Zero isn't a number.
In math, zero means nothing. But in football, Zero means the end.
The Emperor's Legion Stats:
Games Played: 15
Goals Scored: 60
Goals Conceded: 0
Not "few." Not "one lucky goal." None.
Coach Cross clicked the remote. The video paused on the screen. A pixelated image of a boy standing in the goal mouth.
He had stark white hair. Not dyed. Just naturally colorless. He stood with his arms at his sides. He looked less like a goalkeeper and more like a ghost haunting the six-yard box.
"They call him the Event Horizon," Cross said. The room was dark, but the team's fear was visible. "Because nothing escapes his gravity. And nothing enters his space."
Dylan Foster raised a trembling hand. "Coach, he caught a penalty kick. He caught it. With one hand. Without diving."
"I saw," Cross muttered. "He didn't guess. He waited until the ball was kicked, reacted, and just... took it."
Soccer sat in the back of the room. His left leg was propped up on two chairs, wrapped in so much tape he looked like a mummy from the knee down.
He crunched a carrot stick. Snap.
The sound echoed loudly in the terrified silence.
"He's quiet," Soccer observed.
"Who?" Marcus asked.
"Zero. In the video. He doesn't yell at his defenders. He doesn't clap. He's... empty."
Soccer tilted his head.
"The mountain has days like that. When the snow absorbs all sound. It feels like the world has stopped. That's the most dangerous time."
"Why?" Elijah asked.
"Because you don't hear the avalanche until it breaks your neck."
The Night Before. Hotel Rooftop.
The wind was cold. It smelled of rain and exhaust.
Soccer leaned on the railing, balancing on his good leg. He hated the wheelchair. He refused the crutches. He stood like a flamingo.
The door opened.
A figure stepped out. White hair moving in the wind. A uniform that was pure black with gold trim.
Zero.
He walked to the edge. He didn't look at Soccer. He looked at the vast, glittering city of Metropolis.
"They said you would be here," Zero said. His voice was soft. Monotone. Like a computer reading poetry. "The Anomaly."
"Hello, Ghost," Soccer smiled. "You have nice hair. Is it snow?"
"It is a melanin deficiency." Zero turned. His eyes were pale violet. "Your leg is destroyed. Why are you listed on the roster for tomorrow?"
"Because I'm playing."
Zero looked at the taped-up mass. "Illogical. If you run, the ligament snaps. If the ligament snaps, the tibia displaces. If the tibia displaces, you never walk correctly again. Probability of permanent disability: 85%."
"You sound like the calculator boy," Soccer laughed. "But he had goggles. You have emptiness."
"I am not a calculator," Zero said calmly. "I am a wall. No... a wall can be broken."
He stepped closer.
"I am the Void. You cannot break nothing. You can swing your sword, but it just passes through. And then you fall."
Soccer looked at the strange, terrifying boy.
"I used to punch fog," Soccer said cheerfully. "On Eagle's Peak. It gets foggy. I tried to catch it in a jar. I never could."
"Exactly."
"But..." Soccer tapped the railing. "If the sun comes out, the fog burns away. Fog hates heat."
Zero's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do you think you are the sun?"
"Me?" Soccer shrugged. "No. I'm just a boy with a broken foot."
He grinned.
"But my pack? They're on fire."
Zero stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned to leave.
"Burn bright, Anomaly. The brighter the fire, the deeper the shadow. I will delete you tomorrow."
The door closed.
Soccer looked back at the city.
"Delete," Soccer whispered. "That's a scary word."
He touched his bandage.
Doc said I have five minutes. Maybe ten. Before the painkillers wear off and the adrenaline crashes.
"Ten minutes to beat nothing," he muttered.
The Morning of the Finals.
Dr. Mitchell taped the leg.
It wasn't a medical procedure anymore. It was construction work.
She used rigid strapping tape, then an elastic layer, then a custom-made resin brace Marcus's dad had 3D-printed overnight, then more tape.
Soccer's leg was effectively a concrete pillar.
"You have zero flexion," Mitchell warned. "Your ankle is locked at a 90-degree angle. You can't point your toe. You can't jump off this leg."
"Okay."
"We are injecting you with Xylocaine. You won't feel the pain."
"Cool."
"That's dangerous, Soccer," she grabbed his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "Pain tells you to stop. Without pain, you will destroy yourself and not know it until you look down and see the bone sticking out."
"I'll keep my socks pulled up," Soccer said. "So I don't see it."
Mitchell sighed. She cut the tape.
"Ten minutes," she ordered. "You enter in the 80th minute. Not a second sooner. If the game is lost before then... you stay on the bench."
"Deal."
The Final: First Half.
The Emperor's Legion was perfect.
Not "good." Perfect.
They played a formation called The Phalanx. They moved in a rigid block, pushing Northwood back, step by step.
But they didn't shoot much. They didn't need to.
They scored once in the 10th minute.
A surgical pass. A clinical finish.
Legion: 1 - Northwood: 0.
Then, they retreated.
They invited Northwood to attack.
"It's a trap!" Cross yelled. "Don't overcommit!"
But Northwood had to attack. They were losing.
Marcus Kane led the charge. The Spear.
He drove through the midfield. He reached the box.
He saw the goal.
He saw Zero.
Zero stood perfectly still on the goal line. He didn't crouch. He didn't bounce. He just... waited.
Marcus wound up. He struck the ball with fury. A low, screaming shot to the corner.
Zero didn't dive.
He took one step. A single, efficient glide.
He extended his foot.
Thump.
He stopped the shot with the sole of his boot. He didn't clear it. He trapped it dead.
Marcus froze. That shot was 60 mph. And Zero caught it like it was a rolling pebble.
Zero looked at Marcus.
"Is that all the spear has?"
He picked up the ball and punted it.
The counterattack was instant.
Legion moved. Pass. Pass. Goal.
Legion: 2 - Northwood: 0
Time: 25:00
Halftime.
The mood in the locker room wasn't sadness. It was horror.
"We can't score," Dylan Foster whispered, staring at the floor. "He doesn't guess. He knows. Marcus shot left—Zero was already there. Elijah tried a chip—Zero just caught it."
"He reads intent," Coach Cross said grimly. "Before you shoot, your body signals the target. Zero reads body language better than anyone I've ever seen."
Soccer sat on the bench, his leg stiff as a board.
"He looks at eyes," Soccer said.
"What?"
"When Marcus shot, he looked at the corner. Just for a micro-second."
Soccer picked up a roll of tape.
"Zero is a mirror that eats you. If you show him what you want... he takes it."
"So what do we do?" Elijah cried. "Shoot with our eyes closed? That's what you did against Kai, but that was lucky!"
"No," Soccer said. "We don't close our eyes."
He pointed to his stiff leg.
"We use a weapon that has no eyes."
He looked at Marcus.
"Keep fighting. Get one goal. Just one. Make him crack. If you crack the ice... I can shatter it."
"One goal against the guy who hasn't conceded in fifteen games?" Marcus laughed hysterically. "Sure. Easy."
"Not easy," Soccer said, gripping his own knee. "Essential."
Second Half.
Minute 60. 2-0.
Northwood was playing on pure spite.
They swarmed. The Trash Tactics came back. They scrambled. They fouled.
Zero stood in his goal, untouched. Bored.
"He's getting arrogant," Luna noted on the sideline. "He's standing further off his line. He thinks we're harmless."
"We are harmless," Cross muttered.
But Marcus wasn't done.
He received a ball from Dylan.
He didn't look at the goal. He didn't look at Zero.
He looked at the ground.
"I am a spear," Marcus chanted to himself. "I am just a stupid, sharp stick."
He ran.
A Legion defender challenged him. Marcus literally ran through him. A shoulder charge fueled by two years of being the captain of a losing team.
He broke the line.
He was twenty-five yards out.
Zero took a step forward. "Predictable path."
Marcus didn't shoot.
He fell.
He slipped on the damp grass.
But as he fell, his leg swung. An involuntary reflex.
He shinned the ball.
The ball scuffed. It bounced. It spun sideways. It looked awful.
Zero saw the mishit. He calculated the spin. He moved to catch it easily.
But the ball hit a divot. A massive chunk of turf kicked up by Marcus's fall.
The ball changed direction. Violent left turn.
Zero reached out.
The ball grazed his fingertips.
Tink. Post. Thud. In.
Legion: 2 - Northwood: 1.
Zero stared at his hand.
"Chaos," Zero whispered. The monotone broke. "An unpredictable variable. Turf failure."
Marcus lay on the ground, bleeding from his nose where he planted his face.
"GET THE BALL!" Marcus screamed into the grass. "I BROKE THE SEAL!"
Minute 78.
The Legion was angry now.
"End them!" their captain shouted.
They poured forward. 3-1 would end it.
Coach Cross looked at his watch. Then at Dr. Mitchell.
She nodded.
"Soccer," Cross said.
Soccer stood up. He didn't wobble. The tape job held him rigid.
He walked to the substitution line. It wasn't a run. It was a Frankenstein stomp.
Thud. Step. Thud. Step.
The stadium saw him. The roar began. A low rumble building to a tsunami.
The King Returns.
Zero saw him coming.
Zero frowned.
"A broken tool," Zero judged. "Useless."
Minute 82.
Soccer entered the game.
He couldn't run. He literally couldn't bend his ankle to run.
So he planted himself at the edge of the penalty box. A totem pole.
"Don't pass to me unless it's perfect!" Soccer yelled to Elijah.
The Legion defenders ignored him. Why mark a statue?
Legion attacked. They wanted to kill the clock.
Dylan made a save. A miracle save.
He threw the ball to Elijah.
"Counter!"
Elijah ran. He burned down the wing.
He looked up. Marcus was covered.
But Soccer...
Soccer was standing at the 20-yard line. Alone.
Zero saw the pass coming.
"He cannot shoot," Zero analyzed. "He has no plant foot. He has no torque. He is a distraction."
Zero positioned himself for a pass interception.
Soccer saw the ball rolling toward him.
He couldn't kick it normally.
But on the mountain... when a log rolls down... you don't kick it.
You stomp it.
Soccer lifted his stiff leg. The "Concrete Pillar."
He slammed his heel into the ground, angling his toe up. A ramp.
The ball hit his angled foot.
It popped up. Straight up. High.
"What?" a defender stopped.
Soccer hopped on his good leg. He pivoted.
The ball was falling.
Zero adjusted. He will head it.
Soccer didn't head it.
He waited.
He waited until the ball was waist height.
He spun his body.
The Tornado Lariat.
He used the weight of his cast-leg as a counter-balance. He swung his good leg around in a vicious, horizontal arc.
He struck the ball mid-air.
It was a side-volley. A screaming, rotating blur.
Zero saw the trajectory. Top right.
"Calculated." Zero moved. He jumped. His hands extended. He had it covered.
But the ball had a secret.
Because of the weird spin generated by the ramp-pop setup, it was drifting.
Zero reached out to catch.
The ball dipped under his hands.
Zero's eyes went wide. Violet terror.
The ball smashed into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
Northwood: 2 - Legion: 2
Time: 88:00
The stadium shook so hard dust fell from the rafters.
Soccer didn't celebrate. The force of the swing had twisted his planted (bad) leg.
He felt the tear. A warm, wet sensation inside the cast.
"Uh oh," Soccer whispered.
But he stayed standing. He looked at Zero.
Zero was on his knees. He looked at his hands.
"I missed," Zero said. "I judged the trajectory... and I missed."
The Void had cracked.
Minute 90.
Stoppage time. 4 minutes.
Both teams were dead. Northwood had nothing left.
Legion was terrified. Their perfect defensive record was gone. Their god had bled.
Marcus had the ball.
"One last time!" Marcus screamed.
He passed to Soccer.
Soccer was at the top of the box again. The Turret.
Three Legion defenders converged on him immediately. They weren't going to let him do the ramp-trick again.
"Break him!" one shouted.
They tackled. Hard.
Soccer saw them coming.
I can't dodge. I can't run.
He saw Zero.
Zero wasn't on the line. He had come out. He was charging.
Zero realized the defenders might foul him. He wanted to claim the ball first.
The Void was rushing forward to swallow the anomaly.
Soccer looked at the ball at his feet.
Three defenders from behind. The Void from the front.
Trapped.
On the mountain... when the wolves surround you... and the cliff is at your back...
You don't fight.
You jump.
Soccer jammed his toes under the ball.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He launched himself upward. Both feet.
He gripped the ball between his ankles.
The Rabbit Snare.
He did a backflip.
But he wasn't alone.
The three defenders slid underneath him. They crashed into each other.
Soccer was airborne. Upside down. The ball clutched between his feet.
He saw Zero charging below him. Zero's face was turned up, eyes wide.
Target acquired, Soccer thought.
He released the ball from his ankles at the apex of the flip.
He didn't kick it. He dropped it.
He lobbed it over the charging keeper's head while upside down.
It was the softest touch in the world. A gentle kiss.
Soccer crashed to the ground. Hard.
He landed on his neck. His leg twisted violently.
But he rolled over.
Zero leaped backward, desperate, clawing at the sky.
The ball floated. It hung in the air for an eternity.
It drifted over Zero's fingertips.
It dropped.
Into the center of the empty net.
GOAL.
Northwood: 3 - Legion: 2
Time: 90:00+4
The whistle blew instantly.
Game over.
Tournament over.
History.
The Celebration.
It was a blur. Confetti. Screaming. Tears.
Marcus was lifting the trophy. Dylan was wearing the net as a cape.
But on the grass...
Dr. Mitchell and the medics were huddled.
"Cut the sock," Mitchell barked. "Get the stabilizer."
Soccer lay there. He wasn't crying.
He was looking at the sky. Confetti rained down on him. Gold and Silver.
"Pretty," Soccer whispered.
A shadow fell over him.
Zero.
The albino keeper knelt down. He held a silver medal in his hand—the runner-up medal.
"You broke logic," Zero said quietly.
"Logic is boring," Soccer rasped, pain creeping into his voice as the Xylocaine faded.
Zero placed his silver medal on Soccer's chest.
"You entered the Void," Zero said. "And you filled it. Respect."
Zero walked away, fading into the crowd like the ghost he was.
Luna pushed through the medics. She grabbed Soccer's hand.
"You idiot!" she was sobbing. "You absolute moron! We won! But look at you!"
"Did we win?" Soccer asked.
"Yes! We're National Champions! The worst team in the league is the Champion!"
Soccer squeezed her hand.
"Cool," he whispered. "Does the trophy... hold milk?"
"Yes," Luna laughed through her tears. "Gallons."
Soccer closed his eyes.
"Good. I think I need a refill."
Epilogue: Three Days Later.
The hospital room was quiet.
Soccer's leg was in a new cast. Purple this time. Signed by every player in the tournament, including Kai, Vincent, and Zero.
The door opened.
Mr. Hawk walked in.
"National Champions," Hawk said, clapping slowly. "An incredible story. They're already calling it ' The Miracle of the Mountain.'"
"They exaggerate," Soccer said, watching cartoons.
"I have your plane ticket," Hawk placed an envelope on the tray. "Surgery in Switzerland. Best specialist on earth. Then rehab at the National Center."
Soccer looked at the ticket.
"And the pack?"
"They go back to school. They're legends now, son. Marcus has college offers. Dylan too. You did your job. You raised them up."
Hawk leaned in.
"But you don't belong in high school anymore. The U-18 World Cup is in six months. And the world... the world needs an Assassin."
Soccer looked at the cast. Then out the window.
He saw a bird flying. An eagle.
It was alone. But it was flying high.
Soccer picked up the ticket.
"Six months?" Soccer asked.
"Six months."
Soccer grinned.
"Okay. Let's go hunting."