It was the most hideous football match in the history of the sport.
And Soccer loved it.
He hobbled around the midfield circle like a man looking for dropped keys. He wasn't marking anyone. He wasn't running into space.
He was just… haunting.
Subject 1, the Paradigm captain, had stopped moving efficiently. He was twitching.
"Logic failure," Subject 1 muttered, watching Marcus Kane trip over his own feet, recover, and somehow accidentally nutmeg a silver-clad defender. "The trajectory... it deviates."
"Hey, Silver Surfer!" Soccer called out.
Subject 1 turned.
Soccer was standing on his good leg, leaning sideways like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
"You're scanning the ball," Soccer noted. "But the ball is bumpy. And the grass is muddy. And my team is... well, we're idiots today."
"Efficiency leads to victory," Subject 1 recited. "Randomness is inefficient."
"Randomness is life," Soccer grinned. "Can you copy a sneeze? Try it."
Subject 1 stared blankly.
"Exactly," Soccer hopped forward. "You can't program an accident."
Minute 65. Paradigm 2 - Northwood 1.
"Keep it ugly!" Coach Cross screamed from the sideline. "Dirtier! I want to see filth out there!"
Marcus received a throw-in.
Standard protocol: Chest control, pass to foot.
Marcus decided to innovate. He let the ball hit his thigh, bounced it off his shoulder, and then headed it toward the ground.
It was erratic. It spun wildly.
Subject 4 moved to intercept based on a standard arc.
The ball hit a divot, spun backwards, and went through Subject 4's legs.
"Error," Subject 4 said.
Elijah Storm was running onto it. He saw the defender. He panicked.
He flailed his arms.
The defender mirrored the flail—assuming it was a tactical faint.
Elijah just ran past him while the defender waved his arms at nothing.
"It's working," Luna whispered, hiding her smile behind the clipboard. "They're mirroring the mistakes. They're infecting themselves with our incompetence."
Elijah crossed the ball. It was a terrible cross. Low. Weak. Aimed at nobody.
Paradigm's center backs were positioned perfectly for a high cross. They looked at the rolling ball with confusion.
Soccer was there.
He wasn't running. He was planting.
He dragged his black boot—the one holding the swollen grapefruit-ankle—into the path of the ball.
He didn't kick.
He acted like a doorstop.
The ball hit his stiff, taped-up foot. Thunk.
Because his leg was rigid as wood, the ball rebounded instantly. It pinged off his foot at a 90-degree angle.
Right into the path of Timmy, the terrified freshman.
"Kick it!" Soccer yelled.
Timmy swung. He closed his eyes.
He didn't hit it clean. He toe-poked it.
The ball wobbled. It bobbled past the goalkeeper's hand, hit the post, spun on the line, and fell in.
GOAL.
Northwood: 2 - Paradigm: 2
"That was disgusting!" Dylan celebrated from his own goal, punching the air. "We are absolutely garbage! YES!"
Subject 1 stared at the net.
He looked at his team. The shiny silver uniforms were stained with mud. Their formations were broken. They looked human.
And they looked terrified.
"System Update," Subject 1 announced. His voice was cold. Hard.
The Paradigm players stopped looking confused. They snapped to attention.
"Protocol Omega," Subject 1 ordered. "Abandon Reflection. Initiate Overload."
Coach Cross froze. "Oh no."
"What?" Luna asked.
"They're stopping the copycat strategy," Cross griped his toothpick until it snapped. "Now they're just going to use pure athleticism. They're bigger, faster, and rested. And we're dead on our feet."
Minute 75.
The chaos ended. The slaughter began.
Paradigm stopped mimicking the stumbling Northwood players. They simply ran past them.
Subject 1 received the ball. He didn't wait for Marcus to make a mistake. He accelerated.
0 to 60 in 3 seconds.
He burned Marcus.
He burned Elijah.
He reached the box.
Soccer stood in the way. The cripple guardian.
Subject 1 didn't hesitate. He knew Soccer couldn't turn.
Subject 1 kicked the ball around Soccer's bad side, then sprinted around the good side.
The classic Panna.
Soccer tried to pivot. His body screamed. His ankle felt like it was dissolving in acid. He froze.
Subject 1 was through.
He shot.
Dylan saved it—barely. A desperate reflex save with his foot.
"I can't keep doing this!" Dylan screamed. "They're too fast now!"
The rebound fell to Subject 7.
Shot. Blocked by Marcus.
Rebound to Subject 9.
Shot. Hits the bar.
It was a siege. Northwood couldn't get the ball out of their half. They were drowning.
Soccer stood at the top of the box, chest heaving. The Drunken Master ploy only worked when the opponent tried to read you. Paradigm wasn't reading anymore. They were crushing.
I need to move, Soccer told his leg.
No, the pain replied. You really don't.
He watched Subject 1 dancing through the defense.
The mountain doesn't move. But the landslide does.
"Marcus!" Soccer yelled.
Marcus was busy wrestling a silver giant. "Busy!"
"Clear it long!" Soccer demanded. "Just kick it to the sky!"
"Why?"
"Because," Soccer grit his teeth, sweat stinging his eyes. "I'm going hunting one last time."
Minute 88.
2-2.
The stadium felt the shift. Northwood was hanging by a thread. A frayed, rotting thread.
Subject 1 wound up for another shot.
Marcus threw his body in the way. The ball hit his ribs. Crack. Marcus fell, but the ball deflected.
It rolled to Elijah.
"LONG!" Soccer roared from midfield.
Elijah didn't look. He booted it.
A massive, soaring clearance. It went high into the stadium lights, heading for the empty Paradigm half.
Soccer turned.
The Paradigm defenders were pushed up high. They saw the cripple turning. They smiled.
He can't run for it.
Soccer looked at the ball's trajectory. It was landing forty yards away.
He looked at his bad leg.
"Hey," he whispered to his ankle. "One time. Just give me ten seconds. You can break afterwards. Just hold on for ten seconds."
He tightened his core.
He blocked out the white-hot stabbing sensation.
He ran.
It wasn't a pretty run. It was a lurching, galloping limp. He dragged the left leg like dead weight, propelling himself almost entirely with his right quad.
Hop-drag. Hop-drag.
It was agonizing. It was slow.
Subject 1 saw him. "He is pursuing. Inefficient."
Subject 1 chased. He was fast. Smooth. A machine.
He was catching up.
Soccer watched the ball bounce.
Closer.
Subject 1 was closing the gap. Three yards behind. Two yards.
"Terminate play," Subject 1 said, reaching out to shoulder-check Soccer.
Soccer sensed him. The vibration of the perfect running stride.
On the mountain, when an avalanche is chasing you... you don't outrun it. You use the terrain.
Soccer spotted a rough patch in the turf—a spot chewed up by cleats earlier.
He aimed for it.
He stepped on the rough patch with his bad foot.
It twisted.
Agony. Pure, blinding star-field agony.
But the twist caused his body to drop.
Subject 1 went for the shoulder check at standing height.
Soccer crumpled beneath him, creating a human speed bump.
Subject 1 tripped over Soccer's dragging leg.
CRASH.
The silver captain tumbled, rolling end over end like a crashed sports car.
Soccer used the momentum of his own fall to roll forward.
He scrambled back to his feet.
He was alone.
Thirty yards. Just him and the keeper.
But his left leg was gone. He couldn't put weight on it. It was floating, numb and useless.
The keeper came out. He saw the limp. He knew.
He can't plant to shoot.
The keeper stayed tall. "Come on, cripple! Try it!"
Soccer hopped toward the goal. One-legged hops.
I can't shoot, Soccer realized. I have no power.
He looked at the keeper.
I can't go around. I can't go through.
He looked at the ball rolling perfectly on the grass.
He remembered Kai Rivers. The Zero-Gravity Trap.
He remembered Vincent Drake. The brute force.
He needed something else.
He hopped into the box.
The keeper dove for the ball, sliding hands-first to smother it.
Soccer didn't kick the ball forward.
He stabbed his right foot (the good one) into the ground under the ball.
He lifted it.
He flicked it straight up.
Then, Soccer fell backward.
He fell onto his back, trusting gravity.
As he fell, he extended his legs upward.
The Dead-Drop Bicycle.
But he didn't kick it hard. He just... placed his foot in the way.
He caught the ball on the sole of his bad boot.
The keeper slid underneath him.
Soccer, lying on his back, balanced the ball on his foot like a seal spinning a beach ball.
The keeper looked up, horrified. "What—"
Soccer straightened his knee. A tiny, painful push.
He lobbed the ball over his own head, over the sliding keeper.
It arc'd slowly.
Soccer fell flat on the grass.
He watched the ball spin backward, fighting the air, defying logic, a glitch in the physics engine.
It dropped.
Softly.
Into the empty net.
GOAL.
Northwood: 3 - Paradigm: 2
Time: 90:00+2
The silence in the stadium was heavy. Confused.
Then, explosion.
"HE DID IT!" Marcus was crying again. "THE ABSOLUTE MADMAN!"
The Northwood team didn't pile on him this time. They knew.
They knelt around him like knights guarding a fallen king.
Dr. Mitchell ran out. She didn't look happy. She looked pale.
She touched the ankle.
"Soccer?"
Soccer stared at the sky. The stars looked like pixelated glitches.
"It popped," Soccer whispered. "When I stepped on the divot. I heard a pop."
Mitchell's hands were shaking as she unlaced the boot.
"The tendon," she murmured to Cross. "Achilles. It might be gone."
Subject 1 walked over. He looked down at Soccer. His silver uniform was muddy. His robot demeanor was cracked.
"Why?" Subject 1 asked. "You generated 80% probability of permanent injury for a single goal. The data does not support the risk."
Soccer turned his head. His face was gray, drained of blood.
"The data..." Soccer coughed, smiling weakly. "The data doesn't know how good it feels to fly."
"You didn't fly," Subject 1 corrected. "You fell."
"Falling with style," Soccer rasped. "Ask... Toy Story."
Subject 1 blinked. "Reference unknown."
The Aftermath. Tunnel.
They won. They were in the Final Four.
Semi-Finals.
Northwood vs. Royal Academy (Not Kai's team—another giant).
Soccer was on a stretcher. He refused to let them cover his face. He waved to the crowd as he was wheeled out.
Inside the medical room, the mood was a funeral.
Dr. Mitchell held the ultrasound scanner.
"It's not a complete rupture," she said, sounding surprised. "The kevlar tissue held. Barely. But it's Grade 3. High ankle, Achilles strain, micro-fractures in the tibia."
"Can he play?" Cross asked the question, though he knew the answer.
"Raymond," Mitchell stood up. "If he walks on this within the next month, I'm revoking your coaching license."
Cross nodded. He sat down heavily.
"We're in the Semi-Finals. Best four teams in the country. And we lost our weapon."
Soccer lay on the table. He was looped on painkillers. He felt floaty.
"Marcus," Soccer mumbled.
Marcus stepped forward. "I'm here."
"I... I dragged you guys here."
"No," Marcus held Soccer's hand. "We carried each other."
"You have to..." Soccer's eyes drooped. "You have to fight. Without me."
"We will," Marcus promised, though his voice shook. "We'll play Trash Tactics. We'll mirror. We'll do whatever."
"No," Soccer whispered. "Don't mirror."
He pointed weakly at his chest.
"Be the mountain. The mountain doesn't... doesn't care if it's snowing."
Soccer's hand dropped. He was out. Sleeping.
Luna wiped her eyes. "So that's it? The Cinderella run ends because the slipper broke?"
Cross stood up. He looked at his team of misfits. Dylan, Elijah, Marcus. They were beaten, bruised, held together by tape and adrenaline.
"We have three days until the Semi-Finals," Cross said. His voice was hard. "We are going to play without Soccer."
"How?" Dylan squeaked.
Cross looked at the sleeping boy.
"Soccer taught us that chaos beats logic. He taught us that willpower beats physics."
Cross kicked a trash can over.
"We don't need his legs anymore. We have his soul. We are going to go out there and be the most annoying, difficult, unkillable cockroaches this tournament has ever seen."
He looked at Marcus.
"Captain. You're not the shield anymore."
Marcus straightened up.
"What am I?"
"You're the Spear. We change formation. Total Attack. We win for him, or we die trying."
Two Days Later.
A visitor in the hospital room.
Soccer was awake, eating lime Jell-O.
The door opened.
A man walked in. Tall. Gray hair. Wearing a suit that cost more than the hospital wing. He had a badge on his lapel.
National Football Association - Scout Division.
"Mr. Soccer," the man said. His voice was smooth, like expensive whiskey.
"Just Soccer," he replied. "Mr. Soccer is my dad. Wait, I don't have a dad. Just Soccer."
The man smiled. He pulled up a chair.
"My name is Mr. Hawk. I'm the head scout for the U-18 National Team."
Soccer stopped eating Jell-O.
"The Blue Lock team?" Soccer asked. "Or... whatever you call it here?"
"The National Selection," Hawk corrected. "We're building the squad for the World Youth Cup."
He placed a card on the table.
"I watched the Quarterfinal. That Bicycle Lob? I've seen professionals try that and break their necks."
"I have a thick neck."
"Indeed." Hawk leaned forward. "Listen, son. Northwood is a nice story. But this tournament? It's over for you. Your leg is finished for the season."
"I know."
"But your career isn't." Hawk tapped the card. "I'm offering you a spot. Not at Northwood. At the National Training Center. We have the best doctors in the world. Cryo-tanks. Stem cells. We can fix that ankle in six weeks, not six months."
Soccer looked at the card. Golden Ticket.
"And then?"
"Then you play for your country. You leave Northwood. You leave these... amateur games behind."
Soccer looked out the window. It was raining again.
"Leave the pack?"
"Wolves leave the pack to start their own," Hawk said. "If you stay here, you might heal wrong. You might never reach 100% again. Come with me, and I guarantee you the world stage."
Soccer looked at the card. Then at his phone, where the team group chat was exploding with memes and nervousness about the Semi-Finals.
Marcus sent a picture: The team holding Soccer's jersey like a shrine in the locker room.
For the King.
Soccer picked up the Jell-O spoon.
"Mr. Hawk," Soccer said. "Can your doctors fix a leg in two days?"
"No. That's impossible."
"Then I'm not interested."
Hawk blinked. "I'm offering you the National Team. Fame. Money. The World Cup."
"Sounds cool," Soccer said. "But my friends have a game on Saturday. And I need to be on the sideline. If I'm not there to yell at them, Dylan gets scared."
Hawk stared at him. "You're rejecting the U-18 offer?"
"No," Soccer smiled. "I'm postponing it. Fix me after we win Nationals. Right now? I'm busy being a mascot."
Hawk stood up. He shook his head, but he was smiling.
"You really are a strange kid. Fine. I'll wait. But watch your team die on Saturday. The team they are playing? The Storm-Bringers?"
Hawk opened the door.
"They make Southern Academy look like a petting zoo."
Hawk left.
Soccer stared at the door.
Storm-Bringers.
He looked at his cast.
"Storms," Soccer whispered. "I used to eat storms for breakfast."
He grabbed his crutches.
Time to break out of here.