The second half began and Takeshi's body screamed in a language that had no words.
His legs felt like concrete pillars. His lungs burned like someone had filled them with fire. His arms hung heavy at his sides—appendages he no longer owned. The fifteen minutes of halftime wasn't enough. Nothing could be enough. His muscles had memorized pain and were screaming it back at him with every breath.
Across the field, Yokohama's players looked fresh. Impossibly fresh. Like they'd been in a spa while Tokyo FC had been in a furnace.
The fitness gap wasn't theoretical anymore. It was visible. It was crushing. It was destiny written across the pitch.
Yokohama's midfielder—Hayato, Takeshi remembered from the scouting videos—blew past him like he was a training cone. The young demon tried to keep up. His legs responded but they were slow, sluggish, betraying him. By the time his brain caught up with the play, Hayato had already threaded a pass fifteen yards upfield.
Three years sitting at home. This is the price.
But it was more than that, wasn't it? It was seven years of Daichi improving while Takeshi had disappeared. It was the gap between someone who never stopped and someone who quit.
Sato was beside him, also dying. The midfielder's breathing was ragged, desperate. His face was pale. But his eyes—his eyes burned with something that refused to quit. That was the difference between Sato and everyone else. Even broken, even destroyed, he wouldn't give up.
"We can do this," Sato gasped, though neither of them believed it.
MINUTES 46-50: THE SIEGE BEGINS
Yokohama attacked like they were being paid by the goal.
Not individual chances. Organized, methodical waves. Pass and move. Pass and move. Creating triangles that Tokyo FC's tired defenders couldn't navigate. Every movement was designed to suffocate.
Kenji—the goalkeeper who'd been solid all match—threw his body across the goal line. Save number one. His face twisted in agony as he hit the ground hard. Took him three full seconds to get back up. Three seconds where he just lay there, chest heaving, wondering how many more of these he had left.
Then Yokohama attacked again.
The ball cycled through their midfield like it was on a conveyor belt. Pass to Hayato. Hayato to the right winger. Right winger back to the playmaker. Playmaker finding space. Shot. Kenji diving. Save number two.
"Come on!" Ryo was screaming from the back line. But even the captain's voice had changed. It was cracking. The confidence from the first half was gone, replaced by desperate pleading. "HOLD! Just hold!"
Yuta, the defender tasked with tracking Daichi, looked like a man being tortured. His legs were shaking. Not from the cold. From pure exhaustion. He was fighting for every step, every breath, every moment of focus. Daichi was toying with him now, doing unnecessary skill moves, making him look foolish because there was no challenge anymore.
The striker was playing in a different speed.
Takeshi could see it. Everyone could see it. Daichi wasn't even trying hard. He was just... existing at a level Tokyo FC couldn't reach.
MINUTE 51: YUTA'S BREAKING POINT
The Japanese defender had been marked to Daichi for fifty-six minutes now.
Fifty-six minutes of chess match where the opponent was a grandmaster and he was learning the rules. Every touch Daichi made was calculated. Every movement had three purposes. The striker would go left, pull Yuta out of position, then accelerate right to create space. Then do it again. And again. And again.
By minute 51, Yuta was running on fumes.
Daichi received the ball twenty yards out. Yuta closed him down immediately—desperation making him reckless. The striker turned sharply. Left foot. First touch killing the ball perfectly.
Yuta's body tried to follow. His mind said turn. His muscles said no.
Cramp.
It hit like lightning. His left hamstring seized mid-stride and his leg buckled. He collapsed hard onto the pitch, face twisted in agony, hands reaching for the back of his thigh. The pain was blinding. But worse than the pain was the helplessness. Knowing Daichi was about to score. Knowing he couldn't stop it.
Space opened up like a wound.
Daichi shot from eighteen yards. Low. Hard. Into the far corner.
Kenji dove—impossibly, somehow getting a fingertip to it. The ball deflected just wide. Inches. Millimeters. The difference between a goal and a save that made the crowd gasp.
But Yuta didn't care about the save.
He was still on the ground, medics running toward him. Tears streaming down his face. Not from pain. From failure. His voice was barely a whisper: "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I couldn't..."
Ryo was there immediately, grabbing the young defender's face. "You've done enough. More than enough. You've been perfect. Let the medics help."
Yuta nodded, jaw clenching so hard it looked like his teeth might shatter. "Don't let him score again. Please."
"We won't," Ryo promised, knowing it might be a lie.
MINUTE 52-55: TAKESHI'S PRIVATE APOCALYPSE
Every step was a negotiation between his will and his body.
The demon's mind was sharp—analytically sharp. He could see every play developing three moves ahead. Could predict Yokohama's movements. Could identify spaces before they formed. But his legs? His lungs? His cardiovascular system? All screaming: NO MORE.
I'm fifteen years old. I have the tactical brain of a thirty-four-year-old professional and the fitness of someone who quit for three years.
This was the cost of running away.
Beside him, Sato was barely holding on. The midfielder's face was grey. Sweat poured down his temples. His breathing was so labored it sounded like a death rattle. But he kept running. Kept moving. Kept fighting.
"Can't... keep up..." Sato gasped between plays.
Every word was agony. His body was shutting down. Takeshi could see it happening. The great midfielder who'd carried this team alone for two years was finally breaking.
But Takeshi grabbed his shoulder. "Have to. No choice."
"Why?" Sato looked at him with genuine desperation. "Why are we still fighting? We're going to lose anyway. They're too good. We're too tired. Why?"
The question hung between them as Yokohama recycled possession again.
Why?
And Takeshi's mind went to grandmother's hospital bed. To his parents' exhausted faces. To the three years of running away. To Elsa's monthly calls, voice full of hope even when she thought he was lost. To Sato never giving up, sending match updates to someone who wouldn't even respond.
"Because I quit once," Takeshi said quietly. "And it destroyed me. Because if I stop now, what was the point of coming back?"
Sato looked at him. Through the exhaustion. Through the pain. And something in his expression changed. Like he needed that reason. Needed to know the suffering meant something.
"Okay," Sato nodded. "Okay. Let's die out here then."
MINUTE 56: COACH TANAKA'S IMPOSSIBLE DECISION
The coach stood on the sideline, hand on his chin, eyes locked on Takeshi.
The kid could barely stand. Stumbling. Gasping. One moderately strong breeze and he'd topple over like a felled tree.
Any rational coach would pull him. Bring on a fresh player. Preserve what they had left.
But Tanaka had coached for thirty years. He'd seen thousands of matches, hundreds of players. And he recognized something in Takeshi's eyes that defied logic. That refused sanity.
That kid won't forgive me if I pull him now. He'll hate me forever. But more than that—he won't forgive himself.
"Five more minutes, Yamamoto!" he shouted. "Then you're out! Rest those legs!"
Takeshi didn't respond. Didn't have enough energy to waste on talking. Just nodded once. A slight incline of his head that probably took all his remaining strength.
Five minutes of hell. Then five more if we're still alive. Then five more after that.
I'm not leaving this field unless they carry me off in a stretcher.
MINUTE 57-60: THE PRESSURE COOKER
Yokohama attacked in waves that seemed endless.
Not individual plays anymore. Sustained, methodical assault. Like watching a boxer in the tenth round, already knowing he's won, just making sure the opponent stays down.
Tokyo FC defended with every ounce of their broken bodies.
Kenji made a save. Watched it. Called out positioning. Made another save. His voice was getting hoarse from screaming directions. His hands were red from the ball. Every save left him gasping.
Yuta, back on the field despite the cramp, limping, threw himself in front of shots. Literally put his body on the line. Not tactical defending. Just raw desperation. The defender didn't care about style points. He cared about survival.
Ryo was everywhere. Everywhere. Constantly adjusting. Constantly communicating. The captain was on fumes but his leadership was the only thing holding the back line together. Without his constant voice, without his presence, they would've collapsed ten minutes ago.
The crowd sensed it. Could taste it. The inevitable breaking point was coming. Tokyo FC was holding by a thread and everyone knew it.
Takeshi could feel it too. That pressure building. That sense of the dam about to give. It wasn't a question of if anymore. Just when.
Please. Just hold. A little longer. Give us one more chance.
MINUTE 62: DAICHI'S THIRD GOAL - THE BREAKING POINT
Corner kick to Yokohama.
Everyone in the Tokyo FC penalty area. Bodies pressed together. Tension so thick you could cut it. Kenji standing on his line, bouncing slightly, trying to read the flight of the ball before it came.
The ball swung in. A perfect arc. Beautiful. Devastating.
Chaos in the box.
Heads went up. Bodies collided. Kenji came off his line and punched it clear—but not far enough. Just to the edge of the box. Hayato was there, alert, already moving to the rebound.
He shot without thinking. Instinct. Survival.
Blocked. But the ball rebounded directly to Daichi. Eight yards out. The most dangerous zone in football.
Yuta lunged desperately. Takeshi slid from behind, desperately trying to block. Both too slow. Both too tired. Both human.
Daichi didn't even look at the goalkeeper.
One touch. Perfect control. Finish: clinical. Top corner. Unstoppable.
The net rippled.
GOAL. 2-3. (MINUTE 62)
The silence that followed was worse than any noise.
Tokyo FC fell. Some to their knees. Some just bent over, hands on thighs, shoulders shaking. Not crying. Just... accepting the weight of reality.
We fought so hard. Came back twice. Equalized twice. And it's not enough. It's never enough.
The scoreboard read: 2-3. Fifteen minutes of pure aggression and they were behind. Behind. After everything. After matching them. After proving they belonged.
Takeshi looked at the numbers like they were a personal insult.
Sato's voice broke: "Get up... please... get up... we're not done yet..."
But they all wanted to be done. The suffering was too much. The gap too wide. Every rational part of their brains screamed: surrender.
But they stood anyway.
Every single one of them.
Because quitting hurt worse than this. Because they'd tasted respectability. Because last place was refusing to stay last place.
MINUTE 63-67: THE COUNTERATTACK
Tokyo FC attacked like men possessed by madness.
No tactics. No strategy. Just pure, mindless desperation thrown at Yokohama's perfectly organized defense.
Ryo pushing forward, leaving gaps at the back. Winger making runs into crowded spaces. Sato attempting dribbles when passing would've been smarter. Chaos masquerading as football.
Yokohama defended comfortably. They'd seen this before. Last-place teams fighting their final stand. The scoreline always ended the same way.
But something in Tokyo FC's eyes said they didn't care about history anymore.
"EVERYTHING!" Ryo was screaming, his voice raw. "GIVE EVERYTHING! FOR THIS TEAM! FOR EACH OTHER!"
And they responded. God help them, they responded. A shot from twenty-five yards. A corner kick earned through sheer desperation. Another shot, this one forcing their goalkeeper to make an actual save.
The crowd, even the Yokohama supporters—started to shift. Started to recognize something. Not victory. But heart. These kids refused to die quietly.
MINUTE 68: THE SECOND ASSIST - REFUSING THE DARKNESS
Sato won a ball in midfield.
Pure effort. Pure determination. The midfielder threw himself into a challenge, took a brutal knee to the thigh, the kind that leaves bruises for weeks, but didn't lose focus. Passed first. Always passed first.
To Takeshi.
Two Yokohama defenders converged immediately. Takeshi's legs barely responded. His mind screaming MOVE but his body saying I have nothing left.
Can't dribble past them. Too tired.
Can't shoot from here. Not from this angle.
But Ryo... Ryo was making a run. Perfect timing. Perfect positioning. If Takeshi could just thread it through...
Outside foot pass.
The ball left his foot and for a moment, just a moment—everything froze. Takeshi didn't know if it would work. Vision blurring from exhaustion. The ball traveling through impossible space between three defenders.
But Ryo got it. Controlled. One-on-one with the goalkeeper.
The striker didn't hesitate. Chip. Beautiful. Confident.
GOAL. 3-3. (MINUTE 68)
The explosion that followed was different from the first half.
This wasn't clean joy. This was primal relief. Desperate, gasping relief that came from staring into the abyss and refusing to fall in.
Takeshi collapsed after the pass. Didn't celebrate. Couldn't celebrate. Just fell to his knees, hands on the grass, entire body shaking.
Sato was there immediately, pulling him up, both of them barely standing, leaning on each other like the only thing keeping them vertical was mutual stubbornness and spite.
"Two assists," Sato gasped, unable to believe it. "You... you magnificent... idiot..."
Takeshi laughed. Or cried. Hard to tell which. Maybe both. His body was still shaking. "One more goal. Just one more. We can do this."
But even saying it felt like a lie.
MINUTE 69-71: WAR CRIMES
The match devolved into something visceral. Something primal.
Tackles flying that would've earned red cards in any civilized competition. Referee showing yellow cards like handing out candy at Halloween. Both teams too exhausted for technique, just running on pure adrenaline and spite.
Takeshi took an elbow to the ribs. Went down. Couldn't breathe. Medic checking him frantically. "Can you continue?"
"I'm fine," he lied, every word agony.
"No you're not."
"I don't care."
Got back up anyway. Couldn't stay down. Wouldn't stay down.
Across the field, Daichi was bleeding from his lip. A nasty cut from an accidental clash. Still playing. Still hunting. The prodigy didn't flinch at pain. Just accepted it and moved forward.
We're all dying out here, Takeshi realized. The question isn't whether we can continue. It's who's willing to die hardest.
Both teams were willing.
MINUTE 72-73: THE FINAL MIRACLE
Ball loose in midfield. Fifty-fifty challenge. Takeshi and a Yokohama midfielder both lunging.
Win this or everything ends. Lose this and we fall into the darkness.
Adult instincts screamed: WIN.
His body responded in a way that defied physics. Somehow, impossibly, he got the touch. Won the challenge by millimeters. By pure will.
Space opened ahead. One defender closing. Step-over—sloppy, but it worked. Through. Another defender. Can't beat him one-on-one. Too tired.
Pass to winger. Keep moving. Get it back. Edge of box now.
Twenty yards out.
The world narrowed to this moment. This shot. This chance.
His legs burned. His lungs screamed. His entire body was operating on borrowed time.
TIME RELAY... if I use it now, I'm done. Nothing left after. But if I don't, I'll miss. And we'll lose. And all of this suffering means nothing.
Decision made.
Eyes narrowing.
TIME RELAY: ACTIVATED.
The world slowed to honey.
Everything was clear now. Crystal clear. The burning lungs. The screaming muscles. The overwhelming exhaustion—all magnified in slow motion. But also—clarity. Perfect, beautiful clarity.
Goalkeeper leaning left. Defender's sliding tackle coming. Right corner: OPEN.
0.8 seconds of slowed time.
This is everything. Every morning run with Sato. Every dropped ball in practice. Every moment of doubt. Every time I almost quit. All of it comes down to this single shot.
This is the moment I prove I'm not a failure.
Don't miss.
Time resumed.
Shooting through the tackle. Defender's leg destroying his shin. Pain white-hot and immediate. Saw stars. Tasted copper. But the ball was already gone.
Low. Hard. Right corner.
Goalkeeper diving. Fingertips reaching. Getting there.
Not enough.
GOAL. 3-3. (MINUTE 73)
Takeshi didn't celebrate.
Couldn't celebrate.
Just collapsed completely. TIME RELAY had consumed the last 16% of his reserves and left him with vapor. On the ground. Vision blurring. Hearing muffled. Body convulsing slightly.
Did it go in? Please tell me it went in.
The crowd exploded into noise.
Then teammates were there. Screaming. Crying. Lifting him despite his collapsed state. "TWO GOALS! TWO ASSISTS! YOU DID IT!"
"YOU MATCHED HIM!"
The medic was checking him. "Can you continue?"
Every cell in Takeshi's body screamed: NO.
His mouth said: "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I know. But I'm staying."
MINUTE 74-75: THE COST OF IMMORTALITY
Coach Tanaka was already calling for substitution.
A fresh player was warming up. Young legs. Full lungs. The kid who'd been waiting on the bench all match.
Takeshi saw it. Understood. Refused.
He literally pushed the substitute away. The replacement looked stunned. "I'm finishing this," Takeshi rasped, every word sounding like gravel.
"You can't even walk!"
"I don't need to walk. Just stand. Just be here."
Sato stepped between them. "Leave him in, Coach. We're going down, we go down together."
Coach Tanaka looked at both of them—these kids who should've given up an hour ago, should've quit, should've accepted their predetermined place at the bottom.
Looked at his team. Looked at the scoreboard. Looked at fifteen minutes of remaining football.
"Fifteen minutes," he said quietly. "Then it's over. One way or another."
MINUTE 75: MUTUAL RECOGNITION
Yokohama's kickoff.
Daichi looked across the field at Takeshi. Both warriors. Both broken. Both refusing the darkness.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the roar of the crowd disappeared. The pain disappeared. Everything disappeared except two competitors recognizing each other at the highest level.
Daichi nodded slowly. "Respect, Yamamoto."
Takeshi nodded back, barely able to stand. "Likewise."
No more words. Too tired for words. Too tired for anything except this final dance.
But Daichi's eyes said: I'm scoring the fourth. I promised four. I keep my promises.
And Takeshi's eyes answered: Not if I stop you. Not if I score first.
Both understanding. Both accepting the terms of their war.
The clock ticked.
Fourteen minutes to decide who wanted it more.
Fourteen minutes to decide if heroes could be built from the ruins of failure.
In the stands:
Akari was crying. Hands over her mouth. Watching Takeshi barely standing. Watching him refuse to leave. Watching him kill himself for a boy and a match that shouldn't matter this much but somehow mattered more than anything in the world.
On the field, Takeshi caught Sato's eye.
Both destroyed. Both smiling somehow through the agony.
Fourteen minutes.
Let's finish what we started.
The ball moved. The crowd roared. The clock ticked.
One team would break.
One team would stand.
Fourteen minutes of pure, distilled warfare.
Everything on the line.