The final, alien shriek of Arkady's whistle hung in the air, then dissolved into the ringing silence of a stunned field.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, like a dam breaking, the Chaos Committee erupted.
They didn't cheer. They surged. A blue-and-white wave crashing towards the center of the pitch where Perez lay, still wheezing, a hero sprawled on the grass.
Frank reached him first, hauling the midfielder into a sitting position with a grunt that was half laugh, half sob.
"You madman!" Frank roared, shaking Perez by the shoulders. "You threw your ribs at a cruise missile!"
Water bottles were thrust into Perez's hands. Backs were slapped. A tangled, sweating, laughing huddle formed around him—a band of brothers forged in the fire of King's disdain.
They had been told they were leftovers. They had just held the sun to a draw.
Across the field, isolated in his own personal winter, King Vance sat on the turf, not on the bench. He'd simply sunk down where he stood, elbows on his knees, staring at the spot where Perez had fallen.
His expression wasn't one of fatigue, but of a deep, systems-level recalibration. His mind replayed the final millisecond on a loop: the perfect arc of his shot, the geometry of victory, and then the sudden, baffling intrusion of a human chest.
Thump. Not boom.
His foot had connected with failure, not a football. The pristine equation of his game had a new, infuriating variable: sacrifice. And it made no sense to him.
"Who the hell jumps in front of a boot?"
Coach Arkady stepped forward from the sideline, his approach so quiet the celebration didn't immediately die. It just… cooled.
One by one, the Chaos Committee turned, their grins fading into wary respect. They assembled before him, most gulping water, chests still heaving.
Leo, wiping his face with his jersey, did a quick headcount. His breath hitched. The five strikers who had been subbed out at his command were gone.
Not just off the field, but vanished. No lingering on the sidelines, no dejected huddle by the gate.
When did they leave? The cold truth seeped in. Arkady sent them off. For good.
The slaughterhouse had claimed five more while they weren't looking. The victory felt suddenly fragile.
Arkady's pale eyes swept over them, resting briefly on King, still sitting apart, then on Leo, then on Perez being helped to his feet.
A slow, remarkable thing happened. The granite planes of Arkady's face softened, not into a smile, but into something more unsettling: genuine, appreciative amusement.
He cleared his throat, a sound like stones grinding. "In twenty-four years of coaching," he began, his voice that same controlled baritone, "there have been very few times I have been truly... entertained."
The field was so quiet they could hear the flag snapping on the far pole.
"What I just witnessed," Arkady continued, "was not technically perfect football. It was better. It was a fight." His gaze landed on Leo. "Reed. That second goal. The scissor-kick. Statistically, it was idiocy. Aesthetically? It was pure, unadulterated genius. The kind of chaos that wins cups."
He shifted his stare to King, who finally looked up, his grey eyes meeting Arkady's ice-blue. "Vance. Your volley. The cartwheel. Most players see a ball falling. You saw a differential equation and solved it in mid-air. That is a weapon I cannot teach."
His gaze lingered on Leo, then King, as if measuring the distance and the tension crackling between them. He gave a small, internal nod, as if a hypothesis had been confirmed
Frank tapped Leo on the back, a solid, proud thump. They shared a fleeting, incredulous smile. King's face, however, remained carved from stone, absorbing the praise as if it were an accusation.
"For the rest of this week," Arkady announced, his tone shifting back to business, "you will train. I will be monitoring. Every pass, every run, every moment of focus or lapse. Next week, the real work begins. The best among you,"
He paused, letting the words sink like stones, "will start specialized training with me. The rest will run laps until they understand why they didn't make the cut. Dismissed."
The group dissolved, the high of the draw now tempered by the threat of the coming winnowing. Max jogged over to Leo as he grabbed his bag from the sideline.
"Yo, Leo."
Leo turned, a tired smile on his face. "Hey."
They shook hands, a firm, sweaty grip. "That goal," Max said, shaking his head. "That was just… mad. Certified insanity."
Leo barked a laugh, the sound raw in his throat. "Trust me, it was a complete fluke. If I try that again, I'll probably need a stretcher."
A few other guys lingering nearby chuckled, the sound easy and relieved as they all began the trudge towards the locker room.
As they passed the bleachers, Leo heard a voice—sharp, familiar, and utterly cold. He glanced over his shoulder.
King was leaning against the rail, phone to his ear. He wasn't shouting. His voice was low, lethal. "…no, you don't understand. It was a draw. With them." He listened, his jaw tightening. "The stench of mediocrity is clinging. I can smell it." His eyes, burning with a cold fire, tracked Leo's group for a second before he turned away. "Yeah, you're right."
Leo turned back, a chill that had nothing to do with his damp kit tracing his spine.
——————
The locker room was a cathedral of steam and exhaustion, filled with the sounds of showers and the low murmur of guys replaying moments. Soon enough, they were all dry and relieved.
The Assistant Coach moved through the clutter, making an announcement. "Kits can stay. The school will take care of the dry-cleaning. Pick them up when you like."
A wave of pleased murmurs swept the room. "Sweet!" someone yelled. For most, it was a small, tangible piece of being treated like real athletes.
King, already changed back into his pristine clothes, was at his locker. He carefully folded his blue and white jersey and shorts into his own gym bag.
The Assistant Coach approached him. "Vance, you can leave yours. We'll get it."
King didn't turn. He zipped his bag with a definitive sound. "You're not taking care of my kit with theirs." His voice cut through the steam, clear and absolute.
He finally glanced over his shoulder, his gaze finding Leo, who was pulling on his jeans. "It'll leave the stench of failure on it." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "And Leo?" He paused at the door, the entire room holding its breath. "I'm done playing around."
He left. The heavy door swung shut behind him, leaving a silence thicker than the steam.
Max, tying his shoes by his own locker, didn't look up. But his shoulders had tensed, just for a second, at King's words. When he did look up, his eyes met Leo's, and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head—don't let it get to you.
The walk to class was a blur of fatigue. By the time Leo and Max slipped into their second-period Geography class, they were met not by the empty room they'd hoped for, but by the stern smile of Mrs. Julien.
"Reed, Freeman," she said, her voice sweet as syrup. "You're just in time. We were about to start labeling the mineral deposits on the national map."
A silent, weary groan echoed through Leo's entire being. He slumped into his seat, the crash from Grit Mode now a leaden weight in every limb.
A gentle kick came at the back of his chair. He turned. Kevin slid Leo's Maths notebook onto his desk with a sympathetic grimace. "You missed the first period. Wrote the notes for you."
"Thanks, man," Leo whispered, genuine gratitude cutting through the fog.
He turned back and saw Max, a few seats over, already being surrounded by a trio of girls offering to copy notes for him for the rest of the week.
Max gave them his trademark, tired-but-charming smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "I am pretty beat, yeah. You're lifesavers."
Leo smiled faintly. Lucky him.
He opened his Maths notebook to the day's topic. His smile froze.
The handwriting was a chaotic, spidery scrawl, a cryptic language that looked like it had been written during an earthquake by someone with three pens taped together.
He glanced back at Kevin, who gave him a proud, oblivious thumbs-up.
Sighing, Leo closed the book and fished out his Geography notebook and pen. He looked up at the complex map on the board, trying to focus.
Something was off. The lines of the map seemed to pulse faintly. A residual system overlay? He needed clarity.
He took off his father's glasses, folded them carefully, and tucked them into his open bag, reaching for the soft microfiber cloth he kept in the front pocket.
The world softened into a bearable blur. Then, the floor tilted.
Not a metaphor. The actual, physical world swung sideways like a ship in a storm. There was no time to cry out, no time to brace.
The edge of the desk rushed up to meet his temple.
CRACK.
A sound like a distant bell, ringing from inside his own skull. Then, nothing but a deep, velvety black, punctuated by a single, fading thought: The Grit Protocol Debuff… it wasn't supposed to hit… yet…
"LEO!"
He heard Max's voice, sharp with alarm, from a thousand miles away. Then other sounds: a chair scraping, gasps, Mrs. Julien's commanding tone.
"Don't move him! You and you—help me get him to the clinic. Now! The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 154 and read."
Strong hands hooked under his arms and legs. The world became a jostling, blurry nightmare. He was dimly aware of being carried through the brightly lit, echoing hallway.
Faces peered out from classroom doors—curious, shocked. They passed the open door of another 11th grade class. Thomas, the elite striker, glanced up from his desk.
He saw Leo's limp form being carried past, his expression unreadable. He simply let out a short, quiet sigh, as if witnessing an inevitable, slightly annoying outcome, and looked back at his work.
——————
The clinic smelled of antiseptic and old paper. The nurse, a no-nonsense woman with kind eyes, checked Leo's vitals, shined a light into his pupils, and listened to his heart.
"He's alright," she announced to a worried-looking Mrs. Julien.
"Exhaustion, mainly. Mild anemia, probably from poor diet and overexertion. His blood sugar's in the basement. When he wakes up, I'll give him some iron supplements and we'll get some proper food into him from the cafeteria. He just needs rest."
Mrs. Julien nodded, placated. "See that he gets it. I'll inform his mother." With a final glance at the unconscious boy, she left with the two student helpers.
The nurse whispered to Leo's unconscious form. "You're burning the candle at both ends, young man. Your engine's running on fumes and wishful thinking. Football is a sport of bodies, not just minds."