Chapter 11: Calibration
The testing hall in Building 5 was an exercise in sensory deprivation. The walls were a sterile, blinding white, and the air smelled faintly of ozone and recycled oxygen. For the members of Team Z, it was the first time they were being measured not as "high school stars," but as raw data points in Ego Jinpachi's grand experiment.
Eshan Sato stood near a cold metal pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched his teammates with the detached focus of a man observing a chaotic chemical reaction. Raichi was already a ball of jagged nerves, shouting at Igarashi for "breathing too loud," while Kunigami was stoically performing deep lunges in the corner.
They're all looking for something to hold onto, Eshan thought, rubbing his temple. In a place designed to strip you of your identity, they're desperate to prove they exist.
"First test: 50-meter sprint," the automated voice echoed, cold and robotic.
Eshan watched Chigiri Hyoma step up to the line. From ten meters away, Eshan could see the tremor in Chigiri's right leg. It wasn't muscle fatigue; it was a psychological ghost. Eshan knew the "reborn" truth—Chigiri was sitting on a world-class engine but was too terrified of his own ACL to shift out of second gear. When the buzzer went off, Chigiri ran. He was fast, yes, but he was cautious. He was running like he was walking on glass.
When it was Eshan's turn, he didn't do any theatrical stretches. He simply lowered himself into a starting crouch. His Absolute Ball Feel extended even to the soles of his feet; he could feel the micro-texture of the track through his shoes. He wasn't thinking about his "rank" or the cameras. He was focused on the friction.
The buzzer sounded. Eshan moved. It wasn't a violent, explosive burst like Kunigami's, which sounded like a gunshot. Eshan's sprint was frictionless. His head stayed perfectly level, his arms pumping in a tight, efficient arc. He finished with a 6.1-second time. It wasn't a record-breaker, but as he slowed to a stop, he wasn't even breathing hard. He was merely calibrating his baseline.
The Shaking Floor
The most grueling part of the day was the balance platforms. These were hydraulic plates designed to tilt, vibrate, and shift at random intervals while mechanical arms swung out from the walls to knock the players off.
Igarashi went down in three seconds, his scream of "Namusan!" ending in a loud thud as he face-planted.
Eshan stepped up next. As the platform began to shudder, he didn't stiffen his legs. He knew that in physics, rigidity was the precursor to breaking. He stayed loose, his knees acting like high-end shock absorbers. To the observers, it looked like he was barely moving. In reality, his ankles were making hundreds of tiny adjustments per second.
A mechanical arm swung out, aimed squarely at his shoulder. Eshan didn't brace for the impact. He utilized the logic of his Absolute Balance—he leaned into the force, let it translate through his core, and used the momentum to pivot his foot an inch to the left. The arm swept past, and Eshan remained centered, his eyes fixed on a single point on the far wall.
He stayed upright until the final beep echoed.
"You've got some weird balance, man," Kunigami said as they walked back to the locker room, his own shirt soaked in sweat. "I felt like I was fighting a mountain, but you looked like you were just standing on a bus."
Eshan took a long drink of water, the cool liquid grounding him. "Don't fight the floor, Kunigami. It's bigger than you. Just let it move. If you try to dominate the ground, it'll just trip you."
Kunigami blinked, looking confused by the advice, but Eshan didn't elaborate. He wasn't being a philosopher; he was just stating a fact of motion.
That evening, the room was silent as the wall monitor flickered to life. This was the moment that would define the hierarchy of Team Z. The numbers on their bodysuits began to scroll.
Kunigami: 292
Bachira: 291
Isagi: 299
Igarashi: 300
Eshan felt the fabric on his shoulder warm up as the LED updated. He looked down. 290.
The room went still. Igarashi let out a low, shaky whistle. "Whoa. 290? Since Kira's gone... that makes you the top of the room. You're officially the Ace, Eshan."
Eshan stared at the number. He knew Ego was lying to them—that Building 5 didn't exist and they were all being tricked into feeling like the "lowest of the low." But being Rank 290 served a purpose. It gave the "noise" of the room a center point.
"Great," Raichi spat, kicking his futon. "So the guy who barely talks is our 'Ace'? Whatever. I don't care about a number. I'm still the one who's going to score."
Eshan didn't even look up as he untied his cleats. "The rank doesn't score goals, Raichi. It just tells the others who to watch. If you want to score, go ahead. Just don't get in my way."
That night, as the lights dimmed, Eshan lay on his back, his mind mapping out the stadium they would enter in forty-eight hours. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a coach. He was just a man waiting for the "Zero-Point" where his body and the ball would finally become one in front of the world.