Chaos usually has a rhythm.
A storm has wind patterns. An avalanche has gravity lines. Even the messy game against Paradigm Institute had the logic of a glitch.
This?
This was just panic.
Fifty teenagers in a concrete box, fighting over ten balls that recycled through the floor.
The holographic target on the far wall zipped around like a caffeinated fly. Zip. Zap. Up. Down.
"Mine!" The Bully (his nametag read BRONSON) shoved a smaller kid into the wall. He grabbed a ball.
Bronson kicked. He aimed for the red bullseye.
He missed. The ball hit the concrete wall with a hollow thud.
"It moves too fast!" someone screamed.
Timer: 9:30.
Soccer stood near the back. He hadn't moved yet. He watched the red light flicker across the wall.
"Pattern," Soccer whispered. "It's not random."
A skinny boy with thick glasses and messy hair slid up next to him, panting. He looked like he was about to have a panic attack.
"It's a Fibonacci spiral," the skinny boy wheezed, pointing at the wall. "The target moves in a decaying orbital path. It speeds up near the center."
Soccer looked down. "Hi. You breathe loud."
"I'm Nico. Rank 299. And we're going to lose. Look at Bronson. He's just spraying and praying. If we don't get points, the door locks and we go home."
Soccer watched the target again. Zip... Zip... Zip.
"A spiral," Soccer mused. "Like a hawk circling a mouse."
"Exactly. But to hit it, you need to calculate lead time and—"
Soccer didn't wait for the math lesson.
A ball rolled near his feet. A rebound from someone's failed shot.
Soccer stepped on it.
He looked at the wall. The target was currently near the ceiling, moving left.
He drew his left leg back.
Inside the purple scars and healed skin, the synthetic weave tightened. It felt like pulling back the hammer of a gun.
Click.
"Lead the target," Soccer whispered.
He swung.
He meant to hit it at 50% power. Just a tap to test the calibration.
But the Titanium Ankle had zero lag. It released all the stored kinetic energy instantly.
BOOM.
The impact was deafening. It sounded like a gunshot in a library.
The ball disappeared.
It became a white blur. It hit the wall so hard it didn't just touch the target—it went through the hologram visual.
The sensor didn't register a "hit." It registered a collision.
The ball ricocheted off the wall, flew back across the room, whizzed past Nico's ear (ruffling his hair), and smashed into the opposite wall fifty feet away.
Silence.
Everyone stopped running.
The target on the wall flickered. The hologram glitched, turning static blue for a second before resetting.
PLAYER 300: SCORE 1.
SHOT POWER: 145 KM/H.
"Whoops," Soccer muttered, wiggling his toes. "Spring is tight today."
Bronson turned around slowly. "What the hell was that?"
Nico adjusted his glasses, staring at the readout on the wall. "145? That's... that's pro level. That's Roberto Carlos level."
Soccer hopped on his left foot. Boing.
"Too much powder," Soccer noted. "Need to dial it back."
Timer: 7:00.
The shock wore off quickly. Panic returned.
"He got lucky!" Bronson yelled. "Get points! Move!"
The scramble resumed.
But the dynamic had changed. Everyone was watching the corner bunk, watching the kid with the scarred leg.
Soccer waited for another ball.
Nico, who hadn't scored a single point, looked terrified. "I can't get a ball. They're too big. They just body-check me."
Soccer looked at Nico. Then at Bronson, who was hogging three balls in his corner.
"Nico," Soccer said. "Can you do math?"
"Yes! That's all I can do!"
"Calculate the bounce," Soccer said. "Stand over there."
He pointed to a spot ten yards away from the wall.
"Why?"
"Because," Soccer grinned, planting his left foot. "I'm gonna play billiards."
Soccer intercepted a rolling ball.
He didn't look at the target. He looked at the wall next to it.
He kicked.
Ping.
The ball hit the wall at a sharp angle. It ricocheted sideways—straight into the target.
PLAYER 300: SCORE 2.
But the ball didn't stop. It bounced off the wall with incredible speed, angling perfectly toward... Nico.
Nico yelped as the ball came right to his feet. He panicked and swung his leg. He managed to tap it.
His shot was weak, but because he was standing where Soccer told him, the angle was perfect.
The ball drifted into the target.
PLAYER 299: SCORE 1.
Nico stared at the wall. "Reflected trajectory..."
"Cool, right?" Soccer asked, grabbing another ball.
Bronson saw this. He didn't like it.
He marched over. "Hey! Cripple! Stop feeding the nerd!"
Bronson tried to tackle Soccer. A shoulder charge meant to put the new kid in his place.
Soccer saw him coming.
In the old days, Soccer would have Ghost Stepped. He would have dodged.
But today?
Soccer planted his Titanium Ankle. He rooted it into the synthetic turf.
Lock.
The joint didn't flex. It became a steel pylon.
Bronson hit Soccer's shoulder.
It was like running into a lamppost.
THUD.
Soccer didn't move an inch. Bronson, however, bounced off. The force reverberated back into his own ribs. He stumbled, gasping for air.
"Solid," Soccer noted, patting his leg. "Dr. Klaus does good work."
He turned back to the wall.
"Nico! Left side!"
PING.
Bank shot.
BAM.
Into the target.
Rebound to Nico. Nico kicked. Goal.
It became a rhythm. A game within a game.
Soccer wasn't just shooting. He was controlling the geometry of the room. He bank-shot balls off the floor, off the ceiling, off the metal support beams.
Every shot was a laser. Every rebound was a pass.
The other players stopped fighting. They just watched.
It was mesmerizing.
Ping-ping-ping.
The hologram on the wall couldn't keep up. It flashed red constantly.
PLAYER 300: SCORE 15.
PLAYER 299: SCORE 14.
Bronson sat on the floor, holding his ribs. He looked at the scoreboard.
PLAYER 285 (BRONSON): SCORE 3.
He was in the elimination zone.
Timer: 1:00.
The alarm blared. Red lights flashed.
"FINAL MINUTE. BOTTOM RANKED PLAYER WILL BE PURGED."
The current bottom rank was a tie. Five players with 0 points.
They looked at each other. Then they looked at Soccer, who had a ball at his feet.
Desperation is ugly.
The five players charged Soccer at once. If they could steal his ball and score, they might survive.
"Get him!" one screamed.
Soccer stood in the center.
He looked at the target. It was moving fast now. Erratic jumps. Top right. Bottom left.
He looked at the five desperate boys charging him.
He looked at his ankle.
Okay. Let's see what maximum output looks like.
Soccer dropped his shoulder.
He approached the ball.
He didn't just kick it.
He stomped the ground next to it with his left foot.
The Seismic Load.
He compressed the synthetic spring to 100%. The floor tiles literally cracked under the pressure.
Then, he released.
He swung his right leg, using the spring-force of his left side to act like a trebuchet.
KA-BOOM.
The sound burst eardrums.
The ball vanished.
It hit the target.
But it didn't bounce off.
The ball punctured the plasterboard wall behind the hologram. It got stuck halfway through, lodged in the drywall like a meteorite.
Dust fell from the hole.
The target flickered and died. The projector sparked and went black.
SYSTEM ERROR.
The charging boys skidded to a halt. They looked at the smoking hole in the wall.
Soccer stood on one leg, smoke (steam from sweat?) rising from his body.
"Oops," Soccer said. "Still too much powder."
Timer: 0:00.
The buzzer sounded.
"EVALUATION COMPLETE."
The scoreboard froze.
RANK 1 (IN ROOM): SOCCER.
SHOT POWER: ERROR.
ACCURACY: 100%.
The door to the corridor opened.
Two massive guards walked in. They wore helmets and carried stun batons.
"Lowest score," one guard barked.
They grabbed a boy who had been crying in the corner, holding zero points. He hadn't even touched a ball.
"Wait! Please! I didn't get a chance!"
They dragged him out. The door slammed shut.
Clang.
He was gone. Career over. Dream over.
Silence returned to The Pit.
Nico walked over to the wall. He touched the ball embedded in the drywall.
"You broke the facility," Nico whispered. "On day one."
Soccer sat down on the floor. He untied his black cleat.
His ankle was glowing slightly red—heat from friction. He poked it.
"Warm," Soccer said. "That's better."
Bronson stood up. He walked over to Soccer. He didn't look like a bully anymore. He looked like someone who had just survived a bear attack.
"Who are you?" Bronson asked. "For real."
Soccer looked up. His grey eyes were clear. Calm.
"I'm Soccer."
He stood up, putting his weight on the titanium joint. It held firm. No wobble. No pain.
"And I think I'm ready for the next floor."
The speaker crackled again.
"ATTENTION PLAYER 300."
The voice was Titan's.
"Due to... destruction of property... and exceeding power limits..."
A pause.
"You are promoted to Sector C. Leave The Pit immediately."
The ceiling hatch opened. A ladder lowered down. A golden ladder, lit by a spotlight from above.
Soccer looked at the ladder.
"Up," Soccer grinned. "I like going up."
He grabbed his bag. He looked at Nico.
"Calculate faster, four-eyes," Soccer said, giving him a thumbs up. "See you at the top."
Soccer grabbed the ladder. He climbed.
He disappeared into the light above.
The fifty boys left in The Pit stared at the empty space.
"What just happened?" someone whispered.
Nico looked at the hole in the wall.
"A weapon test," Nico said, adjusting his glasses. "And I think it passed."
Sector C: The Barracks.
Soccer climbed out of the hatch.
This room was different. It had windows. It had real beds. It smelled of food.
Standing there were 50 other players.
But these guys were bigger. They wore better gear. They had monitors on their wrists.
In the center of the room, doing one-handed pushups, was a familiar face.
Shaved head. Neck tattoo. Eyes like a shark.
Number 4 from Westside High.
He looked up as Soccer dusted off his pants.
Number 4 froze mid-pushup. He fell on his face.
"You," Number 4 hissed, scrambling up.
Soccer blinked.
"Hey! It's the angry wolf!" Soccer waved. "Did you fix your red card?"
Number 4 pointed a trembling finger. "You... you were crippled! I saw the news! Your ankle exploded!"
"I got a new one," Soccer tapped his foot on the floor. Clack-clack.
"A new one?"
"Yeah. The warranty was surprisingly good."
A door at the far end opened.
Coach Titan walked in. But he wasn't alone.
Next to him was Vincent Drake.
The Dragon.
Vincent was wearing the elite Gold Bib of a Top 10 Player. He was carrying a protein shake. He looked bigger than before. Scarier.
Vincent stopped. He sniffed the air.
He turned his head toward Soccer.
A smile spread across Vincent's face. It wasn't the friendly smile from the Finals. It was the hungry smile of the Quarterfinals.
"You crawled out of the grave," Vincent rumbled, walking over. The other players parted like water.
"Hi Dragon," Soccer said. "Thanks for the lift last time."
Vincent looked at Soccer's left leg.
"Is it strong?"
"Klaus says it's titanium."
"Good."
Vincent crushed the protein shaker in his hand. Plastic cracked. Liquid oozed out.
"Because the training starts tomorrow," Vincent whispered, leaning down. "And this isn't high school. There are no fouls here."
He pointed to a large screen on the wall.
TOMORROW'S CHALLENGE:
THE GAUNTLET.
OBJECTIVE:
SURVIVE THE PROS.
"The Pros?" Soccer asked.
"Five professional defenders from the European leagues are flying in," Vincent grinned. "Their job is to break us. Literally."
Vincent patted Soccer's shoulder. Hard.
"Hope your new spring works, Assassin. Because tomorrow, we're not playing with boys."
Soccer looked at the screen.
Pro players. European giants.
His ankle twitched. A small spasm of stored energy.
"Europeans," Soccer smiled. "Do they bounce?"
Vincent laughed. A deep, barking sound.
"We'll find out."