Ryan Shark walked alongside Wolf Deo in the quiet corridor of the mansion.
Their footsteps echoed against the polished marble floor, the night still lingering in the silence of the halls.
They spoke in hushed tones, recalling their most recent match against Night Phantom.
"I won't lie, Deo," Shark admitted, running a hand through his damp hair.
"The weight of that game was heavy on me. Mostly because of the presence of Momodu Osas and West Harry. Their link-up… it felt like they were everywhere at once."
Deo chuckled softly, his calm demeanor a counter to Shark's intensity.
"That's in the past now, Shark. We survived it. What matters is what's ahead. Maraford is next, and that's where our focus should be."
Before Shark could reply, a sudden voice echoed through the corridor.
"You two… perfect timing."
Molis Harrison appeared out of the shadows with a smile that sent a shiver down their spines. Even Deo stiffened at his sudden presence.
Beside him stood Ronoa, arms folded, silent as always.
Harrison stepped closer, his eyes glinting with a curious excitement.
"I've been thinking of creating something—a chain reaction. Shark, Deo, Ronoa. Together. A berserk link-up. You three will be the course to goal, unstoppable if executed well. With our right and left midfielders channeling direct passes to the team Striker…"
He trailed off, grinning. "It will be both chaos and brilliance. A game-changer."
The scene then shifted far away, to Maraford's mansion at the heart of a vast grassland.
Inside, the players of Maraford gathered in their hall, the air tense with anticipation.
At the center stood their captain, Ramirez. His voice was firm as he addressed his teammates.
"Devertary United are formidable. We all know this. But we cannot afford to lose again.
If we do, our fans will start to doubt our power. That, my brothers, we cannot allow."
Before Ramirez could continue, an elderly man stepped forward—Maraford's coach. His weathered voice carried wisdom and authority.
"You've prepared them well, Ramirez," he said. "But if we are to stand a chance, we must focus on one thing."
He turned to the team, his tone sharpening. "Ryan Shark. The ace shooter. The danger man. If he is not slowed down, your preparation means nothing."
A murmur ran through the squad. Ramirez smirked faintly but nodded.
"He's right. Shark is no ordinary striker. He is called the Genius of the Hantier League for a reason. That title is not handed out lightly.
Treat him without care—or he will disgrace you."
Just then, a massive screen lit up at the far end of the hall. The players turned as a live broadcast filled the room.
A female commentator's voice rang clear."Last night's clash between Night Phantom and Devertary United ended in a 1–1 draw. But the standout names? None other than Momodu Osas and Ryan Shark."
Clips of the match rolled. The stadium roared on screen, the commentator's voice rising.
"Here is Osas with his well-placed finish. Perfect execution, leaving no chance for the keeper."
Moments later, the replay cut to Shark's goal. The commentator's voice grew almost breathless.
"And here—watch Shark. He outmaneuvers Osas, changes direction in a heartbeat, and bursts forward with just enough steps to stay ahead. Then—bang! A devastating shot. Tactical thinking at its finest. He finds a way to win, no matter the situation."
The coach's voice cut through the echoes of the broadcast. "You heard her. Tactical thinking. Shut him down, and the rest of the team crumbles. That is your mission."
The scene shifted once again, this time to a training pitch where Shark sat on the grass, sweat dripping down his face. He exhaled heavily as Deo approached, handing him a bottle of water.
"Here," Deo said with an easy smile.
Shark drank gratefully, then gestured for Deo to join him. Soon, Ronoa lowered himself beside them. The three sat together, weary from the day's grueling drills.
"That was brutal," Shark muttered, half-laughing. "Training or torment?"
Ronoa chuckled, but Deo only shook his head, smiling. "You complain now, but this is progress. Every drop of sweat brings us closer to being legends."
Shark leaned back, smirking. "Progress, huh? Feels more like punishment."
Deo's voice grew firm, though still calm. "Raw talent alone burns out. What the coach gives us may feel harsh, but it's what sharpens us. Without it, we'll fade. With it… we'll become the future legends of this game."
Shark stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Ronoa joined in, the sound carrying across the empty pitch as the three young stars shared a rare moment of ease.
---
Momodu Osas sat alone in his dimly lit chamber, the flicker of the screen reflecting in his sharp eyes.
The highlights of the clash with Devertary United played before him—every pass, every tackle, every moment of brilliance.
He watched his own goal once more, the calm strike that rippled the net, but his gaze lingered when Ryan Shark appeared on the screen.
The replay slowed, showing Shark's devastating change of direction, the burst of pace, the shot that tore into the back of the net. Osas leaned forward, his jaw tightening.
A strange energy stirred around him, subtle at first, then growing brighter. A deep purple aura began to envelop his body, its glow pulsating like a heartbeat, casting shadows across the room. His fists clenched, his voice low but firm, filled with both resolve and admiration.
"Shark…" he whispered. "Don't stop evolving. I want to be a legend—with you as my rival."
The aura flared, shimmering in the darkness, a silent vow that the battle between the two prodigies had only just begun
---
Inside the towering glass chambers of Maraford's headquarters, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Around a long mahogany table sat the team's top financiers—men whose influence stretched far beyond the stadium. At the head of the table, the coach stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing their cold and scrutinizing gazes.
One of the businessmen finally broke the silence.
"Tell us, Coach… can this team truly hold its ground? We've invested heavily, yet the results have been… underwhelming."
The coach's eyes sharpened, his voice steady but edged with defiance.
"Do not trouble yourselves. The team has strength—more than the numbers show. Our next clash is against Devertary United, and I assure you, gentlemen… we will deliver victory."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the board. Some exchanged skeptical looks, others sat back in disbelief at his confidence. But before anyone else could speak, a slow, deliberate voice cut through the room.
Vincent Greenwood—the most powerful man among them—leaned forward, his steely gaze fixed on the coach.
"A sure win, you say?" He let out a cold chuckle. "Tell me then… where was that certainty when you fell to the Lions? Or when Night Phantom humbled you? Or Acer Madrid? Three losses, Coach. Three. And your so-called 'redemption'—that scrape of a win over Darkvenger—" Greenwood waved a dismissive hand, "—was nothing but a fluke. A last-minute goal. Nothing worth our pride."
The room fell silent. The coach clenched his jaw but said nothing, his hands tightening behind his back.
Greenwood rose slowly, his tailored suit casting long shadows under the dim light.
"I'll be plain. If Maraford cannot claim victory over Devertary United, then I withdraw. My support will go to a team worthy of my backing—one that does not crumble under pressure."
For a moment, the weight of his words lingered heavy. Then, after a pause, the coach finally spoke, his voice low, restrained, but steady.
"Victory is never absolute. But we stand a fifty–fifty chance. And that… is enough."
Greenwood's lips curled into a thin, mocking smile. He adjusted his cufflinks, his voice carrying as he moved toward the door.
"Fifty–fifty? To me, Coach… it sounds more like ninety–ten. And not in your favor."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode out, the echo of his footsteps leaving the room colder than before.