Chapter Two – First Clash
CLANG.
A whistle tore through the silence. Not the kind you'd hear on a football pitch—but something sharper. Artificial.
Then came the light—blinding white, like staring into a sun that didn't warm. Leo flinched. His pupils shrank. Every instinct screamed run, but the door ahead of them had already opened with a hiss.
He stepped inside. So did the others.
Leo Varela.
Andre Muller.
Zeke Thomas.
Rafa Delgado.
Mikael Sørensen.
Six in total.
Their shoes echoed off a floor that looked like turf but felt colder—so perfectly flat, it felt wrong. The hall was rectangular, with walls smoother than marble and painted sterile white. No windows. No exits. Just walls that watched.
A low ceiling hummed with electricity. The light wasn't warm. It buzzed like a hospital operating room. Cold.
For a moment, the only thing alive in the room was their breathing—uneven, anxious, human.
In the center, a black screen lit up, pulsing red.
Then a voice. Mechanical.
"Group Six.
You are six chosen players. Your objective? Survival.
Only the captain ascends.
The rest… await their fate."
The words hung heavy.
Andre Muller, wide-chested and balding, stomped forward with a snarl. His German accent slashed through the air.
"This is madness! Was ist das?! Are we joking here? That's a robot! We're human, you lunatics!"
No answer.
Rafa Delgado, wiry and quick-footed, stepped back. His eyes darted around for exits.
"I'm not playing in a damn circus. Let me out now. Ahora mismo."
No exit appeared.
Kaito, the silent one, stood with his arms crossed. His narrow eyes swept the room like a hawk's—calculating. Cold.
Leo didn't speak. He didn't need to. His heart thudded, but something inside him was settling—not panicking.
A test, he thought.
A dirty game… but still a game.
Zeke Thomas grinned nervously. His curly hair stuck to his forehead, and he adjusted his gloves like this was a preseason match and not something twisted.
"None of this makes sense," he said, half-laughing, "but if we're playing… then let it be the match of our lives."
The screen pulsed again.
"3 versus 3. Match starts now."
Suddenly, with a sharp mechanical hiss, a ball shot out from a slit in the floor, skimming toward the center circle with terrifying speed.
Then, another hiss.
A door in the far wall slid open. From it emerged—
A machine.
Ten feet tall, broad as a truck. Gleaming white armor with red sensors in place of eyes. Its hands were gloves—like a keeper's—but made of reinforced plating. It didn't move like a human. It moved like something that understood humans—and didn't care.
A robotic goalkeeper.
The six players froze.
Leo swallowed hard. The ball slowed to a stop at the center, waiting like bait.
The unspoken question hovered in the air.
Do we play?
Mikael stepped forward first. He didn't speak. He just pointed—first at Leo, then at Zeke. A wordless gesture of alliance.
Leo nodded. Zeke hesitated, then jogged over.
"Guess that makes us three," he muttered.
Andre barked a laugh. "Fine. Let's see what kind of freak show this is."
The match began with no whistle. Just movement.
Leo surged forward, but Andre was faster—barreling through the center and shoulder-checking him hard. Leo hit the ground with a thud, skin scraping against the unforgiving floor.
"This isn't football!" Andre shouted. "This is a damn death trap!"
"Then play smart," Mikael growled, stealing the ball from under Andre's nose with a quick flick.
Mikael—tall, angular, and with an animal's stillness—glided down the flank. Leo pushed himself up, shaking the pain from his ribs.
He could barely hear the footfalls—just the thudding of his own pulse.
Zeke called for the ball, cutting through the defense with a run that surprised even Leo.
Mikael fired a pass. Zeke, with one touch, turned and curved the ball across the field.
Straight to Leo.
It wasn't magic—but it felt like it.
Leo caught it mid-stride, the ball sticking to his foot like it had missed him. For a second, everything slowed.
The robotic keeper crouched, scanning him.
Shoot now. Or don't.
Leo struck it clean.
The ball sailed low and hard.
CLANG!
A flash of white. The keeper's arm shot out like a piston.
The rebound exploded off its glove and ricocheted high.
Leo didn't hesitate.
He ran—harder than he'd ever run.
The ball dropped—awkwardly.
He lunged.
Tapped it in.
GOAL.
A red light flashed.
Then—silence.
Until the mechanical hum returned.
The gate behind the losing side creaked open.
Everyone turned.
From it came arms—sleek, silver, and swift. They moved like snakes. Targeted. Controlled.
Andre spun around. "Nein! You can't be serious—"
Too late.
The arms grabbed him by the shoulders and waist.
"LET ME GO!" Rafa shrieked. He fought hard, but the machines didn't tire. Didn't yell back.
Kaito didn't struggle. He didn't even speak. He just stared at Leo.
As if committing his face to memory.
Then they were gone. The door slammed shut behind them with a steel thunk.
Silence again.
Leo was frozen. Not from fear—but from the way his breath caught in his throat.
He looked at Zeke.
Zeke shook his head slowly.
"Is this even legal?"
Leo looked up. There was no sky. No stars. Just white lights and humming wires.
"Since when does the law matter?" he whispered. "We're not on Earth anymore…"
Zeke blinked. "What?"
Leo didn't repeat himself.
Mikael stood alone near the center circle, arms folded. He hadn't said a word since the match started. But now, he looked up at the screen.
It flashed red again.
No voice this time.
Just one word:
QUALIFIED
The word pulsed like a heartbeat. One. Two. Three times.
Then faded.