The sun hung low over Saint Marx College, casting long shadows across the small 5 v 5 field.
The orange-pink hue of the evening sky blended into the fading blue of the day, bathing the campus in a warm glow.
The air was thick with the faint smell of grass and dust, mingled with the metallic tang of adrenaline that always accompanied a competitive match.
Leaves rustled gently in the breeze, but the excitement of the crowd drowned out everything else.
A crowd of students had gathered, murmurs buzzing through the air like electric currents.
They pressed close to the sidelines, elbows brushing, voices hushed and tense, all eyes fixed on the field.
The energy was tangible, almost suffocating, a mix of anticipation, fear, and awe that seemed to ripple like a current through the onlookers.
"Have you seen them play?" one whispered, a note of awe and apprehension threading through their voice.
"They call themselves… the Shadow Kings," another replied, eyes wide with disbelief and a twinge of fear. "And the ball owner? They say he's the King of the Field."
A newcomer, barely taller than a first-year student, suddenly points at the field, holding his chin and furrowing his brows. "But where is their fifth member? Isn't this a 5 v 5 match?"
The murmurs were enough to send a shiver down the spines of first-years and newcomers alike.
The Shadow Kings were not just feared; they were legendary. Tales of their unmatched skill on the Saint Marx Primary 5 v 5 field had been told and retold until they became myths.
Now, these myths had come to life on the Saint Marx College field, and the air vibrated with a mix of excitement and dread.
Across the field, a nervous group of first-years, barely used to the sprawling campus and new routines, huddled together.
They were strangers in a new world, unfamiliar with the ways of the college and overshadowed by the legends in front of them.
They weren't from Saint Marx Primary, and the learners who had attended primary there looked at them with a mixture of disdain and superiority, judging them as if mere bloodlines could determine skill.
Their faces were pale with uncertainty, hands trembling slightly on their knees, and their breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts.
And then, with a sharp whistle that cut through the murmurs like a knife, the match began.
The ball snapped into motion, and immediately, the difference in skill became brutally obvious.
Movement that had looked simple moments ago now revealed layers of precision, speed, and awareness that seemed almost superhuman.
Treasure, the ball owner and self-proclaimed King of the Field, controlled the center like a predator stalking prey, his body flowing with a deadly elegance.
Every feint, every shift in weight, every glance carried intention, and every motion demanded respect.
He barked orders, his sharp eyes scanning for weaknesses, every movement radiating arrogance and confidence.
Around him, his teammates responded with seamless coordination, each pass and run a testament to countless hours of practice and an instinctive understanding of each other's movements.
But the real spectacle was Tsebo Maatla — The Academic. He stood out immediately, even among legends. His unusual long blue hair framed his calm, noble-like face, while glasses covered his dark brown eyes, giving him an air of calculated precision.
There was an almost ethereal quality to his movements, a rhythm that seemed preordained, as though the ball and body obeyed some unspoken law of physics under his control.
Though a newcomer to this setting, Tsebo's skills were undeniable.
With a flick of the ball over one defender's head, he spun past another with a slick nutmeg, leaving both opponents gaping.
His control was flawless, his vision impeccable, the kind of intelligence that allowed him to predict movements before they happened.
Tsebo didn't even hesitate.
Spotting Treasure making a run into the box, he sent a precise curve pass that split the defense like a knife through fabric.
Treasure met it cleanly, tapping it in with a calm, almost casual grace. Goal. 1-0.
The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that seemed to shake the very air. Whispers erupted like wildfire:
"Did you see that pass?"
"Treasure scored again… and it was all thanks to The Academic!"
"Shadow Kings… they're unstoppable!"
The newcomers tried to mount a counterattack, desperation written across every movement.
The opposition center forward charged, swinging at the ball with all his might, but the Shadow Kings were a wall of precision and power.
Treasure anticipated the movement, but before he could reach it, a squadmate, Tlapa Šoma, also known as the Great Wall of China, leapt forward, rising gracefully and heading the ball clear in a sudden burst of strength that seemed almost unnatural.
His short stature belied the immense presence he carried; his movements were calculated, flawless, and impossibly fast.
It seemed the Goalkeeper, Arabeile, also known as the Guardian Angel, didn't even have to intervene.
Tlapa would stop anything and anyone. Arabeile herself was small, elegant, with long brown hair that caressed her slender frame every time she moved.
She looked almost delicate, as if she belonged in a different world, yet on the field, she was a force of precision and calm, making impossible saves look effortless.
Anyone would think she ought to be doing something else, not dominating a football field, but there she was—unyielding and confident.
Time ticked down, fifteen minutes passing like lightning, and every move the newcomers tried was effortlessly countered.
Treasure weaved past opponents with a devilish grin, mocking every player who failed to keep pace with his movements.
Every feint, pass, and flick displayed a combination of creativity, intuition, and dominance.
The newcomers struggled, faltered, and broke under pressure, their panic feeding the Shadow Kings' superiority.
By the final whistle, the scoreline told the story: Shadow Kings 1 — Newcomers 0.
Treasure raised his chin, scanning the crowd with a smug expression.
"Next!" he barked, his voice carrying authority and a challenge to anyone daring to step forward. His gaze fell on a boy standing at the edge of the field.
Bapala Modiri.
The whispers died instantly as all eyes turned to him. His presence, calm yet confident, drew attention.
"Are you playing, or are you just going to watch?" Treasure asked, pointing directly at him.
Bapala swallowed hard, but a grin slowly spread across his face. "I'm playing," he said, his voice steady and unwavering.
He started warming up, juggling a nearby ball with casual ease, each touch precise, controlled, and confident.
Around him, students began to whisper again, unsure who he was or what to expect.
He didn't have a squad yet, so he began picking random students from the crowd to join his scheme.
Each student hesitated, their uncertainty visible, but eventually agreed, drawn in by Bapala's confidence, energy, and grin.
Slowly, they formed a makeshift team, the tension in their shoulders easing as they realized they had someone who could lead them.
The field seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation, as if it were aware of the clash about to unfold.
The sun continued its descent, casting a reddish-golden glow across the pitch, highlighting every movement, every shadow, and every hopeful heartbeat.
The next match was about to begin — and this time, Bapala would step onto it himself, ready to take on legends, ready to stake his claim, and ready to ignite a fire that would be remembered for years to come.
The tension in the air was palpable, every student leaning forward, eyes locked on the field.
Every blade of grass seemed to shimmer under the setting sun, waiting to witness the emergence of a new contender.
Bapala's boots touched the pitch, his fingers brushing slightly against the laces of his gloves, every muscle coiled and ready for the challenge.
Today, nothing else mattered—no whispers, no doubts, only the game and the fire that burned within him.
Verse of the Chapter
And Saul said unto his servants, Provide me now a man that can play well, and bring him to me.
-- 1 Samuel 16:17