Chapter 34: The Ten-Minute Execution
The scoreboard hummed, a jagged neon 2-2 that felt like a crack in the stadium's foundation.
Ten minutes. To the Wanima twins, it was a countdown to their own extinction. To Eshan, it was a clinical window for completion. He stood at the center circle, his breathing shallow and controlled. While the twins were vibrating with a visible, jagged rage—sweat spraying off them as they gasped for air—Eshan was a pocket of absolute stillness.
He wasn't trying to look cool. He was simply recalibrating. His Absolute Awareness was scanning the field, not as a game, but as a shifting blueprint of flaws. He saw the elder twin's heavy breathing, the slight wobble in the midfielder's left ankle, and the way the turf was slightly more worn in the center circle.
"The deal is dead, Keisuke," Eshan said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a predatory clarity that cut through the noise of the stadium. "You've spent eighty minutes playing with a twelve-man advantage, and you're still tied with the team you called 'trash.' Your 'data' didn't account for reality."
"I'LL KILL YOU!" Keisuke roared, the spit flying from his lips as he kicked the ball off.
The twins ignited. It wasn't soccer; it was a riot. They sprinted in their signature criss-cross pattern, but the "telepathy" was broken. They were over-striding, their cleats hacking into the turf like desperate shovels. They were moving like men trying to outrun a flood that had already reached their waists.
Eshan met them at the halfway line. He didn't rush out to meet them; he waited until they entered his "Absolute" radius. He saw the micro-tremors in Junichi's knees, the way his weight shifted to his left ankle.
As Junichi lunged for a jagged, ankle-high swipe—a foul meant to end Eshan's match—Eshan's foot danced. This was the Absolute Ball Feel. He didn't just dribble; he manipulated the ball's friction. With a touch so delicate it seemed to defy the speed of the game, he let the ball stick to the rubber of his cleat, pulling it into a microscopic arc.
Junichi's momentum was his own executioner. He flew past Eshan, his face hitting the turf with a sickening thud. Eshan didn't even look back at the fallen twin. He drove forward, his eyes already scanning the horizon.
"Isagi! Run!"
Eshan fired a pass—not to Isagi's feet, but into a "dead zone" behind the defenders. It was a "command" pass. It was weighted with such technical precision that it stripped away Isagi's choice; he either evolved to reach that trajectory, or he failed the King. It was a pass that demanded a "Chemical Reaction."
Isagi reached it, his ego screaming as he stretched his limits. He didn't think; he just swung. The ball buried itself in the bottom corner.
TEAM Z 3 - 2 TEAM W
The stadium speakers hissed with the score, but Eshan was already walking back to his half. He didn't celebrate. He didn't offer a high-five. To him, the job wasn't done until the opposition was erased.
The final five minutes were a descent into madness. Team W abandoned the ball entirely, fueled by a rage that couldn't comprehend being outclassed. Keisuke sprinted full-tilt at Eshan, his shoulder lowered like a battering ram, aimed straight for Eshan's solar plexus.
Eshan didn't flinch. He dropped his weight, his hips locking into a perfect, low-gravity anchor. This was his Sovereign Axis. He didn't just stand his ground; he utilized the skeletal alignment he had studied for years. As Keisuke hit him, Eshan performed a subtle, rotational shift of his pelvis.
CRACK.
The sound of shoulder hitting chest echoed in the rafters. Keisuke didn't just stop; he bounced. The force of his own momentum, redirected by Eshan's rigid, perfect alignment, sent him sprawling backward. He hit the ground, gasping for air, his eyes wide with the realization that he wasn't hitting a player—he was hitting a mountain.
"You're small," Eshan muttered, stepping over the gasping twin. It wasn't a shonen insult; it was a technical observation. "Your ego, your game... it's all tiny. You think cheating is a shortcut, but it's just a way to avoid finding out how mediocre you are."
Eshan took the ball alone. He didn't pass. He walked the ball toward the box, three defenders converging on him like a wall. Eshan performed a "ghost" feint—a twitch of the hip so grounded in pro-level mechanics that the goalkeeper committed to a dive for a shot that hadn't even been taken.
With the goal wide open, Eshan didn't stop to mock them. He simply struck the ball with a clean, clinical laces-shot. It was a strike of pure love for the game—efficient, powerful, and final.
TEAM Z 4 - 2 TEAM W
The final whistle blew, a long, mournful sound that signaled the end of Team W's tournament. Eshan stood in the box, the sweat finally beginning to pour down his face, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the ceiling. He felt the deep satisfaction of a man who had protected the sanctity of the game from those who tried to buy it.
He turned his head toward the halfway line, where Kuon stood trembling.
"The match is over, traitor," Eshan said. His voice was cold, devoid of the heat of the teenagers around him. "Go find a new job. You don't belong in my world."
He turned and began the walk to the locker room, his silhouette stretching long across the synthetic grass.