The digital numbers on Leo's watch glowed: 6:04.
He'd been waiting at the bus stop for over ten minutes. The 6 o'clock bus was a ghost. If he kept waiting, he'd be late.
He could feel the phantom weight of Coach Arkady's icy stare already on his neck.
"6:30. Prompt."
The memory of that calm, final sentence decided it. Waiting was a luxury for people who could afford failure.
Leo broke into a jog, the straps of his backpack slapping against him.
The morning air was cool, but his body ignited almost instantly. He loosened the top button of his t-shirt shirt, gasping.
The G.O.A.L. System, ever-present, painted a prediction across his vision.
[CURRENT PACE ANALYSIS: ETA 6:35. SIGNIFICANT DELAY.]
No. He pushed harder, legs burning. The system recalculated. [ETA: 6:27. ACCEPTABLE.]`
He wanted to push more, to sprint, but a cooler part of his mind—the part that had studied Arkady—held him back.
[ADVISORY: CONSERVE ENERGY. UNPREDICTABLE DRILLS ANTICIPATED.]`
He took a sharp turn onto a quieter street, checking his watch again. 6:14 Only ten minutes of running, and a slick of sweat already coated his back. But he couldn't stop.
A flash of movement in his peripheral vision. On the other side of the wide, tree-lined sidewalk, a figure ran with effortless, predatory grace.
Blond hair, a focused expression, wireless earbuds sealing him in a private world.
King.
Leo's competitive instinct flared before he could stop it. He ignored the system's advisory and increased his pace.
King, as if sensing the challenge through some sixth sense, glanced at his own wrist, and also accelerated. It was a silent, brutal acknowledgement.
Then King stopped, bending to tighten the straps of his sleek running shoes.
Leo ducked behind a group of early-morning construction workers, using them as a screen. He watched, chest heaving.
King finished his adjustment, stood, and exploded into a full sprint. It wasn't just fast; it was a declaration of dominance, every muscle coiling and releasing with terrifying efficiency.
Leo didn't think. He just reacted, bursting from his cover and pouring every ounce of his own strength into a desperate chase on the opposite sidewalk.
The memory of Max yanking him on the track burned in his mind. Too slow.
He pushed, his leg muscles screaming in protest, the world narrowing to the back of King's jersey. They were a hundred meters from the school gates.
Fifty.
Leo's body betrayed him. His lead foot caught on a slight uplift in the pavement. His momentum, already at its limit, became his enemy.
He buckled, his knee scraping asphalt, his glasses flying from his face to skitter across the concrete. He threw out his hands, stopping his face from impact, but the wind was knocked from his lungs.
He lay there for a second, stunned, the world a blurry, spinning mess. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled violently, refusing to bear his weight.
"Grit Protocol. Activate!" he screamed internally.
The system was silent. No cool numbness, no override. Just the raw, humiliating pain of his scrape and the crushing fatigue.
[WARNING: BIOMETRIC STRESS LEVELS CRITICAL. 'GRIT PROTOCOL' ON COOLDOWN (23:14:07 REMAINING). MANUAL OVERRIDE IMPOSSIBLE.]
He lifted his head in time to see King glide through the school's wrought-iron gates without a backward glance.
King didn't even look tired. He simply removed his earbuds and placed them in the case, pittowed it in his bag, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, and dabbed at his neck and forehead.
Then he slung his bag back on and disappeared towards the field, pristine and composed.
Leo let his head drop back to the concrete, the fight gone out of him.
"Not a great way to start the day, man."
A hand appeared in his blurred vision. Leo looked up. Kevin stood over him, a sympathetic smile on his face. He helped haul Leo to his feet.
"Thanks," Leo grunted, dusting gravel from his palms and knees. He retrieved his glasses, checking for cracks (miraculously, none), and began buttoning his t-shirt with fumbling fingers as they walked the final distance.
Kevin's eyes stayed forward, his voice low. "You're really something, man. Hardly anyone from the 11th grade got in. Five classes combined and only you, Max and few others got in."
"I got lucky, I guess," Leo mumbled, the words tasting like a lie.
Kevin clapped him on the shoulder as they neared the field entrance. "Good luck in there, man."
The field was quiet in the predawn gloom. Leo used the sharp clarity of his restored glasses to count. Twenty-five. They were five short already. He checked his watch as he gulped water from his bottle.
6:20.
His breath caught. In his manic race against King, he'd covered the distance in sixteen minutes. A personal, punishing world record.
Boots clicked on concrete behind him. Coach Arkady strode onto the field, his presence sucking the quiet murmurs from the air.
He had barely taken his position in the center circle when five figures, panting and red-faced, rushed in from the locker room tunnel.
"Coach! Sorry, the bus—" one began.
Arkady turned to them, his expression one of mild, genuine puzzlement. "Oh. I said 6:30?" He tapped his temple. "My mistake. I meant 6:20. Sorry."
The latecomers sagged with relief. "It's fine, Coach! No problem!" They moved, wanting to join the group.
Arkady's arm shot out, a bar of iron blocking their path. "Where are you going?"
Confusion. "To… join the others?"
"The exit," Arkady said, his voice chillingly pleasant, "is that way." He pointed with his chin towards the gate Leo had collapsed outside of.
One of the late boys, a broad-shouldered senior, flushed red. He pushed Arkady's arm aside. "Stick to the time you called, man. It's 6:22."
What happened next was too fast to fully process. Arkady's hand blurred. He caught the boy's wrist, twisted it inward and up in a single, fluid motion, using the boy's own momentum to lock his arm against his own throat in a controlled chokehold.
Arkady didn't squeeze. He just held him there, immobilized and humiliated.
He scanned the other four latecomers, his pale eyes calm. "Who else has a problem?"
They took a step back, then another.
Arkady released the hold. The senior stumbled, rubbing his neck, his face a storm of fury and shock. He glared at Arkady, then at the watching team.
"Wasn't interested in this stupid game anyway," he spat, and turned on his heel. His four companions, defeated, followed him out.
A new, deeper silence settled over the twenty-five. It wasn't just fear of failure now; it was the understanding that the rules here were written in something harder than ink.
Arkady turned back to the remaining twenty-five. "You're still too many," he stated, as if commenting on the weather. "I need four strikers. Four midfielders. Five defenders. One sub for each line." He let the numbers hang. "Thirteen."
Leo did the math instantly. Thirteen out of twenty-five. Four of the guys sent away were strikers. That left… eleven strikers here, competing for four spots. His stomach turned to lead.
The assistant coach scurried over, whispered urgently in Arkady's ear.
A flicker of something—not quite annoyance, but the sharp irritation of a master planner presented with a last-minute variable—crossed Arkady's stone face. He gave a single, curt nod, as if accepting a tactical setback.
A minute later, a new presence dominated the entrance.
He was a bull of a young man, already wearing a goalkeeper jersey stretched over a frame of dense, firm muscle.
He was dark, tall, handsome in a rugged way, and moved with the casual arrogance of a returning king.
A few of the senior players broke into grins, slapping his palm. "Yo, Miller! What's up, man?"
"Frank," the newcomer—Miller—said, his voice a low rumble. He smirked. "Uni's killing me, bruh. This is a good breather. Principal tells me none of y'all have the balls to catch a ball no more."
The seniors laughed, a brittle, eager sound. "Ain't no one do it like you do!"
Miller's smile widened. "You better know it." His eyes, pale and assessing, swept over the huddle of younger, leaner players. His smirk faded into a look of pure disdain.
He shook his head slowly. "This sorry group is going into the competition? Y'all already lost." He clucked his tongue. "Why didn't they bring this shit when we were in charge?"
One of his sycophants nodded vigorously. "For real. Jimbo would've torn the nets."
"Jimbo," Miller chuckled, the sound devoid of real warmth. "Yeah. That dude did nothing but tear nets. Failed every subject but math. Still got a gold medal though."
They all laughed, a closed circle of nostalgia and superiority.
From the other side of the group, a voice cut through the laughter, cool and clear.
"Coming from the guy who couldn't keep when it mattered most."
Silence, absolute and instant, fell over the field.
All heads turned. King Vance stood apart, arms crossed, staring at Miller.
Miller's jovial mask evaporated. His gaze locked onto King. "Watch yourself, Vance."
King didn't move. "It's the truth. Last year against Williams High. You conceded more goals than I could score."
Miller took a step forward, the seniors parting for him. "And I saved the three penalty shots in that shootout. How about the free kick you missed?"
King took a matching step forward. The space between them crackled. "It was windy, idiot."
Leo watched, mesmerized. He hadn't seen that final. He'd been buried in textbooks for a 10th-grade exam. This was history—the bitter, unresolved rivalry of Apex's former gods, now playing out in front of the new aspirants.
Through his lenses, Leo saw more than anger. King's stance was balanced, ready to pivot—a midfielder's posture. Miller planted his feet wide, a keeper's immovable base.
The system flickered, trying to assign threat levels.
[SUBJECT: MILLER. PRIMARY THREAT: AERIAL DOMINANCE, PSYCHOLOGICAL INTIMIDATION.] [SUBJECT: KING. PRIMARY THREAT: TECHNICAL PRECISION, TACTICAL VINDICTIVENESS.]
"Is there a problem?"
Coach Arkady stood at the edge of the field. He'd returned silently.
Miller turned, his posture shifting to one of aggrieved authority. "Look, Coach. If I'm gonna be on this team, I will get the respect I deserve."
Arkady smiled. It was a thin, diplomatic stretching of lips that didn't touch his eyes. "Of course." He gave a slight, agreeable nod. "Where is the other one?"
"He's flying in tomorrow," Miller said, his chest puffing slightly.
"Good," Arkady said. Then he clapped his hands once, the sound like a gunshot in the tense air. His eyes swept over the twenty-five survivors, over King and Miller, over Leo hiding in the middle.
"Let's begin."