamamoto that had made the situation abundantly clear: know your place.
The wealthy students' parents donated millions of yen to the school's athletic programs. They expected their sons to shine, to be the stars, to collect the accolades and opportunities that would look impressive on university applications and business resumes. A scholarship student from Hodogaya Ward, whose mother worked two jobs just to afford his fraction of the tuition, did not factor into their plans.
So Kaito played his role. He made his first touch too heavy, his passes slightly wayward, his movements a fraction slower than necessary. He became exactly what they wanted him to be: proof of their superiority.
**"Such a good little dog,"** the voice taunted as he retrieved another errant ball from beyond the touchline. **"Roll over. Play dead. Maybe they'll toss you a treat."**
Kaito's jaw tightened, but he gave no outward sign of his inner turmoil. He simply jogged back to his position, ball tucked under his arm, face empty of expression.
As he bent to collect a ball near the midfield line—a wayward shot that had sailed wide of the practice goal—a cleated foot suddenly appeared in his path. The movement was quick, calculated, timed perfectly to catch him off-balance. Kaito tried to adjust, to avoid the obstacle, but momentum was against him. His foot caught against the outstretched leg, and he went sprawling, body pitching forward, hands barely managing to break his fall before his face impacted the turf.
Laughter erupted from nearby players—bright, cruel, unrestrained.
"Watch where you're going, bench-warmer," Suzuki said from somewhere above him. Kaito lifted his head to find the team captain standing over him, expression arranged into a mask of innocent concern that fooled no one. "You might hurt yourself stumbling around like that. Maybe you should stick to the sidelines where it's safer."
More laughter. The sound washed over Kaito like acid rain, burning wherever it touched.
Mud stained his already faded practice jersey, dark smears spreading across the front where he'd hit the ground. He pushed himself up silently, wiping grass and dirt from his face with the back of his hand. His palms stung where they'd scraped against the turf, tiny beads of blood welling up from the abrasions, but he gave no indication of pain.
**"See how they mock you?"** The voice was louder now, almost eager. **"You're nothing to them. Nothing to anyone. An insect they step on for entertainment. Is this what your father dreamed for you? Is this the future he died believing in?"**
Kaito's hands trembled slightly as he retrieved the ball and turned away. Not from fear. Not from sadness. From something darker, something that pulsed behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon as practice continued, their gray mass swallowing the afternoon sun with hungry inevitability. The temperature dropped noticeably as shadows spread across the field, and the first distant rumble of thunder echoed across the school grounds. By the time Yamamoto blew the final whistle, signaling the end of the session, fat droplets of rain had begun to fall, spattering against the turf with increasing frequency.
"Everyone under the covered area!" Yamamoto commanded, gesturing toward the aluminum awning that extended from the side of the gymnasium. "I have an important announcement before you go."
Twenty-two bodies huddled beneath the shelter, faces flushed from exertion, breath coming in controlled pants. The rain intensified with every passing moment, transforming from scattered drops to a steady downpour that drummed against the metal roof overhead. Steam rose from heated bodies as cool air washed over them, creating ghostly wisps that curled upward into the gray afternoon.
Kaito stood at the edge of the group, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. He hadn't made it under cover before the rain truly began, his position on the field—retrieving equipment—leaving him exposed to the initial deluge. No one moved to make space for him. No one offered a towel.
"Attention!" Yamamoto's voice cut through the ambient noise of rain and restless teenage energy. "We've been given a special opportunity. Thomas Müller from the Red Bull scouting network will be holding tryouts next month for their European academies—RB Leipzig, RB Salzburg, and potentially AS Monaco."
Excited murmurs rippled through the group like electricity through a circuit. European academies. The words carried weight that transcended their simple meaning. Europe was the pinnacle of football development, the path that separated serious players from hobbyists, the doorway to professional careers worth millions of euros.
Kaito's heart lurched despite himself. Europe. The dream his father had nurtured in him since childhood, through countless late-night conversations and early-morning training sessions. "You have the talent, Kaito," his father had said, so many times that the words were carved into his memory like scripture. "You have something special. One day, the world will see it."
**"As if you'd ever be chosen."** The voice sliced through his nascent hope with surgical precision. **"Look around you, fool. Look at their clothes, their watches, their confidence. These are the sons of executives, politicians, and celebrities. They have connections you can't imagine, money that opens doors you'll never even see. What do you have? A dead father and a mother who slaves away at two jobs just to keep you in a school where everyone despises you."**
"This is a highly selective process," Yamamoto continued, oblivious to the war raging inside Kaito's skull. "Only the best youth players from across Japan will be invited to the three-day showcase in Tokyo. I'll be submitting recommendations from our squad based on performance, attitude, and potential."
Suzuki and his friends exchanged confident looks. Their futures were already assured—not because of their talent, necessarily, but because of who their fathers knew, what donations would be made, which palms would be greased. The meritocracy of sport was a comfortable fiction, easily maintained by those who benefited from its opposite.
"That's all for today," Yamamoto concluded, tucking his clipboard under his arm. "Hit the showers. And remember—the Keio friendly is next week. I expect everyone to be sharp."
The team dispersed with surprising speed, players jogging toward the locker room with complaints about the weather and excitement about the European opportunity. Kaito remained behind, as always, tasked with collecting the training equipment that had been scattered across the now-sodden pitch.
The rain had settled into a steady, relentless downpour by the time he finished. His uniform was soaked through, clinging to his lean frame like a second skin, cold fabric stealing the warmth from his body with every passing second. His shoes squelched with each step, waterlogged and heavy. His hair was plastered to his forehead, water streaming into his eyes and down his cheeks in rivulets that might have been mistaken for tears.
**"This is your role,"** the voice observed as Kaito hauled the equipment bag toward the storage shed. **"The servant. The afterthought. The one who cleans up after his betters have gone home to their warm, dry mansions. Know your place, Kurosawa Kaito. Accept your place. Fighting against reality only leads to suffering."**
Kaito said nothing, either aloud or in the privacy of his own mind. What was there to say? The voice was cruel, but it wasn't wrong. This was his reality. This was all he had ever known, for three long years, and all he could expect for the foreseeable future.
When he finally entered the locker room, most players had already showered and departed. Their lockers stood empty, doors hanging open carelessly, discarded towels and empty water bottles left for the cleaning staff to collect. The room smelled of soap and steam and the lingering ghosts of expensive colognes.
Only Suzuki and his inner circle remained.
They were huddled near the center benches, voices lowered in conversation that fell suspiciously quiet as Kaito entered. Three heads turned toward him simultaneously—Suzuki, Yamada, and Ito—their expressions shifting through a range of emotions before settling on something predatory. Something hungry.
"Hey poverty-boy," Suzuki called out, his tone falsely friendly in a way that set every nerve in Kaito's body on edge. "Thinking of trying out for Europe?"
Kaito ignored him, moving directly toward his locker in the far corner. He needed to change quickly to catch the 6:15 train from Yokohama Station. If he missed it, he'd have to wait forty minutes for the next one, and his mother would worry. She always worried, these days. The dark circles under her eyes that never quite faded, the weight she'd lost since taking on the second job, the way her hands trembled sometimes when she thought no one was watching.
He couldn't let her worry more than necessary.
"I asked you a question," Suzuki persisted, pushing himself to his feet with fluid grace. He moved to intercept Kaito's path, positioning himself between the scholarship student and his destination. Up close, the disparity between them was even more apparent—Suzuki stood several centimeters taller, his physique enhanced by personal trainers and premium nutrition that Kaito's family could never afford.
"They don't accept charity cases in Europe, you know," Suzuki continued, his smile sharp as a blade. "You need connections. Money. A name that actually means something. What do you have, Kurosawa? A dead father and a mother who cleans offices at night? That's not exactly academy material."
"Excuse me." Kaito's voice emerged flat, emotionless, carefully purged of anything that might be interpreted as provocation. He attempted to step around Suzuki, to continue toward his locker without engagement.
Yamada moved to block his path, massive arms folded across his chest like a wall of flesh and bone. The defender's expression was blank, almost bored, but his eyes tracked Kaito's movements with predatory attention.
"Coach is obviously recommending Akira," Yamada said, his deep voice rumbling through the locker room. "His father already spoke with the scout personally. Made a very generous donation to the scouting program's operational fund." The implied message was clear: don't even dream of it. The game was rigged, and Kaito wasn't even on the board.
"I need to catch my train," Kaito said, maintaining his flat affect despite the cold anger building behind his ribs.
"What's the rush?" Ito had appeared on his other side, phone already raised and recording. The camera lens reflected the fluorescent lights like a malevolent eye, capturing everything for posterity. For entertainment. For humiliation. "Mommy waiting at your little apartment? Or do you need to pick up your baby sisters from daycare because she's working her second job?"
Something flickered in Kaito's expression—a momentary fracture in his carefully maintained mask. His eyes widened slightly, his jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The mention of his family, of his mother's sacrifices, of his innocent sisters—it was a wound that never truly healed, picked at constantly by those who knew exactly where to aim their cruelty.
Suzuki noticed. His smile widened.
"Oh, did we touch a nerve? Poor little Kaito, the man of the house since daddy got himself killed. Must be hard, carrying all that responsibility. No wonder you're such a disappointment—you've got so much else on your mind that you can't focus on actually being good at football."
Kaito's fists clenched tighter, knuckles whitening with the pressure. The voice in his head had gone strangely silent, as if holding its breath, watching with curious anticipation.
"What's in the bag, anyway?" Suzuki reached for Kaito's backpack before he could react, fingers closing around one of the straps with casual ownership. "You're always carrying this ratty thing around like it contains some kind of treasure. Family heirlooms from the glory days before your dad became roadkill?"
"Don't—" Kaito started, but Yamada had already moved, massive hands clamping around his arms from behind and pinning them against his body. The defender's grip was like iron, immovable and indifferent to Kaito's attempts to break free.
Suzuki unzipped the bag slowly, savoring the moment, drawing out the violation with theatrical flair. Items tumbled onto the wet floor in a careless cascade—textbooks with worn covers and broken spines, notebooks filled with cramped handwriting, a half-eaten bento box that his mother had prepared at four in the morning before leaving for her first job.
And then, wrapped carefully in a clean towel that had been folded with the precise corners his mother always used, the boots.
His father's boots.
Suzuki held them up, turning them over in his hands with exaggerated curiosity. The worn leather caught the fluorescent light, revealing every crease, every scuff, every mark of age and use. The faded Adidas logo. The sole that had been repaired twice with careful stitching. The heel, where Kaito had traced and retraced the handwritten name a hundred times, keeping the letters visible despite the march of time.
TAKESHI.
"What's this trash?" Suzuki asked, his nose wrinkling with theatrical disgust. He tossed one boot to Ito, who caught it with his free hand while continuing to film with the other. "Seriously, Kurosawa, these look like they belong in a garbage dump. No wonder you're still wearing cleats from three seasons ago—your family can't even afford to throw out the old ones."
"Please..." The word escaped Kaito's lips before he could stop it, raw and cracked and desperate. "Those were my father's. Please, give them back."
"Your dead daddy's shoes?" Ito laughed, examining the boot with mock interest. "What, you think wearing these will make you a better player? Some kind of magic inheritance? News flash, poverty-boy—your dad was a nobody when he was alive, and he's even less than that now. These boots aren't going to help you."
They began tossing the boots back and forth, keeping them just out of Kaito's desperate reach as he struggled against Yamada's iron grip. His heart pounded in his ears, a frantic rhythm that drowned out everything else. His lungs burned with the effort of his struggles, his muscles screaming against the immovable force holding him in place.
"Give them back!" he demanded, his voice cracking with emotion he could no longer suppress. "GIVE THEM BACK!"
"Or what?" Suzuki caught one boot and held it up, dangling it just beyond Kaito's straining fingers. "You'll tell Coach? He doesn't care about you. You'll tell your mommy? She's too busy scrubbing toilets to help. No one cares about you, Kurosawa. No one has ever cared about you. You're nothing—a placeholder, a charity case, a stain on this school's reputation that everyone tolerates because it makes the administrators feel generous."
With deliberate slowness, savoring every moment of power, Suzuki placed one boot on the wet floor. He positioned his expensive cleat directly over it, the Nike logo bright against the worn leather of the Adidas Predator. Then he pressed down.
The sound was worse than any scream.
Leather cracked. Plastic shattered. Something fundamental—something precious and irreplaceable—broke with a noise that seemed to echo forever in the cold, damp air of the locker room. Suzuki twisted his foot, grinding the destroyed boot into the floor with vindictive thoroughness.
Something inside Kaito broke at the same moment.
He lunged forward with a strangled cry that wasn't entirely human, a sound dredged up from the deepest, darkest parts of his soul. For a fraction of a second, Yamada's grip loosened—surprised by the sudden ferocity of the movement—and Kaito tore free. His fist connected with Suzuki's jaw before anyone could react, a wild haymaker that snapped the team captain's head to the side and sent him stumbling backward.
The locker room exploded into chaos.
Yamada recovered quickly, wrapping Kaito in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground entirely. Ito scrambled to protect his phone, still recording, while Suzuki pressed a hand to his face, eyes wide with shock that rapidly curdled into fury.
"You actually hit me," he breathed, almost disbelieving. A thin trickle of blood emerged from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth pink as he smiled. "You actually had the nerve to hit me. Yamada, take him outside. We need to teach this charity case a lesson he'll never forget."
What followed was methodical. Surgical. The product of experience and absolute confidence in impunity.
They dragged Kaito behind the gymnasium building, to a concrete alcove where the security cameras didn't reach and the sound of the rain would mask any inconvenient noises. The downpour had intensified further, sheets of water cascading from the darkened sky, turning the ground into a muddy slush that splashed with each footstep.
Kaito fought. He fought with everything he had—every ounce of strength, every desperate surge of adrenaline, every technique his father had taught him about self-defense during their early-morning training sessions. He landed a solid punch on Ito's jaw that sent the phone clattering to the concrete. He twisted in Yamada's grip like a wild animal, nearly breaking free twice.
But against three larger, stronger opponents, the outcome was inevitable.
The first blow caught him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in an explosive gasp. He doubled over, would have collapsed if Yamada wasn't holding him upright. The second blow landed on his ribs, a precise strike that would leave bruises invisible beneath his uniform. The third caught his face, splitting his lip and sending a spray of blood across the rain-slicked concrete.
They were careful. Experienced. They knew exactly how to inflict maximum pain without leaving marks that would raise uncomfortable questions. This wasn't their first time, and it wouldn't be their last.
"This is for thinking you could ever be one of us," Suzuki said, landing a kick to Kaito's side that cracked against his ribs like a thunderclap. "For dreaming of Europe, of professional contracts, of a future beyond your pathetic little existence."
Kaito crumpled as Yamada released him, knees hitting the muddy ground with a splash that barely registered against the overwhelming symphony of pain radiating through his body. Rain pelted his face, mingling with blood and tears in streams that ran toward the drain in the center of the alcove.
"This is for taking up space on our team," Yamada added, his boot connecting with Kaito's stomach and rolling him onto his back. "For making us look at your pathetic face every practice, for reminding us that our school accepts charity cases who don't deserve to breathe the same air as us."
Kaito curled into a fetal position, arms wrapped around his head in a futile attempt to protect himself. The blows kept coming—kicks to his back, his legs, his ribs—each one driving him deeper into the mud, deeper into despair.
"And this," Suzuki concluded, crouching down to grab Kaito's hair and wrench his head up, forcing their eyes to meet, "is so you never forget what you are."
He released his grip, letting Kaito's face drop into the mud, and produced the mangled remains of Takeshi's boots. The destroyed leather, the shattered sole, the desecrated memory of everything Kaito's father had believed in. He dropped them beside Kaito's crumpled form with a splatter of muddy water.
"Nothing."
They left him there.
Their laughter faded as they rounded the corner, heading for the waiting luxury cars that would carry them to their pristine homes in Yamate or Minato Mirai. Drivers in dark suits would bow as they approached. Gates would open automatically at their arrival. Hot meals prepared by personal chefs would be waiting on marble countertops in kitchens larger than Kaito's entire apartment.
Behind the gymnasium, in the rain and the mud and the blood, Kurosawa Kaito lay broken.
His body was a symphony of pain—ribs throbbing with each shallow breath, stomach clenching with nausea, face burning where Suzuki's rings had torn his skin. The rain hammered against him without mercy, cold water seeping through his ruined uniform, washing the blood from his wounds only for more to well up in its place.
He clutched his father's boots against his chest, feeling the separated sole, the cracked leather, the destroyed remains of the last physical connection he had to the man who had believed in him. Tears mixed with rainwater on his face, indistinguishable, infinite.
**"This is your reality,"** the voice whispered, and for once, there was no mockery in its tone. Only a cold statement of fact. **"This is all you'll ever be. Weak. Forgotten. A shadow. You dreamed of greatness, but dreams are for those with the power to achieve them. What power do you have, Kurosawa Kaito? What have you ever had?"**
Kaito's fingers dug into the mud, nails scraping against concrete beneath the thin layer of soil. His father's face swam before his eyes—not the broken, bloody mask from that night three years ago, but the warm, laughing expression from happier times. Teaching him to ride a bike. Cheering at his youth league games. Holding him after skinned knees and schoolyard disappointments.
"You have something special, Kaito. One day, the world will see it."
But the world had never seen. And it never would. Not like this. Not when he was nothing more than a punching bag for wealthy bullies, a charity case tolerated for the sake of appearances, a bench-warmer who would never be allowed to show what he could truly do.
The voice was right. He was nothing.
And then, something changed.
The rain seemed to pause, individual droplets hanging suspended in the air around him like crystals of frozen time. The sound of thunder faded to silence. The pain in his body became distant, muffled, as if wrapped in cotton.
And the voice, when it spoke again, was different.
Deeper. More resonant. Filled with a weight that pressed against the inside of Kaito's skull like a physical force.
**"Do you want power?"**
Kaito's breath caught in his throat. His eyes opened—when had he closed them?—and he stared up into the rain that hung motionless above him, each drop a tiny mirror reflecting his broken, bloody face a thousand times over.
"What?" he whispered, his voice a ragged croak that barely emerged from his damaged throat.
**"I asked you a question, Kurosawa Kaito."** The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, from inside his head and outside it simultaneously. **"Do you want power? The strength to rise above those who have trampled you. The ability to make them kneel before you. The power to stand at the pinnacle of this world and look down upon everyone who ever looked down upon you."**
Kaito's breathing quickened. Was this real? Was he hallucinating from the pain, from the blows to his head, from the shock and the cold and the trauma? And yet, the voice felt more present than anything he had ever experienced—more real than the rain, than the mud, than his own heartbeat.
"Who are you?" he asked, his words barely audible above the frozen storm.
**"I am what you need me to be,"** the voice answered, and there was something almost amused in its tone. *"I have been with you since the night your father died. I have watched you suffer. I have whispered your fears and your doubts into your ears, testing you, breaking you down to see what remained when everything else was stripped away."**
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down Kaito's spine.
**"And now,"** the voice continued, **"after three years of observing your pain, your perseverance, your refusal to simply die despite every reason to do so... I ask again. Do you want power?"**
Years of torment crashed through Kaito's mind in a cascading flood. The bullying. The benching. His mother working double shifts, her hands cracked and raw from cleaning chemicals, her smile growing more fragile with each passing month. His sisters pretending not to hear him crying in the night, pretending not to notice the bruises that appeared on his body with regular frequency.
And behind it all, the memory that would never fade no matter how desperately he wished it would.
Rain. A city street. His father's hand in his, warm and strong and safe. The squeal of tires on wet asphalt. A horn blaring, too late, always too late. The impact. The sound—god, the SOUND—of a human body breaking against steel and glass. Blood spreading across the pavement in a pool that seemed to grow forever, fed by the unending rain.
And a twelve-year-old boy screaming as paramedics dragged him away from his father's shattered body.
That was the night the voice had first appeared.
**"Answer me,"** the voice commanded, impatient now, its tone carrying edges that could cut reality itself. **"Do you want power? Yes or no. This is the only time I will offer."**
Something snapped inside Kurosawa Kaito.
Not the breaking of a spirit, but the shattering of chains.
Three years of suppressed rage, humiliation, and grief exploded outward like a supernova. He slammed his fist into the concrete beneath the mud, skin splitting across his knuckles, blood welling up between his fingers. The pain was nothing. The pain was less than nothing compared to the inferno that suddenly blazed behind his ribs.
He threw his head back, face lifted toward the frozen rain, and screamed.
"YES!"
The word tore itself from his throat with the force of an artillery shell.
"I WANT POWER! GIVE ME EVERYTHING! GIVE ME THE STRENGTH TO MAKE THEM PAY FOR WHAT THEY'VE DONE! I'LL BECOME SO STRONG THAT MY ENEMIES WON'T EVEN DARE TO LOOK ME IN THE EYES! I'LL MAKE THEM KNEEL! I'LL MAKE THE ENTIRE WORLD KNEEL! GIVE ME THE POWER TO STAND ABOVE EVERYONE WHO EVER STOOD ABOVE ME!"
Silence.
The frozen rain began to move again—not falling, but rising, each droplet ascending toward the dark clouds from which it had come. The air around Kaito crackled with electricity that raised the hairs on his arms and sent tingles racing across his scalp.
And then.
Blue light exploded outward from the center of his chest.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen—cold and electric, yet somehow alive, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat exactly. The light spread outward in geometric patterns, lines and angles that formed shapes his eyes couldn't quite focus on, that seemed to exist in dimensions his brain wasn't designed to perceive.
Digital interfaces materialized in the air around him, translucent panels of glowing blue text that rotated slowly in a perfect circle. He could read them—somehow, impossibly, he could read every word despite never having seen this language before in his life.
**[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]**
**[USER IDENTIFIED: KUROSAWA KAITO]**
**[AGE: 15]**
**[OCCUPATION: STUDENT/FOOTBALL PLAYER]**
**[CURRENT STATUS: CRITICALLY INJURED]**
The panels shifted, rearranging themselves into new configurations. A larger display appeared directly in front of his face, filling his vision with information that burned itself into his consciousness.
**[CURRENT STATS:]**
**SPEED: 10/100**
**POWER: 8/100**
**TECHNIQUE: 15/100**
**VISION: 20/100**
**STAMINA: 12/100**
**MENTAL: 7/100**
**[OVERALL RATING: F]**
**[ASSESSMENT: CATASTROPHICALLY WEAK. CURRENT ABILITIES INSUFFICIENT FOR SURVIVAL IN COMPETITIVE FOOTBALL ENVIRONMENT. IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION REQUIRED.]**
Kaito stared at the glowing numbers, comprehension dawning slowly through the fog of pain and shock. These were his stats. His actual, quantified abilities, reduced to numerical values that could be measured and—if the implications were correct—improved.
Another panel materialized, pulsing with urgent red light that demanded attention.
**[FIRST QUEST ACTIVATED]**
**[QUEST: SURVIVE THE NIGHT]**
**[DESCRIPTION: RETURN HOME WITHOUT SUCCUMBING TO YOUR INJURIES. RECEIVE MEDICAL ATTENTION FOR WOUNDS.]**
**[DIFFICULTY: E-RANK]**
**[REWARD: +5 STAMINA, +3 MENTAL, +2 SPEED]**
**[FAILURE CONSEQUENCE: PERMANENT STAT REDUCTION. POSSIBLE DEATH.]**
**[TIME LIMIT: 4 HOURS, 32 MINUTES]**
The voice spoke again, but now it came from everywhere—from the glowing panels, from the air itself, from the deepest recesses of Kaito's consciousness. And when it spoke, the tone was different. No longer mocking. No longer cruel. Something else entirely.
Something hungry.
**"I have tested you for three years, Kurosawa Kaito. I have broken you down, stripped away your hope, your pride, your belief in yourself. I have whispered poison into your ears and watched as you refused to die. And now, at last, you have proven yourself worthy."**
The panels shifted again, forming into the shape of a predator—a wolf made of blue light, its eyes burning with cold fire, its fangs bared in an eternal snarl.
**"From this moment forward, you are no longer prey. You are no longer the hunted. You are a predator, and this world is your hunting ground. Complete my quests. Grow stronger. Evolve beyond the limitations of human potential. And in return..."**
The wolf dissolved into particles of light that swarmed around Kaito's broken body, seeping into his wounds, filling his lungs with each breath.
**"I will give you the power to make gods kneel."**
Kaito pushed himself up from the mud, his arms trembling with effort but somehow supporting his weight. The pain was still there—ribs cracked, face bleeding, body covered in bruises—but it felt manageable now, reduced to background noise rather than an overwhelming symphony.
He stood.
Rain continued to fall around him, resuming its natural descent as if the laws of physics had simply taken a brief vacation. The blue light faded from the air, the geometric patterns dissolving into the darkness, but the panels remained—visible only to him, hovering at the edge of his vision like persistent notifications.
In his hand, clutched against his chest, were the ruined remains of his father's boots. The leather was torn, the sole destroyed, the memory desecrated beyond repair. And yet, as Kaito looked at them now, he felt something other than despair.
He felt purpose.
"I'll fix them," he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. "I'll fix everything. And then I'll make them pay."
He turned and began walking toward the school gates, each step sending jolts of pain through his battered body. The quest timer pulsed in the corner of his vision:
**[TIME REMAINING: 4 HOURS, 28 MINUTES]**
It was a long walk to Hodogaya Ward. Normally, he would take the train, but the thought of sitting in a crowded car, of having people stare at his bloody face and torn uniform, was unbearable. He would walk. He would endure. He would survive.
And then, when he was strong enough, he would return.
The rain continued to fall as Kurosawa Kaito disappeared into the gathering darkness, the first steps of a journey that would shake the very foundations of the football world.