The whistle tore the air, and the machine engaged.
Frank didn't just tackle the first Williams midfielder who intercepted a pass—he dismantled him. It was a clean, shuddering impact that sent the ball rocketing back the way it came and the opponent stumbling. No foul. Just physics.
The message was immediate: the middle was a closed country.
King didn't run at anyone. He flowed into the vacant corridor between the Williams centre-back and their right fullback, a phantom in blue and silver.
The pass never came, but the entire right side of their defence flinched, their shape distorting like a reflection in a funhouse mirror.
On the touchline, Leo's world was a cascade of data.
[SIDELINE PERSPECTIVE: MAXIMUM FEED.]
Glowing heatmaps bloomed over the pitch. Green passing networks connected King, Frank, Max, Thomas. Red defensive clusters pulsed around Williams' penalty area.
Numbers scrolled—pass completion %, average positioning, pressure triggers.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was a silent symphony of perfect, cold intention.
Max and Thomas became twin bolts of lightning, switching play with one-touch passes that hissed across the damp turf. Max's speed was starting to almost mirror Thomas's.
Their first cross sailed over everyone, but the speed of it drew a gasp from the Apex High supporters.
15th Minute: The first real threat. King dropped deep, pulling a marker with him like a magnet. He pivoted, and a no-look pass split two defenders, finding Thomas in full flight.
Thomas roasted his fullback, cut back onto his right, and fizzed a low ball across the six-yard box.
Max arrived, a train with no brakes.
But a colossal red-and-black shape launched itself into the path. Logan Turner. Not an elegant block—a full-body sacrifice. The ball cannoned off his thigh and into the stands.
On the bench, Leo's lenses flared. [TARGET TURNER: AGGRESSION METRICS SPIKE. RECOVERY TIME FROM COMMITTED LUNGE: 4.1 SECONDS. VULNERABILITY WINDOW CONFIRMED.]
The machine was purring. But Williams High wasn't here to admire the engine.
Their coach, a barrel-chested man with a face like concrete, bellowed from his technical area. The instruction was clear, crude, and effective.
They stopped trying to play.
Every goal kick from their keeper was a towering, hanging bomb aimed at the halfway line. Every clearance was a panicked rocket into the Apex half. The target was always the same: Logan Turner's forehead.
Football became a war of gravity.
The beautiful passing networks on Leo's display shattered into meaningless confetti. The game was now happening in the air, in the meat-grinder space between the centre-circles, where Frank's elegant interceptions were useless.
"Isn't this cool?" A voice said.
Leo glanced to his side to the sub midfielder and locked in on the match again. "It is."
"I honestly expected King to have scored but... Oh well. I'm Steve."
Leo nodded, hardly listening. "Leo."
Steve kept talking, completely ignoring Leo's attempt to dismiss him over and over.
"You don't say much." He asked, which Leo just nodded in response to and for some reason it made Steve laugh. "Or are you nervous? It's totally fine, these guys will do all the heavy lifting. Plus, it's a 60-minute match which is more than Arkady has put us up to. So, we may not even get subbed in. Cool right?"
Leo lost his patience and faced Steve sternly. "Maybe you don't care about this whole thing. But next time you want to talk about it... I advise keeping it to yourself."
Steve wanted to respond but swallowed it and sat upright.
Leo wanted to apologize but something grabbed his attention. A monstrous goal kick.
Turner rose above Frank, not even jumping, just existing higher. He won the header, nodded it down to his strike partner—a wiry, pacy kid with a cruel glint in his eye.
The striker took a touch, turned, and from twenty-five yards unleashed a screaming drive that moved like a knuckleball.
Miller, in goal, didn't flinch. He exploded sideways, a green cannonball, and with one thick, gloved fist, parried the shot up and over the bar. A save that was pure violence deflected by pure will.
The Williams bench erupted. They'd found the fault line.
On the Apex sideline, Leo's mind raced. The system was lagging, still trying to analyse a game that had abandoned tactics for raw force.
[ANOMALY DETECTED: OPPONENT TACTICAL SHIFT TO DIRECT PLAY. PRIMARY DEFENSIVE SCHEME INEFFECTIVE. SECONDARY VULNERABILITY: AERIAL DOMINANCE IN ZONE 14.]
Zone 14. The heart of midfield. Where Perez and the other centre-back were being eaten alive.
Leo's eyes darted to the left-middle player. The midfielder's face was a mask of frustration, his kit already streaked with mud from a losing battle. But his eyes were alive, scanning, shouting instructions Leo couldn't hear. He was trying to solve it. He was fighting.
Leo looked at Arkady. The coach was a statue, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the far end of the pitch where Miller was resetting. No panic. Just a deep, calculating stillness. He hadn't uttered a word.
20th Minute: The corner swung in, a wicked, in-swinging menace.
A flick at the near post. A mad, desperate scramble in the six-yard box. Bodies flew. Miller shouted, a raw, guttural sound lost in the roar.
And rising above it all, unmarked, was Logan Turner. He'd drifted away from Thomas, who was tangled with another attacker. Turner's eyes were wide, his mouth open in a primal roar as he met the ball with the full, unforgiving centre of his forehead.
THUMP.
A perfect, powered, downward header.
Miller got a hand to it. The sound of leather slamming into his palm was sickening. But the force was monstrous. The ball squirmed, died on the line, and was kicked over it by a Williams foot in the ensuing chaos.
The referee's whistle shrieked. He pointed to the centre circle.
GOAL.
WILLIAMS HIGH 1 – 0 APEX HIGH.
The stadium detonated. The red-and-black section became a seething volcano of noise.
Turner was mobbed, his roar audible even from the bench. He turned, eyes scanning, and found the Apex sideline. His gaze locked not on the celebrating fans, but on the blue-and-silver figures.
A slow, brutal smile spread across his face as he pounded the crest on his chest.
On the Apex bench, the silence was a physical weight. Max turned and drove his foot into the turf. Thomas stared at the ground, hands on hips.
King's face was carved from Arctic ice—the fury in his eyes wasn't hot, but cold and profound. It was the rage of a master architect watching a barbarian knock down his perfect wall with a sledgehammer.
The machine had a flaw. A gaping, raw, physical one.
Leo's own breath was short. The system was still chattering in his ear, damage reports scrolling. But it was just noise.
His father's voice cut through the digital clutter, a memory from the notebook: "When the plan shatters, that's when you see the true game. Look for the man who isn't celebrating. Look for the one who's already thinking of the next play."
Leo's eyes snapped away from the celebrating monsters. He found Perez.
Perez was on his knees in the box, head bowed. But only for a second. He slammed a fist into the turf, pushed himself up, and was already walking toward Miller, his hand out to pull his keeper up, his mouth moving, shouting something at the other defenders.
His face wasn't defeated. It was furious. A clean, bright, focused anger. He'd been beaten, but he wasn't broken.
And on the Williams side, Logan wasn't in the dogpile. He was already back on the halfway line, taking a practice shot into an empty net, his expression bored, like this was just step one. A predator conserving energy.
Two players, Leo thought, the analyst in him overriding the panic. One who cares too much, one who doesn't care at all. Both dangerous.
He looked at Arkady.
The coach had uncrossed his arms. He was staring directly at the Williams players, his head tilted as if examining a fascinating, violent insect. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, his gaze swept across his own stunned team.
It didn't linger on the defenders. It passed over King.
It landed on the bench.
On Leo.
Arkady's ice-blue eyes held his for one endless second. There was no instruction, no shouted order. Just a microscopic, almost imperceptible nod.
It was a trigger.
Five minutes to half-time, the assistant coach was at Leo's elbow. "Reed! Freeman's output is down 40%. Arkady wants a tactical change. Warm up. Now!"
Leo's heart tried to escape his chest. He stood, the world tilting slightly. He pulled his training top over his head, the cool air hitting his skin. The navy blue #19 jersey felt suddenly heavier, like actual armour.
As he broke into a frantic jog along the touchline, the crowd's noise became a tunnel of sound. The system's voice finally cut through, calm and absolute:
[DEPLOYMENT CONFIRMED.]
[DESIGNATION: IMPACT VARIABLE.]
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: NEUTRALIZE AERIAL THREAT #5. EXPLOIT RECOVERY WINDOW.]
[SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: BECOME THE SOLUTION.]
Arkady signaled to the forth official and the player change board was raised. Max limped out, he and Leo shook hands.
Leo's eyes found Logan Turner, a red-and-black giant heading back to his own half. He saw Perez, already marshalling, a general in the ruins. He saw the wiry striker, licking his lips.
And he saw Arkady, watching him, a sculptor who had just swapped his chisel for a sledgehammer.
As Leo jogged to Max's position, the roar of the crowd wasn't just noise anymore. It was wind in a tunnel, pulling him toward the eye of the storm. King barely glanced at him, already placing the ball on the centre spot.
The machine was broken. Now, it was time for beautiful chaos.
Leo could hear every single one of his heartbeat. It was time for all his training to pay off.