The air in the cafeteria had grown heavy, thick with a coldness that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The "Monsters" of Krow City sat like statues carved from stone, their eyes fixed on Bill Maël. Even the distant clatter of the kitchen and the murmurs of other students seemed to fade into a ghostly white noise, leaving only the sharp, rhythmic cadence of the Captain's voice as he opened the final, darkest vault of their history.
"We weren't just a team," Maël said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that betrayed a deep-seated pain. "Vincent Stringler, Bobby, and I... we were the 'Legendary Trio.' In the heart of that cold, imperialist machine, we had built our own world. We were inseparable. When the sun dipped below the smog of Krow City, you wouldn't find us studying or plotting tactics. You'd find us in the neon-lit haze of the underground arcade halls, the smell of ozone and cheap snacks surrounding us. Those joystick clicks and the glow of the screens... that was our freedom. It was the only time we weren't just 'assets' for the school. It was the golden age, the brief heartbeat before the storm, back when football was still a dream we shared with pure hearts."
Bobby let out a sharp, jagged exhale, breaking his mask of lazy indifference. His eyes were clouded with memories he had spent a year trying to bury. "Speak for yourself, Bill. For me, those arcade nights were a struggle for survival."
Maël offered a faint, ghostly smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That's only because you lost every single match, Bobby. You were the king of the 'Game Over' screen."
"It wasn't my fault!" Bobby grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Vincent was an anomaly. A total freak of nature. It didn't matter if it was a high-speed fighting game or a complex strategy simulation—he dominated. He didn't just play; he predicted. He saw the code behind the game. We never beat him once, not in a hundred tries. And you, Bill... don't act like you fared better. You were supposed to be the master of tactical patience, but he crushed you at chess in under ten moves every time. He saw thirty turns ahead while we were still wondering why the board felt so small. His genius was a ceiling we could never touch."
Maël's smile vanished, replaced by a grim, hard line. "A phenomenon. That was the word. But the games ended when the real world decided to remind us who truly owned our lives."
The Captain leaned forward, the shadows of the cafeteria lighting making his features look hollow, almost haunted.
"The turning point arrived on the eve of our most decisive match—the final ticket to the Regional Championships. Can you feel that? The pressure of being a freshman on the verge of history? I could feel the electricity in my skin. That evening, the locker room felt like a temple. We were huddled around Vincent, the air thick with the scent of wintergreen and sweat, listening to him break down the final defensive wall of our opponents. He was our sun. The entire team revolved around his orbit. Without his genius, we were just bodies on a field."
"Then," Maël's voice turned into a whisper that cut like a razor, "the phone rang. A cold, administrative summons. Vincent was ordered to report to Director Benite Bam's office immediately. No explanation. Just a command."
Belt watched Maël's hands. They were clenched so tightly on the table that his knuckles were white as bone. The "pressure" in the room was now suffocating—the aura of a betrayal that had shattered a kingdom.
"Vincent walked into that office thinking it was a final blessing from the school," Maël continued, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp rage. "But Director Benite Bam had already sold us out. Behind our backs, in a room smelling of expensive cigars and cold ink, the Director had signed a sponsorship contract that would change the school's finances forever. We're talking about 500,000 euros in cold, hard cash. A fortune. But the money had a price. A cruel, surgical condition: Vincent Stringler had to be erased from the roster before the final whistle blew."
"But why?" Vance asked, his voice trembling. "Why throw away your best player?"
"Because the team we were destined to face in the final belonged to one of the most powerful billionaires in the country," Maël spat, the words sounding like venom. "A man who also happened to be the primary donor for our academy's expansion. He couldn't endure the thought of his own 'prestige' team being humiliated by a 'Top 3' prodigy from a common school. He wanted his academy to reach the Nationals to cement his social standing, and he knew Vincent was the only obstacle he couldn't bribe on the field. So, he bribed the man in the office instead. Half a million euros to buy a victory before the game even started."
"Director Bam chose the silver over the soul. He told Vincent he was suspended indefinitely for 'disciplinary reasons.' When Vincent demanded the truth, when he fought back with the fire that made him a captain, Bam didn't just stop at a suspension. He expelled him. On the spot. He threw our King out into the rain like common trash."
Maël stood up abruptly, the heavy mahogany chair screeching against the floor like a wounded animal.
"I was a ghost. I wandered the halls, searching for logic in a world that had gone mad. We were supposed to be the 'Angels' of Krow City! We were supposed to face the Number 1 player in the country—a sophomore genius who was the only rival Vincent truly respected. But in one afternoon, our vision was blinded. Our heart was cut out."
"That night, I found him in the north corridor. The shadows were long, stretching out like fingers. He was waiting for me. We walked together in a silence so heavy it felt like we were underwater. That's when he told me everything. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even screaming. He was... different. He told me he wasn't sickened by the loss of the title. He was sickened by the realization that men like Bam would sacrifice the dreams of children for a bigger number in a bank account."
Maël's eyes locked onto Belt's, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable.
"That was the birth of the monster. Vincent stood there, looking like a giant against the moonlight, and he told me: 'I'm done being Number 3. I'm done being a pawn in their games. I'm tired of being discarded by men who can't even kick a ball. From this moment on, I will not be a player. I will be the Absolute Emperor. I will govern the football of this country from a throne they can't reach. And for that, I need a new kingdom.'"
"I begged him," Maël's voice cracked. "I told him we'd strike! We'd forfeit the final! We'd burn the stadium down before we played without him! But he just looked at me with this hollow, sarcastic smile. It wasn't the look of a friend. It was the look of a ruler who had already moved on. He said: 'Bill, don't try to fix a corpse. The system is rotten to the marrow. Men will always choose greed. Just be yourself, and keep moving toward your own light. I've found my path: total domination.'"
"He walked away into the dark. And I never saw that version of Vincent again."
The cafeteria was so silent you could hear the heartbeat of the person sitting next to you.
"The next morning," Maël continued, his voice a low, mournful rasp, "the coach entered the locker room with the armband. He told us that Vincent's final act was to name his successor. The brassard was mine. The coach told me: 'Vincent said if he ever fell, only Bill could carry the weight. Only Bill understands the true philosophy of the burden.'"
"I put it on. But it didn't feel like fabric. It felt like a band of cold iron tightening around my arm, cutting into my skin. It weighed more than the world. We went into that final as hollow shells. Our tactics, our heart, our soul—they all belonged to the man who was now a ghost. We were lambs led to the slaughter."
"The scoreboard was a massacre," Maël said, his eyes clouding with the memory of the defeat. "4-0. A total, humiliating collapse. My dream of the Nationals didn't just die; it was executed."
The Captain sat back down, the air around him still vibrating with the force of his story. He looked at the new recruits—Belt, Snick, and the others—with a newfound, lethal seriousness.
"Now, you know why the air in this club is different. Why there is no room for jokes. Why I demand absolute, crushing rigor. This brassard reminds me every second of the genius we lost to greed. Even if Vincent is gone, this team—the foundation he built with his own blood—must reach the summit. We owe it to the ghosts of the 'Legendary Trio.'"
His voice became a cold promise of war. "My only goal now is to meet him again. Not in an arcade, and not in a hallway. But on the pitch, in the final of the Nationals. I know the Absolute Emperor is waiting for us, and he won't be merciful."
Maël fell silent, and for a long moment, no one dared to move. The story had shattered the walls of the academy. They weren't just students anymore; they were soldiers in a war against a corrupt system, led by a Captain who carried the scars of a fallen King.
Belt stared at the table, his analytical mind spinning. The Absolute Emperor... He felt a strange, dark resonance with Stringler's vow. He, too, felt the weight of the system's rot. But as he looked at Maël's exhausted face, he realized that in Krow City, a crown wasn't a gift. It was a curse you had to be strong enough to carry.
The silence lasted until the bell rang, but for the first time, no one moved to leave. The weight of the past had anchored them all to the floor.