CHAPTER 1 — THIRD DIVISION
FIRST HALF
The stadium rose.
It wasn't applause.
It was a wave.
More than one hundred thousand people on their feet at the same time, black flags whipping through the air as if it were on fire, massive banners cascading from the upper stands with the symbol of the Executioners painted in red. Floodlights washed the field in harsh white light, and the noise was so intense it vibrated inside the chest.
—EXE-CU-TIO-NERS!
—EXE-CU-TIO-NERS!
—EXE-CU-TIO-NERS!
The name thundered like a war chant.
Erasers were already down 1–0, but no one talked about a comeback. The crowd wasn't there to watch a match. They were there to watch something break.
The ball rolled again, and immediately the stadium roared louder.
—The Executioners on the attack again! —the lead commentator shouted, barely breathing—. Look at them advance—this is an avalanche!
Three black-clad players crossed midfield as if no opposition existed.
They were enormous.
Tall, wide, unnaturally muscular. Massive thighs stretching their uniforms, thick arms swinging with each stride, broad backs blocking the view. They all wore the same haircut: shaved sides, a rigid dark stripe down the center, identical. A black line of paint slashed across each face, from cheek to jaw, like a mark of belonging.
The Executioners' uniforms were absolute black, matte, with red numbers that looked freshly stained. They absorbed the light. They absorbed attention.
—Look at them! —the second commentator yelled—. This isn't speed—this is pure power! Erasers have nothing to compare to this!
On the other side, the gray defenders backed away.
They weren't children.
But against that, they looked small.
Their gray jerseys were soaked with sweat, clinging to their bodies. Eyes too wide. Jaws clenched. One raised an arm to organize something no one would follow. The other stared forward and realized, far too late, that he wouldn't make it.
The central Executioner carried the ball. He wasn't rushing. He advanced calmly, the ball glued to his foot, head up, as if he already knew exactly how this would end.
—They're approaching the penalty area! —the narrator shouted—. They're approaching the box and Erasers are retreating!
The stadium leaned forward.
—Now! Now! —someone screamed from the stands.
The two defenders lunged at the same time. It wasn't a clean tackle. It was fear turned into motion. They slammed into the forward, trying to stop him, drop him, break his rhythm.
They failed.
The forward twisted his torso and slipped the pass to the left. A short, fast touch. The ball changed feet in a blink.
—Ball to the left! —the commentator roared—. WATCH OUT!
The third Executioner was already entering the box, unmarked, leg raised. The stadium exploded before impact.
—GOOOOAL!
—GOOOOAL!
—GOOOOOAL FOR THE EXECUTIONERS!
But the shot wasn't aimed at the goal.
The player who had started the play lifted his leg and delivered a brutal kick to the back of the defender's neck as he tried to close the space. It wasn't accidental. It was direct. Precise. Final.
The sound was dry. Hollow. Wrong.
The body hit the ground as if something inside had been switched off.
The ball rolled a few more meters before stopping.
The stadium erupted into a savage ovation.
—AND THE EXECUTIONERS KEEP DEMOLISHING ERASERS! —the commentator screamed, unhinged—. THEY'RE ERASING THEM! ERASE THEM! ERASE THEM!
The referee pointed to the center circle.
2–0.
No one ran to help.
No one approached the body.
The flags kept waving.
The crowd kept screaming.
The three Executioners looked at each other. No celebration. No high-fives. Just a brief, satisfied glance—like workers who had completed a simple task.
On the bench, Double Zero felt his stomach tighten.
This wasn't a game.
And the first half wasn't over yet.
The noise was still there when the ball returned to the center.
Double Zero couldn't stop staring at the body near the box. They had dragged it only a few meters—just enough so it wouldn't be in the way. The gray jersey was twisted, the neck bent at an impossible angle. No one covered him. No one closed his eyes.
Two goals. Two dead.
The stadium was still full.
Always full.
Even though this was third division.
Not first.
Not second.
The lowest tiers. Teams that didn't matter. Players without names. And yet the stands were packed—over one hundred thousand people pressed together, flags waving, beer spilling, shouting, laughter.
They didn't come for football.
They came for this.
Many of Erasers' players were convicts. Life sentences. Delayed death penalties. People with nothing left to lose but their bodies. WARFOOT was the only reason they were still breathing. The only chance—tiny, almost ridiculous—that one day they might be released… or at least not executed on the field.
The coach was a convict too.
A lean man with a scarred face and tired eyes, standing in front of the bench with his arms crossed. No shouting. No promises. He knew there were no speeches that could fix this.
Double Zero felt his hands shaking.
He couldn't stop watching the Executioners.
They didn't look human.
Not like them.
They were bigger. Wider. Taller. They moved with insulting confidence. One of them—the captain—walked across midfield with his chest out, black paint cutting across his face. The red number glowed on his back.
KRAEL.
The name was readable even from the bench.
—That's the problem —the coach muttered, without looking at him—. That bastard doesn't play. He executes.
Double Zero swallowed.
—I… I won't be able to —he whispered—. That's not playing. That's a slaughter. They're not human. They're monsters.
The coach turned his head slightly and looked at him for the first time.
—No one can —he said—. That's why you're here.
The whistle blew, loud and sharp.
End of the first half.
The stadium responded with a mix of applause and boos. Not because the match was bad—but because they wanted more. They wanted blood. They wanted the second act.
Erasers' players walked toward the tunnel with their heads down. One limped. Another bled from the brow. The space left by the dead man was still there— invisible, but present.
In the booth, the commentators didn't stop.
—What a first half, ladies and gentlemen! —the lead announcer shouted—. Two goals, two confirmed fatalities, and total dominance by the Executioners!
—That's right —the other replied—. Krael is playing this like a training session. The captain. The symbol. The man who's sent more players to the hospital… and the morgue.
Cameras cut to the Executioners' goalkeeper: MORTH, enormous, motionless, leaning against the post as if nothing had happened. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
—Erasers haven't come close even once —the announcer continued—. And remember, this is third division—yet the stadiums stay full. Because here, every match could be the last.
The players entered the locker room.
The coach slammed the door shut.
—Listen —he said—. I'm not going to lie to you. The next one going in is Double Zero.
No one protested. No one looked at him.
—Warm up —the coach said—. Because when you step out there, they're coming for you.
Double Zero stood up. His legs trembled.
Outside, the stadium roared again.
—And don't go anywhere —the commentator announced—. An incredible first half: two goals, two deaths, total domination by the Executioners.
A pause.
—Thank you for watching this broadcast of WARFOOT…
The camera swept the stands, the flags, the expectant faces.
—The Game of Death.
CUT.