The Badge Ceremony
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. The players began to stand, gathering their trays and heading toward the exit. But Maël held up his hand, stopping the three newest recruits in their tracks.
"Number 5. Number 8. Number 13," Maël called out, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "You three, follow me. We have one more formality to take care of before you're officially part of this team."
Belt exchanged a quick glance with the other two recruits. Number 5—Evans Kane, the substitute striker with the perpetual scowl and burning hatred in his eyes—looked annoyed but obedient. Number 8, a quiet boy named Luis Vern with nervous energy radiating from every movement, simply nodded and fell into line.
Belt followed behind them, his mind still processing everything that had happened in the cafeteria. The story of Vincent. The handshake with Maël. The weight of expectations now pressing down on his shoulders like an invisible mountain.
They walked through the long, sterile corridors of the academy's administrative wing. The polished marble floors reflected the overhead lights, making the hallway feel like a tunnel leading to an unknown destination. The walls were decorated with framed photos of past champions, their faces frozen in moments of glory. Belt noticed that one frame was conspicuously empty, its glass surface covered with a black cloth.
Vincent's photo, Belt realized. They erased him.
The thought sent a cold surge of anger through his veins, but he kept his face blank. Showing emotion was a weakness. The world didn't care about your feelings—it only cared about what you could do.
Maël stopped in front of a heavy oak door. A golden plaque on the wall read:
BENITE BAM - DIRECTOR OF SPORTS PROGRAMS
The Captain raised his fist and knocked three times. The sound echoed through the hallway like the beats of a war drum.
"Enter," came a voice from inside. It was smooth, professional, and completely devoid of warmth.
Maël pushed open the door and stepped inside. The three recruits followed.
The office was a temple of wealth and power. Everything screamed luxury: the mahogany desk that looked like it cost more than a car, the leather chairs that were probably imported from Italy, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with awards and trophies. The walls were covered with framed certificates and photos of Benite Bam shaking hands with politicians, businessmen, and celebrities.
Behind the desk sat the man himself.
Benite Bam was in his late fifties, with silver hair slicked back perfectly and a face that looked like it had been carved from stone by an artist who specialized in depicting arrogance. He wore an expensive navy suit, a gold watch that glinted under the office lights, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He looked more like a Wall Street executive than a sports director.
When Belt saw him, something cold and violent stirred in his chest.
This is the man who sold Vincent. This is the man who chose money over honor.
"Ah, Captain Maël," Bam said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Right on time. I see you've brought our new additions."
"Yes, Director," Maël replied, his tone neutral but his posture stiff. Belt could see the tension in the Captain's shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. "They're here to receive their official player badges."
Bam nodded slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the three boys like a predator evaluating prey. His gaze lingered on Belt for a moment longer than necessary, and Belt felt his skin crawl.
"Very good," Bam said, gesturing toward the door with a dismissive wave. "Captain, you may leave. I'll handle the rest from here."
Maël hesitated for a fraction of a second—so brief that most people wouldn't have noticed. But Belt saw it. The Captain's hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was clear that being in this room, in the presence of this man, made Maël's blood boil with barely contained rage.
But he didn't argue. He just nodded stiffly.
"Understood, Director."
Maël turned and walked out of the office without looking back. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, leaving the three recruits alone with the man who had destroyed a legend.
Benite Bam leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together like a movie villain planning his next scheme. He studied the three boys with the cold, analytical gaze of a businessman evaluating investments.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice smooth as silk, "welcome to the elite. You have survived the trials. You have earned your place in this academy. But understand this: a badge is not a guarantee. It is a responsibility. You represent Krow City now. Your actions, your words, your failures—they all reflect on this institution."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in like stones dropping into a dark lake.
"Now, let's make this official. We'll go in order by your assigned numbers. Number 5, you're up first."
Evans Kane stepped forward, his expression hard and defiant, like a wolf refusing to bow to a larger predator. Bam gestured for him to sit in the chair across from the desk. The boy sat down, his posture aggressive, every muscle in his body radiating hostility.
Bam opened a drawer and pulled out a sleek black folder. He flipped it open and scanned the contents with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this hundreds of times.
"Number 5," Bam said, his tone businesslike. "Real name: Evans Kane. Age seventeen. Position: Substitute Striker. Physical stats: above average. Technical skills: decent. Mental evaluation: highly competitive, prone to aggression, potential disciplinary issues."
He looked up from the file, his eyes locking onto Evans like a laser targeting system.
"Tell me, Kane. Why do you want to be on this team?"
Evans didn't hesitate. His voice was sharp, cutting. "To prove I'm the best."
Bam's lips curled into a faint smile that somehow managed to be both approving and condescending at the same time. "Confidence. I like that. But confidence without discipline is just arrogance. Can you follow orders?"
"If they're worth following," Evans replied, his voice dripping with defiance.
Bam's smile didn't waver, but his eyes turned cold, like ice forming over a lake in winter. "Wrong answer. In this academy, you follow orders. Period. No exceptions. No debates. Do you understand?"
Evans clenched his jaw so hard that Belt could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. But he nodded. "Yes, Director."
"Good."
Bam slid a document across the desk—a single sheet of paper with dense legal text and a dotted line at the bottom.
"Sign this. It's your official player contract. By signing, you agree to abide by all academy rules, attend all mandatory training sessions, and represent Krow City with honor. In return, you receive your badge and a monthly stipend of five hundred euros."
Evans grabbed a pen from the desk and scribbled his signature without reading the document. Bam reached into another drawer and pulled out a small metallic badge—a rectangular piece of polished silver engraved with the Krow City crest and the number 5.
He slid it across the desk like he was dealing cards in a poker game.
"Welcome to the team, Number 5. You're dismissed."
Evans grabbed the badge, stood up without a word, and walked out of the office. The door closed behind him with a sharp click that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Number 8," Bam called, his voice cutting through the silence. "You're next."
Luis Vern stepped forward nervously, his hands trembling slightly like leaves in a gentle breeze. He sat down in the chair, looking small and vulnerable in the massive leather seat.
Bam opened another file.
"Number 8. Real name: Luis Vern. Age sixteen. Position: Defensive Midfielder. Physical stats: average. Technical skills: above average. Mental evaluation: intelligent, strategic, but lacks confidence and assertiveness."
Bam looked up, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp, calculating.
"Tell me, Vern. What do you bring to this team that the others don't?"
Luis hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I read the game well. I can predict what the opponent will do before they do it. I see patterns that others miss."
"Tactical intelligence," Bam said, nodding slowly. "That's valuable. Very valuable. But intelligence means nothing if you can't execute under pressure. Can you handle the weight of this position? Can you make split-second decisions when fifty thousand people are screaming and the championship is on the line?"
"I'll do my best, sir," Luis replied, his voice gaining a bit more strength.
Bam slid the contract across the desk. "Sign."
Luis read the document carefully, his eyes scanning every line, before finally signing with a shaky hand. Bam handed him his badge—the number 8 gleaming under the office lights like a promise or a threat, depending on how you looked at it.
"Welcome to the team, Number 8. You're dismissed."
Luis stood up, clutching his badge like it was made of gold or fragile glass, and walked out of the office with quick, nervous steps.
Now it was just Belt and Benite Bam.
The Director leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying Belt with a mixture of curiosity and something else. Amusement? Contempt? It was hard to tell. But Belt could feel the man's gaze like a physical weight pressing down on him, trying to find cracks in his armor.
"Number 13," Bam said slowly, almost savoring each syllable like fine wine. "The infamous Tiger. The boy who caused quite a stir during the trials. The one who stole the ball from his own teammate and then had the audacity to defend it to the press."
He opened Belt's file, and for a moment, there was silence as he read. Then he looked up, his expression unreadable, a perfect mask of professional neutrality.
"Real name: Belt Konp. Age seventeen. Position: Second Striker. Physical stats: slightly below average. Technical skills: exceptional. Mental evaluation: highly intelligent, extremely independent, potentially... problematic."
Bam closed the file and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his fingers forming a steeple.
"Tell me, Konp. Do you know why you're here?"
Belt met his gaze without flinching, without blinking. "Because I earned it."
Bam's lips curled into a thin smile that looked more like a sneer. "Earned it. Interesting choice of words."
He paused, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, like a rubber band being pulled to its breaking point.
"Let me be completely honest with you, Konp. Brutally honest. You weren't my first choice for this position. In fact, you weren't even my second choice. Hell, you weren't even in my top five. You're here because our Number 9—a player far more talented, far more reliable, far more deserving, and far more team-oriented than you—suffered an unfortunate injury during the final week of trials. A torn ACL. Career-altering. You're a replacement. A backup plan. A temporary solution until we find someone better. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut, like ice water being dumped over his head.
Belt felt a surge of rage explode in his chest—a hot, violent fury that made his vision blur at the edges and his hands shake with the effort of keeping them still. Every fiber of his being wanted to stand up, slam his fists on that expensive mahogany desk, and scream at this smug, corrupt bastard who had sold Vincent Stringler for half a million euros like he was trading stocks.
But then, like a flash of lightning cutting through the storm, he heard Maël's voice in his head.
"Vincent was alone when the system betrayed him. He had no one strong enough to stand beside him."
And another voice—his own, from earlier in the cafeteria.
"If it hadn't worked, I would have borne the burden of that failure alone. I took the risk, and I delivered the result."
Belt forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. He unclenched his fists, feeling his nails digging out of his palms where they had left little crescent moon marks. He pushed the rage down, burying it deep beneath the surface where it couldn't control him, where it couldn't give this man the satisfaction he was clearly seeking.
Because that's what Bam wanted. He wanted Belt to lose control. He wanted an excuse to dismiss him, to prove that he was "problematic," to justify replacing him with someone more obedient.
But Belt wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
He looked Bam straight in the eyes, his voice cold and calm as a frozen lake.
"I understand perfectly, Director. I'm here to fill a gap. But gaps can become permanent positions if the replacement proves to be better than the original. And I always prove myself."
Bam's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, like a glitch in a computer program. Then it returned, wider than before, showing too many teeth.
"Confidence. Just like Number 5. We'll see if you can back it up on the field."
He slid the contract across the desk.
"Sign."
Belt picked up the pen. For a moment, he hesitated, staring down at the dotted line. This wasn't just a contract. It was a pact with the devil. By signing this, he was agreeing to play in a system built on corruption, greed, and betrayal. A system that had chewed up Vincent Stringler and spit him out like garbage.
But he also knew that the only way to destroy a corrupt system was to infiltrate it first. To become so good, so indispensable, so absolutely necessary that they couldn't get rid of you even if they wanted to.
Vincent tried to fight from the outside, Belt thought. And they crushed him. But if I fight from the inside... if I become untouchable... then they can't touch me.
He signed his name in sharp, angular letters that looked almost aggressive on the page.