The sound that split the silence wasn't a whistle. It was a shriek of air, a blade of pure, commanding noise that felt like it could peel paint from the walls.
Leo flinched, his hands flying to his ears. He looked up, half-terrified. Coach Arkady stood in the center circle, his lips barely parted. That came from his mouth?
"Defenders," Arkady said, the word smooth and low after the auditory violence. He didn't wait. He turned and strode off the field towards a side door that led to the school's interior training complex. "Follow."
A wave of movement. Of the hundred hopefuls, about twenty—the broad-shouldered, the tough-looking—broke from the herd and shuffled after him, a line of condemned men. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind the last of them.
The echo died, leaving a vacuum of silence on the sun-drenched field.
For a full minute, no one moved. Then, a few boys sat down on the grass, their legs suddenly weak. Leo joined them, the coolness of the turf seeping through his shorts.
The tension was a live wire strung between them all.
He took off his father's glasses, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. He was slick with sweat. Nothing had happened. He hadn't moved a muscle. And yet he was drenched.
A soft, incredulous chuckle escaped him. This was fear. Pure, undiluted.
CRACK.
The silence was torn apart by a different sound—the clean, powerful strike of a football. Leo's head snapped up.
On the far side of the field, King was lining up another shot at an empty goal. He took two steps and lashed the ball.
It didn't just fly; it curved, whipping through the air with a spin so fierce it seemed to bend light, before slamming into the top corner with a sound like a gunshot.
A shot no keeper Leo had ever seen could hope to touch.
Someone retrieved it and passed back. King trapped it dead, his expression one of bored concentration. He was about to shoot again.
CLANG.
The metal door swung open.
Coach Arkady walked back onto the field. Behind him, a file of defenders followed. Of the twenty who had left, only about eight returned.
They moved differently—shoulders slumped, chests heaving, their kits dark with sweat. One boy had a grass stain smeared across his cheek like a war paint of failure.
Every boy on the field shot to his feet. Leo scrambled up. King nonchalantly toed his ball back to the touchline.
The eight survivors rejoined the main group, collapsing onto the grass without a word.
Murmurs, ragged and shell-shocked, reached Leo's ears. "This guy's crazy…" "…just kept shouting 'Faster! You're already dead!'" "...made us tackle a moving sled… by ourselves…"
A cold finger traced Leo's spine. This wasn't a tryout. It was a filtration system. Arkady was separating components by sheer, brutal stress.
"Midfielders," Arkady called out, a slight grimace on his face.
King and a larger group—thirty or so—detached themselves and followed the coach out the same door. It shut again, quieter this time.
The silence returned, heavier now. All eyes were on the eight defenders, who sat like statues of exhaustion, too tired to even look afraid.
Leo's own fear began to curdle in his stomach. The waiting was a torture all its own.
He lost track of time. The field covers protected them from the scotching sun, but he still felt the heat. Someone nearby whispered, "It's been twenty-five minutes."
CLANG.
The door opened again.
Fewer people came back.
Leo's heart hammered against his ribs. His eyes scanned the returning faces, pale and drained. He didn't realize he was looking for one in particular until he didn't see it.
"King isn't there."
Had he… failed? The idea was unthinkable.
Then, a figure appeared in the doorway, moving with a loose, tired grace that was still unmistakable.
King Vance walked in, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, a faint, satisfied smirk on his lips. He'd survived. Leo let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Coach Arkady stepped past him, his pale eyes sweeping over the diminished crowd. He didn't acknowledge the missing. He simply said, "Strikers."
Leo's stomach dropped. He stepped forward. So did Max, his usual grin replaced by a tight line of concentration. To Leo's shock, nearly everyone else still on the field stepped forward too—forty, maybe fifty boys. In their fear, they'd all decided the glory position was their best shot.
"Follow."
Arkady led them not back into the school, but around it, to the dilapidated running track.
The school had no interest in track, but a 100-meter straight with four lanes was painted on the cracked asphalt.
"Line up at the start," Arkady commanded, walking the hundred meters to the finish. He turned, a small stopwatch in his hand. "Speed is a weapon for a striker. A blunt one, but a weapon. You have sixteen seconds to reach me. First four. Go."
He didn't use his mouth-whistle. He just said "Go."
Four guys lunged forward. They crossed the line in a ragged cluster, well under the time. Arkady said nothing. "Next."
Four more succeeded.
The third group ran. As they crossed, Arkady's finger stabbed out, pointing at one boy panting at the back. "You. Go home."
The boy blinked. "But Coach, I made it! The watch—"
Arkady simply looked up from the stopwatch. He didn't glare. He just looked. The boy's protest died in his throat. He stared, his face crumbling from confusion to humiliation, then to anger. He turned and stalked away, his cleats loud on the quiet asphalt.
"Next."
This time, Arkady sent two home.
Something clicked in Leo's mind. A pattern. He subtly put on his father's glasses.
[ANALYZING COACH ARKADY'S TIMING PROTOCOL.]
[OBSERVATION: ELIMINATION THRESHOLD DECREASING BY APPROXIMATELY 1.0 SECOND PER ROUND.]
[CURRENT SAFE THRESHOLD: ~12 SECONDS.]
[WARNING: COACH'S PARAMETERS MAY BE PSYCHOLOGICAL, NOT CHRONOMETRIC.]
He was tightening the noose, round by round. Waiting was suicide.
"Next!" Arkady called.
Leo didn't hesitate. He shoved forward into the next group of four. Max, catching on with animal instinct, shoved in beside him.
Arkady's eyes flicked to them. "Go."
Leo exploded forward. The system in his glasses became a metronome, a countdown in his peripheral vision. [14…13…12…]
He pumped his arms, his Jaguar boots gripping the asphalt. The designed for grass, squealed in protest on the asphalt, a sound of expensive betrayal with every stride.
Max was a half-step ahead, a engine of pure hustle.
As they hit the final ten meters, Leo's lungs were fire. Max, seeing him flag, didn't just run. He reached back, grabbed a fistful of Leo's jersey at the shoulder, and yanked.
It was illegal. It was desperate. It was brilliant.
Propelled by the pull, Leo stumbled forward half a step. Max let go, and they crossed the line together in a tangled, gasping heap.
Arkady's thumb was poised over the stopwatch. His icy gaze held on them for a moment that stretched into eternity. He saw the tug. He had to have seen it.
He said nothing. He merely pointed to the two other boys in their heat, who had crossed a fraction later. "You two. Out."
As the eliminated boys trudged away, Leo caught Max's eye. He mouthed, "Thank you."
Max, still fighting for air, gave a wobbly thumbs-up.
The culling continued. Round after round. The required time grew impossibly short. Boys were sent home in droves, their dreams ending with a pointed finger and a silent walk off the track. The group of strikers dwindled from fifty, to thirty, to twenty.
Finally, only fifteen remained, standing on trembling legs on the finish line. Arkady surveyed them, his expression unreadable. "Back to the field."
They followed, a battered, shell-shocked platoon.
Back on the main pitch, under the fading afternoon light, Arkady called out, "Goalkeepers."
Only seven boys stepped forward, looking pale.
Arkady's gaze found King, who was leaning against a goalpost, looking pleasantly spent. "Vance. Penalties. Against each of them. Whoever saves his, makes the team."
A smile bloomed on King's face—not joyful, but devious, anticipatory. He picked up a ball and walked to the penalty spot.
It wasn't a contest. It was an exhibition.
King's penalties were works of cruel art. Not just powerful, but placed with sniper precision—high to the left, low to the right, down the middle with a stutter-step that froze the keeper.
He took them quickly, rhythmically, a machine of flawless execution.
One by one, the keepers dove. One by one, they picked the ball out of their net.
The seventh and final keeper launched himself, getting a fingertips to a blistering shot. It kissed the crossbar, PINGED down, bounced on the line, and spun in. A millimeter from glory, an eternity from success.
The keeper fell to his butt in the goalmouth, not in despair, but with a dazed, exhilarated smile, as if grateful just to have been close.
King walked away, not even breathing heavily, his point made.
For the first time all afternoon, Coach Arkady smiled. It was a small, sharp thing, like a crack in ice. "You may leave," he said to the seven keepers. They left, shoulders slumped but strangely proud.
The assistant coach with the clipboard moved through the exhausted survivors, collecting names and assigning numbers.
When he reached Leo, he held out the board. Leo took the pen. His hand shook. He wrote his name on the list. Next to it was the number #30.
Number thirty? Compared to how many walked in, just a few of them passed the coach's tests for now.
He was in. But the shock of it was hollow. Arkady had just eliminated over half of them in under two hours.
No drills, no tactics, no small-sided games. Just pure, unadulterated pressure testing. It was the opposite of his father's meticulous, nurturing style.
This was Darwinism with a stopwatch and a penalty spot.
The assistant handed the clipboard to Arkady. The coach glanced at it, gave a single, curt nod, and addressed the thirty survivors.
"See you tomorrow," he said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "6:30. Prompt."
He turned and walked off the field, leaving them standing in the twilight—thirty boys, panting, shocked, and forever changed.
The slaughterhouse had claimed its first batch. The real work was about to begin.