That evening, the Konp residence was silent, but Belt's room was vibrating with a different kind of energy. The blue light of his computer monitor washed over his face, reflecting in his dilated pupils. He wasn't playing games tonight. He was hunting.
The position of "Second Striker" was no longer a tactical term found in a manual; it was his new reality. To anyone else, it was just a spot on the field. To Belt, it was a riddle that needed to be solved, a lock that required a master key. He spent the night deconstructing the "Source Code" of the greatest players to ever grace the shadow of the penalty box. He watched hours of grainy archival footage of legendary playmakers—those ghosts who lived in the silence between the midfield and the goal.
He analyzed the "Architects of the Turn," players who could control the ball with their backs to the goal while sensing the defender's heartbeat without looking. He studied the "Silent Assassins," those second strikers who moved without the ball, creating tactical voids in the defense that didn't exist a second before. He focused on their eyes, their weight distribution, and the precise moment they chose to accelerate.
The Second Striker isn't a servant to the goal-scorer, Belt mused, his fingers flying across the keyboard to pause and rewind a specific frame of an old championship match. They are the bridge. The puppeteer. They live in the shadow of the Number 9, but they are the ones who decide when the sun rises. My game... it's not about strength. It's about being the ghost in the machine that makes the entire engine move.
He closed his eyes, his "Mirror Evolution" already processing the data, simulating movements in his mind. He wasn't looking for their glory; he was looking for their mechanics—the way they manipulated the defenders' expectations by looking one way while passing another. By the time the sun began to peek through the Krow City smog, Belt hadn't slept, but he had never felt more awake. He had internalized the geometry of the elite.
The Morning of the Tiger
The next morning, the atmosphere at the high school had shifted. The whispers in the hallways followed Belt like a persistent, invisible shadow. He was no longer the "ghost student" who sat in the back of the class and vanished at the bell. He was "The New Number 13."
As he walked through the main courtyard, he stopped in front of the massive advertising poster featuring Bill Maël. The Captain was depicted mid-stride, his expression one of serene, absolute dominance. He was the King of the school, the commercial face of the academy's success.
Belt stared at the poster for a long minute. The silence between the two—the printed icon and the living predator—was deafening.
"It is only a matter of time before my face replaces yours on this wall," Belt thought, his eyes narrowing until they were two icy slits. "But is that really what I want? To be a poster? To be a product for Director Bam's commercial machine?"
He shook his head, a cold smirk touching his lips.
"It doesn't matter. The crown is just a tool. I am on a double-edged blade now: dominate or be dominated. I didn't crawl out of the shadows to stop at the gate. I am here to take the throne, even if I have to burn the palace down to do it."
The Forced Invitation
At noon, Belt sought refuge in his classroom. He kept his headphones on, the volume high enough to drown out the mindless chatter of his peers who were suddenly fascinated by him. He was analyzing a tactical heatmap on his phone when the classroom door flew open with a violent bang that made the windows rattle.
Morgking, the Vice-Captain, entered the room. His massive frame seemed to swallow the light, filling the doorway like a titan from a dark myth. The conversations in the room died instantly. All the students pointed toward the back of the class without even being asked. Morgking marched down the aisle, his heavy footsteps vibrating through the floorboards, and tapped Belt's shoulder with a hand that felt like a block of cold concrete.
Belt removed his headphones, his eyes cold and annoyed. "What is it?"
Morgking didn't blink. "From today, it's 'What is it, Mr. Vice-Captain.' Follow me."
"Where?" Belt asked, not moving an inch, his voice a flat, dangerous monotone.
"It's an official order from the hierarchy," Morgking growled, his voice a low rumble. "You're part of the First Team now. That means you don't get to argue with the veterans. Move, Number 13."
Belt felt the irritation rising in his chest like a fever. He hated obeying orders, especially those backed by nothing but physical size and a title he didn't yet respect. But he knew that creating a scene here would be counterproductive. Reluctantly, he stood up and followed the giant out of the room.
They went down to the common cafeteria, but Morgking didn't stop at the lines. He directed Belt toward a large round table in the center of the hall, a place usually avoided by the other students. The other new recruits were already there, looking like nervous soldiers in a mess hall: Snick (#8), looking around with his sharp, restless "Hyena" eyes; Nans (#4), looking pale and clutching his water bottle; and even "Number 5," the substitute rival who glared at Belt with undisguised jealousy.
Morgking sat at the head of the table, looking like a judge. "Guys, here is our latest official recruit. The Tiger himself. Number 13."
Bobby, the Number 7 with his bleached hair and perennially bored expression, waved a hand at Belt while chewing his gum. "Hi there, artist. Welcome to the lion's den. Try not to get eaten in the first week. The Captain is picky about who he shares the air with."
Nans looked at Belt with a mix of fear and curiosity. "So the rumors are true? You're playing Second Striker? I thought Coach Ninan was strictly a 4-3-3 guy. That position is almost... ancient."
Morgking shrugged, tearing into a piece of bread with aggressive hunger. "I'm not the tactician. I'm the wall. But if Rick chose that role for the kid, it means he has a plan to disrupt the league. Especially after the beating we took against the rival academy last year. We were too predictable."
Bobby burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair until it creaked. "A beating? We lost 2-0 and you cried for two weeks, Morgking! You were traumatized by their striker!"
Morgking's face turned a deep shade of red. "Shut up, Bobby! I ran fifty laps a day in the rain to atone for my tactical sins! I won't let another striker embarrass this defense!"
He regained his composure, turning his stern gaze back to the new guys. "Listen carefully. Coach Ninan wants the regional title this year. Anything less is a failure that will get us all expelled from the program. Last year, our chemistry was stagnant. That's why he recruited five of you. He wants fresh blood. He wants you to shake us up, or be crushed by us. There is no middle ground in Krow City."
Belt, who had been silent, asked calmly, "And the Captain? Where is he? I don't see him at the table of 'Kings'."
Morgking and Bobby exchanged a quick, knowing look. The humor vanished from the table.
"Bill?" Bobby said, his voice dropping an octave. "He doesn't eat with the commoners. Not even with us. He eats alone in the North Wing, near the Director's office. It's his ritual. He's always concentrating, always visualizing the next victory. He lives in a world of his own where the rest of us are just pieces on a board."
The Shock Training
At 5 PM, the atmosphere on the training field was electric. The humidity was high, and the scent of freshly cut grass was overwhelming. Coach Rick Ninan stood with his clipboard, his face a mask of severity as he took attendance.
"Okay, everyone is here... Except the starting Center Forward. Again." He let out a long, weary sigh, marking a violent cross in his notebook. "That kid is talented, but he's going to end up fired if he keeps skipping these mandatory sessions. I don't care how many goals he scores."
Belt turned to Morgking. "Who is the center forward? The Number 9?"
"A complicated guy," Morgking whispered. "A natural-born killer on the pitch, but his head is a mess. You'll see him soon enough, if he decides to grace us with his presence."
Ninan blew his whistle, the sound sharp and final. "Good. Enough talk. Today, we play a practice match. The Rookies in Whites against the Veterans in Blacks. I want to see if the new blood can actually withstand the pressure of the starters."
Belt looked across the halfway line. Facing him were the "Monsters": Morgking, looking like a literal mountain at Center Back; Bobby, the attacking midfielder who seemed to be everywhere at once; and... Bill Maël.
The Captain was sitting on a ball, lacing his shoes with a slow, deliberate precision. He exuded a terrifying aura of calm, a "Pressure" so thick it felt like the air was heavier around him. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. He was a king preparing for a minor skirmish, but his focus was absolute.
The match began.
The "Whites" started well. Snick and Nans moved the ball with a fluid, desperate energy. Belt, true to his analytical nature, remained a ghost. He didn't chase the ball. He stood in the spaces, observing the patterns, letting his "Mirror" absorb the movements of the veterans.
"13! Move your ass or I'll put you back on the bus!" Ninan yelled from the touchline.
Suddenly, Belt saw it—a micro-fracture in the veterans' defensive transition. He called for the ball from Snick and ignited. He rushed down the left wing, the ball glued to his foot. One dribble, a sharp body feint that left a junior defender on the ground. Two dribbles, a lightning-fast step-over that bypassed the second line of defense.
He was about to enter the penalty area when a shadow manifested in front of him.
Bobby.
The Number 7 was smiling, still chewing his gum, his eyes narrowed with a playful but lethal intent.
"How did he get here so fast?" Belt's mind raced. "He was in the center circle a second ago!"
Belt didn't panic. He tried a nutmeg, aiming to kick the ball through Bobby's legs. But Bobby didn't bite. He simply took a single, calculated step back, closing the angle and blocking Belt's psychological path. It wasn't just a physical block; Bobby was reading Belt's intention before the muscles even moved.
Trapped, Belt was forced to make a blind pass back to Nans, who crossed it for Snick.
GOAL. 1-0 for the Rookies.
The new guys cheered, but Belt stayed on the ground for a second, staring at Bobby.
"This guy... He didn't just defend. He anticipated my soul. He read the data before I could even output it."
The Awakening of the King
The match resumed, but the energy had changed. Bill Maël, the Captain, still hadn't touched the ball. He was merely walking on the pitch, his hands on his hips, looking like a tourist.
Suddenly, Snick recovered the ball after a failed tackle by Morgking. He launched a lightning counter-attack, seeing Belt wide open on the flank. Snick prepared his pass, his foot already swinging.
At the precise micro-second the ball left Snick's foot... Bill Maël was already there.
He didn't sprint. He didn't lung. He simply appeared in the passing lane. He had anticipated the trajectory three seconds before anyone else on the field. He intercepted the leather ball with an effortless elegance, bringing it down with a touch so soft it didn't even make a sound.
Maël didn't say a word. He didn't even look at the stunned Rookies.
With one fluid motion, he launched a millimeter-perfect, forty-meter cross pass. The ball sliced through the air like a laser beam, landing exactly in the path of Bobby's run. Bobby didn't even have to break his stride; he hit it on the volley, a screaming shot that nearly tore the net.
GOAL. 1-1.
Belt stood frozen in the center circle, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had just witnessed the terrifying gap between a "prodigy" and a "King."
Bill Maël didn't need to run because he saw the future. He didn't play the game; he composed it.
"Truly..." thought Belt, his hands trembling slightly with a mix of fear and an intoxicating, dark excitement. "I am no longer playing in the streets. I am playing against monsters. And I'm going to have to become much more than a tiger to survive this."