The ground shook.
Actually shook.
Soccer stood in the center circle and felt the vibration travel up through his Copa Mundials, through his shin guards, and settle deep in his bones.
Twenty thousand people stomping their feet.
Southern! Southern! Southern!
It wasn't a cheer. It was a war drum.
"They're loud," Soccer noted, shouting over the noise. "Louder than thunder."
"They're waiting for a sacrifice," Marcus yelled back, wiping his sweaty palms on his jersey. "Stay close, Soccer. Don't get isolated. This isn't a game. It's a brawl."
The whistle blew.
SCREEE!
It pierced the air like a shriek.
Soccer expected a tactical start. A pass back. A survey of the field.
Vincent Drake had other plans.
The Dragon received the tap. He didn't look left. He didn't look right. He lowered his head, shoulders hunched like a bison, and charged.
Straight down the center.
"STOP HIM!" Marcus screamed.
Three Northwood midfielders stepped up. The Wall formation that had stopped Westside.
Vincent didn't even slow down.
He hit the first midfielder, a sophomore named Timmy.
CRACK.
It sounded like a bat hitting a side of beef. Timmy spun in the air—literally spun—and hit the turf face-down.
Vincent didn't break stride.
The second midfielder grabbed Vincent's jersey.
Vincent dragged him. He ran with the extra weight for five yards, then jerked his torso. The defender flew off like a tick flicked from a dog.
"He's a tank!" Elijah Storm yelled, backtracking in terror. "He's a literal tank!"
Vincent reached the defensive line. Marcus was there. The last line of defense.
Marcus lowered his center of gravity. He planted his feet. He was the Captain. He wouldn't yield.
Vincent saw him. He didn't dodge.
He roared.
The Battering Ram.
Vincent drove his shoulder into Marcus's chest.
It was physics. Mass times acceleration equals force. Vincent had mass. He had acceleration.
Marcus was lifted off his feet. He landed on his back, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him so hard his vision blurred.
Vincent stepped over the fallen captain.
He was one-on-one with Dylan.
"No," Dylan squeaked.
Vincent swung his leg. It wasn't a technique. It was an explosion.
BOOM.
The ball traveled so fast the camera blur couldn't keep up.
It hit the back of the net before Dylan even finished diving.
GOAL.
Southern Academy: 1 - Northwood: 0
Time: 0:28
Twenty-eight seconds.
Vincent stood in the box. He didn't celebrate. He just turned around, walked past the crumpled body of Marcus, and pointed at the center circle.
He looked at Soccer.
"Next," Vincent rumbled.
The stadium was deafening. The Southern fans were losing their minds.
Coach Cross sat heavily on the bench. He put his head in his hands.
"He ran straight through the spine of the team," Cross muttered. "Physically overpowered four players in twenty seconds. We can't stop him."
Luna watched the replay on the Jumbotron. "Coach, he generates 900 newtons of force on impact. That's... car crash levels."
Soccer walked over to Marcus, who was sitting up, coughing.
"You okay, Cap?"
"Feels like... I hugged a moving train," Marcus wheezed. "His shoulder... it's like rock."
Soccer looked at Vincent, who was high-fiving his team with heavy, violent slaps.
"Rock," Soccer whispered. "Yeah."
He touched his own ankle. The carbon fiber guard felt rigid.
"He likes to hit," Soccer said. "He wants friction."
"So don't give it to him," Marcus grasped Soccer's hand. "Don't let him touch you. If he hits your ankle... it's over."
Soccer helped Marcus up.
"I won't let him touch." Soccer smiled. It was a calm, eerie smile. "You can't hug water."
Restart. Minute 2.
Soccer stood with the ball.
The Southern team wasn't setting up a defensive shape. They were hunting.
"KILL THE RAT!" a defender screamed.
Soccer passed the ball back and immediately ran.
He ran differently.
Before, his run was explosive. Sharp angles. Stomping feet. The Mountain Style.
Now?
His shoulders rolled. His hips swayed. His arms hung loose.
He looked sloppy. He looked like he was melting.
A Southern defender—a brute named 'Tank' (another one?)—charged him near the sideline.
"Gotcha!"
Tank went for a body check. He aimed for the chest.
Soccer didn't dodge away. He leaned into the run, but spiraled his body.
The Whirlpool Turn.
Tank made contact.
But Soccer wasn't a solid object anymore. He spun on contact, his shoulder rolling off Tank's chest. The impact glanced off.
Tank stumbled forward, confused by the lack of resistance.
Soccer spun 360 degrees around him, the ball tethered to his toe.
"What the—" Tank nearly fell over the boundary line.
Soccer accelerated.
Another defender lunged. A sliding tackle.
Soccer poured over the slide. He lifted his knees high—like running in the deep end of the pool—and seemed to float over the outstretched legs.
He was fast. But it wasn't frantic fast. It was flowing fast.
Fluid Dynamics.
"He's loose," Cross stood up. "Look at his core. He's absorbing the contact before it happens."
Soccer reached the midfield.
Vincent Drake saw him.
The Dragon smiled.
"Finally."
Vincent left his striker position. He dropped back. He wanted the 1v1.
He sprinted at Soccer.
The ground shook.
Marcus saw it happening. "Pass it! Soccer! He's coming!"
Soccer didn't pass. He looked at Vincent charging like a runaway locomotive.
Twenty feet.
Ten feet.
Vincent prepared the shoulder charge. The same move that flattened Marcus.
Soccer waited.
He waited until he could feel the heat radiating off Vincent.
Five feet.
Vincent lunged. "CRUSH!"
Soccer dropped his center of gravity.
He didn't step left or right.
He went limp.
The Liquid Drop.
Soccer collapsed his knees. He fell under Vincent's shoulder check.
Vincent hit the air. His massive momentum carried him forward.
Soccer, crouched on the grass, spun on his hand like a breakdancer, hooking the ball with his heel.
He slid underneath Vincent's swinging arm.
Vincent stumbled, fighting to regain balance.
Soccer popped up on the other side.
He was free.
"He ducked!" Vincent roared, turning around with surprising speed for a giant. "Coward!"
Soccer was already twenty yards away.
"Water seeks the lowest point!" Soccer yelled back happily.
He passed to Elijah on the wing.
Northwood was moving the ball. They weren't fighting the giants; they were seeping through the cracks.
Minute 25. Southern 1 - Northwood 0.
The game settled into a terrifying rhythm.
When Southern had the ball, it was pure terror. Vincent rampaged. Northwood swarmed him with three players just to slow him down.
But when Northwood had the ball... Soccer became smoke.
He moved the team up the field, absorbing pressure, spinning out of tackles.
But they couldn't enter the Final Zone.
The Southern penalty box was packed with monsters.
Soccer hovered at the twenty-five-yard line. His ankle throbbed. A dull, rhythmic warning. The adrenaline helped, but the damage was there.
I can't shoot hard, Soccer realized. I don't have the plant leg.
He tried a pass to Marcus. Intercepted.
He tried a chip. Headed away.
Southern's defense was too tall. Too strong.
Vincent jogged back. He breathed heavily through his nose.
"You run away good, Rat," Vincent growled, marking Soccer. "But you can't bite without teeth. Your ankle is trash. I can see you favoring it."
Soccer looked down. He was favoring it. He was putting 80% weight on his right leg.
"You can't shoot," Vincent diagnosed coldly. "So I don't have to defend the shot. I just have to wait for you to pass."
Vincent stepped closer.
"And when you pass... I'm going to snap your other leg."
Halftime.
The locker room was quiet.
No celebrations. No despair. Just survival.
"They're hitting us off the ball," Elijah complained, holding an ice pack to his ribs. "Ref doesn't call it."
"They're testing us," Cross said. "They want us to break."
Soccer sat on the floor, re-tying his brace.
His eyes were closed. He was back in the pool. Bottom of the deep end. Silence.
"Coach," Soccer said without opening his eyes.
"Yeah?"
"Vincent thinks I can't shoot."
"He's right. You can't generate power without a plant foot. Physics is physics."
"Physics..." Soccer opened his eyes. "Water is heavy, right? One gallon weighs eight pounds."
"Where are you going with this?"
"A fire hose doesn't use muscles," Soccer murmured. "It uses pressure. Built-up pressure."
Soccer stood up. He grabbed a water bottle and squeezed it. The lid popped off, shooting across the room.
"I need to stop flowing," Soccer said. "Just for one second."
"Soccer, if you plant that foot against Vincent, it will break," Luna warned.
"I won't plant it against the ground," Soccer said enigmatically. "I'll plant it against the water."
Second Half.
Minute 60.
The Southern fans were chanting "ONE-NIL! ONE-NIL!"
They were comfortable. They were dominating physically.
But Vincent Drake wasn't comfortable.
He kept staring at the small kid with the scar on his arm. The kid wasn't scared.
It bothered him. Everyone got scared eventually.
"Finish it!" Vincent screamed at his team. "Second goal! Now!"
Southern pressed. They threw bodies forward.
Northwood intercepted. Marcus blocked a shot with his chest and booted it clear.
The ball flew to midfield.
Soccer trapped it.
Vincent was the only defender back.
One on one.
The stadium held its breath.
The Dragon vs. The Assassin.
Soccer didn't run away this time. He dribbled slowly toward the center.
Vincent squared up. He spread his arms wide. He looked like a towering wall of black and red.
"Come on," Vincent whispered. "Try to flow past this."
Soccer accelerated.
He aimed straight for Vincent.
"Suicide," Dylan covered his eyes in the goal.
Soccer got within striking distance.
Vincent prepared to crush. He stepped forward, ready to body-check the small boy into orbit.
Soccer stepped on the ball.
Not a feint. A hard stop.
The Pressure Valve.
Soccer stopped his momentum instantly.
Vincent halted, expecting a cut.
Soccer didn't cut.
He scooped the ball up.
Not a high chip. Just waist height.
While the ball was in the air, Soccer spun.
His back was to Vincent.
He was holding the ball up with his knee.
Vincent saw the back turned. He saw the vulnerability.
"Gotcha!"
Vincent charged to slam Soccer from behind.
Soccer sensed the wave coming. The massive displacement of air.
He dropped.
He did a backflip.
But not a normal backflip. He pushed off his good leg, tucking his injured leg tight against his chest.
As he flipped backward, Vincent rushed underneath him.
Soccer was upside down in the air, directly above the Dragon.
And the ball was hovering there, perfectly tee'd up by his own knee pop.
The Falling Guillotine.
Gravity + Rotation.
Soccer extended his leg—his good leg—mid-air.
He kicked the ball while upside down, directly over Vincent's head.
CRACK.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Soccer completed the flip, landing on his hands and knees in the grass.
Vincent spun around.
The ball flew. It didn't curve. It didn't knuckle.
It was a laser beam.
The keeper saw it coming, but he was frozen by the sheer audacity of the move.
The ball screamed past his ear.
It hit the crossbar—the inside of the crossbar.
CLANG-THUMP.
It bounced down across the line.
GOAL.
Northwood: 1 - Southern: 1
The stadium went silent. Even the Southern drummers stopped.
"He..." the announcer stuttered. "He flipped over him? He chipped him with a bicycle kick?"
Vincent Drake stood frozen at the edge of the box. He looked up at the sky, as if checking if gravity still worked.
Soccer slowly pushed himself up. His ankle screamed a protest, but the carbon fiber held.
He turned to face the giant.
Soccer panted, sweat dripping from his nose.
"You look for the ground," Soccer rasped. "You look for the roots."
He pointed a finger at the sky.
"But water comes from above."
Minute 75.
The tie changed everything.
The Dragon woke up.
If Vincent was angry before, now he was a catastrophe.
"No more games!" Vincent roared. His eyes were bloodshot.
Southern abandoned defense. They threw seven men forward.
"Crush them! bury them under the dirt!"
They launched crosses. Headers. Volleys.
Dylan Foster turned into a god.
He saved a header with his knee. He tipped a rocket over the bar. He took a cleat to the face and kept playing.
"HOLD THE LINE!" Marcus screamed, blocking a shot with his shin. "DO NOT BREAK!"
Northwood was bending. The levee was cracking.
Vincent received the ball at the thirty-yard line.
He didn't pass. He didn't dribble.
He started running. A straight line.
"Red Alert!" Cross yelled. "Collision course!"
Vincent was aiming for the goal, and anyone in his way was collateral damage.
Marcus stepped up. "I won't let you!"
Vincent stiff-armed Marcus into the ground.
Elijah tried a slide tackle. Vincent hopped it and stepped on Elijah's calf.
He was unstoppable. An avatar of destruction.
He reached the box.
Only one person stood between him and the keeper.
Soccer.
Soccer had dropped back again. He stood at the penalty spot.
He looked tiny compared to the charging Dragon.
Vincent saw him. He smiled. A terrifying, teeth-baring grimace.
"MOVE OR DIE!" Vincent bellowed.
Soccer didn't move.
He stood his ground. He planted his feet.
He was wearing the carbon fiber shin guard.
Marcus made this. To protect me.
Soccer didn't flow. He didn't liquify.
He solidified.
The Mountain's Core.
Soccer took a stance he learned from watching mountain goats lock horns. Low. Shoulders squared.
He wasn't going to tackle the ball.
He was going to catch the man.
Vincent arrived. He raised his leg to shoot through Soccer.
Soccer stepped in. He jammed his body into the space where Vincent's shooting leg needed to swing.
It was an obstruction. A collision.
CRUNCH.
Body met body.
Vincent was 190 pounds of muscle moving at full speed.
Soccer was 145 pounds of wire and will.
The impact sent a shockwave through the field.
Soccer flew backward. He slid through the grass for ten yards.
But Vincent...
Vincent stumbled. The impact had disrupted his shot. His leg hit Soccer's hip instead of the ball.
The ball rolled harmlessly to Dylan.
"HE STOPPED HIM!" Luna screamed. "HE TANKED THE HIT!"
Soccer lay in the grass. His vision swam. Stars danced in his eyes.
Vincent stood there, panting. He looked at the boy lying in the mud.
"You..." Vincent gasped. "You blocked me. With your body."
Soccer sat up. He checked his ribs. Probably bruised. He checked the shin guard. Cracked, but intact.
"The water stops the stone," Soccer whispered, clutching his chest. "Eventually."
Minute 88.
Both teams were zombies. Dead on their feet.
The score was 1-1.
Penalties loomed. And Soccer knew he couldn't kick a penalty.
I have to end it.
Southern had a corner kick.
Vincent went up for the header. Dylan punched it away.
Counter attack.
The ball fell to Marcus at midfield.
"Soccer!" Marcus yelled, launching a Hail Mary pass.
Soccer was already running.
He limped slightly, but the adrenaline masked the pain.
He was one on one with the last defender.
No, not the last defender.
Vincent Drake had sprinted back. Of course. The final boss.
They ran side by side toward the goal. A race.
Vincent was faster in a sprint. But Soccer had the inside track.
"You won't shoot!" Vincent yelled, shoulder-checking Soccer as they ran.
Thump.
Soccer stumbled but stayed upright.
"You have no power!" Vincent roared. Thump.
Soccer grit his teeth.
He was right. Soccer couldn't wind up. He couldn't plant.
They reached the box.
The keeper came out.
Soccer was sandwiched between the keeper in front and the Dragon on his side.
No space. No angle.
Soccer looked at the ball.
I don't need to shoot.
Soccer stepped on the ball with his bad foot.
Vincent, expecting a shot, lunged to block.
Soccer stopped dead.
Vincent flew past him.
The keeper flew past him.
Soccer was standing alone on the penalty spot, foot on the ball. The net was empty.
But his momentum was gone. He was standing still.
The rest of the Southern defense was charging back. A stampede of three players sliding in to kill the play.
He had 0.5 seconds before he was buried under a pile of bodies.
He couldn't generate a kick.
So he did the only thing left.
He tapped the ball. Just a gentle nudge.
It rolled toward the goal. So slowly.
It crawled.
Soccer collapsed as three Southern defenders tackled him simultaneously.
From the bottom of the pile, through the gaps in the arms and legs, Soccer watched.
The ball rolled.
It hit the post. Tink.
It teetered on the line.
The stadium went absolutely silent.
Gravity fought friction.
The ball sighed.
And rolled over.
GOAL.
Northwood: 2 - Southern: 1
Time: 90:00+3
The whistle blew.
The game was over.
The Dragon had been slain. Not by a roar.
But by a whisper.