The moment Cinister stepped forward, Tomov, Choi, and Lite felt something shift in the air. They'd seen him play in PE, seen him dominate without even trying, but something about the way he rolled his shoulders and exhaled slowly now was different. It wasn't excitement. It wasn't determination. It looked almost like relief—like he was finally done watching amateurs mess up something simple.
The enemy team didn't know what had just happened. All they saw was the goalkeeper stepping out of the post and moving up the field with a relaxed, casual confidence. Their midfielder called out, "Oi, who's covering him?" but his teammates shrugged. To them, Cinister looked like just another skinny school kid. What could he really do?
The answer came instantly.
The match restarted, and the two enemy strikers charged forward, eager to break the tie before this newcomer could make a difference. One of them received a short pass, cut inside, and tried to outrun Lite. But Lite stepped in front of him, slowing him down with his body weight. The striker stumbled slightly, but the ball rolled loose—and the second striker snatched it, dribbling toward the box.
Choi tried to intercept, but he slid past him with a shoulder feint and straight run. Tomov rushed in too, but he barely made it in time. The striker winded up his leg—
And Cinister appeared.
He didn't sprint. He didn't slide. He simply stepped into the path like he had already calculated the ball's exact trajectory. His foot met the ball with a clean, controlled touch, stopping it dead. The striker crashed into him, but Cinister didn't even flinch. His eyes were half-open, expression unreadable, almost bored.
"Is that all?" he muttered quietly.
Then he flicked the ball upward.
At first, it looked like a normal flick, but the ball didn't fall—it rose higher, spinning perfectly around Cinister's foot as he tapped it again. An air dribble. Another tap. Another. The ball floated like it was glued to his laces. The enemies froze, confused, watching him juggle the ball while jogging forward like he had done this a million times.
Tomov's jaw dropped. "Bro… he didn't even warm up."
Choi muttered, "I hate how easy he makes it look."
Cinister kept walking, eyes lazily focused on the goal. The enemy midfielder panicked and ran straight at him, but Cinister popped the ball over his head with a calm dink—never breaking stride. The midfielder spun around too late.
Next came the last defender. He lunged with a desperate sliding tackle, legs sweeping across the grass. But Cinister simply stepped over him, tapping the ball just high enough to avoid contact. It was disrespectful in how elegant it was.
In seconds, he was face-to-face with the enemy goalkeeper.
Cinister slowed down, letting the ball roll across his foot. He stared directly at the keeper with an expression that said, Are you going to make this interesting or not?
Then he looked down, raised his leg—and the keeper flinched.
A fake shot.
Cinister sighed softly, as if disappointed the keeper fell for it so fast.
Then he struck the real shot—a quick, clean whip with his laces. The ball curved around the keeper's outstretched hand and slammed into the net with a loud thump.
3–2.
Cinister exhaled through his nose and turned around like scoring was a chore he had to get over with.
The enemy team looked shaken now. Their midfielder shouted, "Mark him! Don't let him breathe!" but it didn't matter. Everyone on the field felt the pace change. Cinister's boredom made him dangerous; he wasn't chasing adrenaline—he was demonstrating the difference between a player and a prodigy.
The game resumed with the enemy strikers pushing aggressively again. They played faster, sharper, passing the ball between themselves with panic-driven urgency. One striker cut through the left side, and Choi sprinted with him, barely keeping pace. The striker knocked the ball ahead, and Choi lunged. His foot made contact—not perfectly, but enough to bounce the ball off-course.
He stumbled, almost falling, but kept his footing with pure luck.
The striker cursed. "What the—?"
Choi flicked the ball away and immediately passed it to Lite. "Here!"
Lite trapped it cleanly and lifted his head. The enemies saw Cinister sprinting—no, gliding—up the right wing. Their eyes widened. "WATCH HIM!"
Both strikers abandoned Lite and rushed toward him, leaving only the midfielder between them.
Lite took one more second—one second to breathe, to calculate, to trust himself.
Then he turned his foot sideways and swung.
The pass sliced between the defenders with surgical precision, curving around the midfielder's leg like the ball itself wanted to reach Cinister.
"Wha—?!" the midfielder gasped as the ball whizzed past his foot.
Cinister didn't slow down. The ball rolled toward him, bouncing once as it approached. He adjusted his stride, angled his body, and swung his leg perfectly.
A volley.
The sound echoed like a gunshot, the ball flying forward in a straight line so fast the goalkeeper didn't even react. It rocketed past him into the top corner.
3–3.
The enemy players stared in disbelief. One of them whispered, "Bro… what is this guy?"
Cinister walked back with the same bored expression. Not a smirk. Not pride. Just a look that said, Finally, something normal.
The next restart was pure chaos. The enemy team tightened their formation, playing more seriously than before. They weren't laughing now; they weren't underestimating. They were desperate. They passed quickly, trying to keep the ball away from Cinister at all costs.
"1–2! 1–2!" their midfielder shouted, trying to start a give-and-go.
But Cinister stepped in again.
He didn't even tackle hard—he just placed his foot where the ball would be two seconds later. The pass smacked into his foot, died instantly, and he nudged it into free space.
With one touch, he sent the ball slightly ahead.With the second touch, he angled it to his left.With the third, he wound up.
He wasn't even in the box.He wasn't near the goal.He was almost at midfield.
"Bro… no way," Tomov whispered.
Cinister struck the ball with the outside of his foot, bending it with impossible precision. The ball traced a perfect arc, rising high, spinning with wicked curve. It dipped at the last second.
Top bin.
3–4.
The enemy goalkeeper fell backward trying to reach it, landing in the grass with a frustrated grunt.
The enemy team panicked now. Their faces turned serious, almost angry. They rearranged formation instantly.
"Three strikers!""Run the triangle!""Don't let them breathe!"
Their passes became crisp and dangerous. They moved fast, overwhelming Lite and Choi with numbers. Tomov tried to help defend, but he was shoved aside easily; the enemies were stronger, more conditioned, and more experienced.
The three opposing strikers ran triangular patterns, passing rapidly, trying to drag Cinister out of position. For a moment, it almost worked. One striker found space and broke free down the left side. He pushed the ball too far ahead—just slightly—but enough for Choi to lunge.
Choi barely clipped the ball, losing his balance again, but sending it rolling toward Lite.
Lite trapped it, heart pounding. The three enemy strikers thundered toward him like a charging wall.
He looked up.
Cinister was already running.
The ball left Lite's foot.
Cinister received it while sprinting, dribbling the first defender with a simple body feint. The second defender slid in, but Cinister nudged the ball sideways, letting him slide past helplessly. The third one rushed in aggressively; Cinister almost lost the ball—but he reached out with the tip of his foot at the last second, poking it away.
"Tomov!" he shouted sharply.
The pass was quick, almost instinctive. Tomov received it with surprise—he hadn't expected the ball, hadn't expected this moment. The field opened up. It was just him and the goalkeeper. His breath froze.
This is my chance.
All of Cinister's training flashed through his mind—the dribbles, the touches, the control. He steadied himself, feeling the ball at his feet. The goalkeeper tensed, stepping forward.
Tomov inhaled.Focused.Placed every bit of skill he had learned into one final strike.
He swung.
The world seemed to pause.
The ball flew forward—