The midday sun bore down mercilessly on the 5 v 5 field at Saint Marx College. A crowd had gathered around the makeshift sidelines, murmuring and whispering, anticipation buzzing in the air like electricity.
Today, Bapala's team—a haphazard group of kids plucked randomly from the sidelines—was about to face the Shadow Kings, the most feared 5 v 5 squad on the grade 8 field.
As the whistle blew, the ball was immediately dominated by Ofenste, one of the Shadow Kings' most lethal players. He danced past each of Bapala's random teammates, flicking the ball over one, then nutmegging another with such fluid precision that it seemed as though the defenders didn't exist. Gasps and whispers rose from the crowd.
Bapala's heart pounded as he tried to intercept, stepping forward with determination. But in the blink of an eye, Ofenste performed a slick nutmeg on him. The ball slipped through Bapala's legs, and he froze—staring in disbelief as the crowd erupted in laughter. Heat flushed his face. Shame burned in his chest like fire.
Before he could recover, Ofenste passed the ball to Treasure, the self-proclaimed King of the Field, who moved with almost supernatural poise. A single, precise tap and the ball was in the net. 1-0. Treasure barely even looked at the goal as he scored, his grin radiating arrogance, eyes glinting with the thrill of dominance.
Bapala's team scrambled. The ball was back in their possession, and Bapala quickly passed to a random player who darted down the wing with surprising speed. Random Player attempted a cross back toward Bapala, aiming for a creative counter. But the pass sailed over his head.
Bapala lunged, stretching every sinew to stop the ball from crossing the line. But the Shadow Kings pressed with relentless aggression. Ofenste came forward, intent on intercepting, yet every time he approached the ball, Bapala reacted with lightning speed. His movements were almost preternatural, his instincts kicking in with impossible precision. He blitzed the ball left, then right, seemingly in multiple directions at once.
The crowd froze. Whispers turned to shouts:
"Did he just—?"
"No way… he passed him!"
Bapala then executed a sudden, perfectly timed nutmeg on Ofenste. The Shadow King fell to the ground, red-faced with shame, unable to even look up. The silence from the crowd was deafening—shock painted across every student's face. For a moment, it seemed as though Bapala might pull off a miracle.
But then, a shadow loomed over him. Tlapa Šoma, the Great Wall of China, charged. In a blur of strength and precision, he collided with Bapala. The impact sent him flying nearly three meters across the field. The sheer force left the air around him vibrating, as though life itself had been momentarily expelled from his body. His eyes, which had burned with a near-robotic, devious focus seconds ago, now flickered out, replaced by stunned disorientation.
Treasure smirked from the center of the pitch, arms crossed. His voice cut through the shocked silence like a blade:
"Know your place. That's where you belong—on the ground, at my feet."
Bapala groaned, trying to rise, but the weight of humiliation pressed down harder than the collision had. The crowd's murmurs escalated, whispers of awe, fear, and disbelief mixing into a tense cacophony.
Amid the chaos, Tsebo Maatla, The Academic, leaned casually against the sideline, a small, knowing smile on his face. He had seen enough—he knew something everyone else didn't. There was more to Bapala than met the eye, and today, this battle would only hint at his potential.
The alarm blared. Ten minutes were up. The final whistle echoed through the small stadium: 1-0, Shadow Kings.
Treasure's grin widened, teeth glinting in the sunlight. The Shadow Kings had done it again, dominating yet another first-year team, their reputation untouchable.
But before Bapala could gather his pride, Tsebo stepped onto the field. He walked straight toward Treasure, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to the King of the Field's arrogance.
"I'm quitting the Shadow Kings," Tsebo said, voice steady, eyes unwavering.
The crowd went silent. Gasps echoed. Students nudged each other, unsure if they had heard correctly. Treasure's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of rage.
"What?!" Treasure bellowed. "Fine! We don't need you! You're replaceable, just like everybody else!"
The words hit the air like stones, yet Tsebo remained unfazed. He took another step forward, and to everyone's shock—including Bapala—he turned and faced the young first-year directly.
Then, with a calm authority that seemed to bend the chaos of the field, Tsebo spoke:
"I'm joining your team."
The crowd erupted in disbelief. Whispers became excited chatter. A first-year? Bapala? And Tsebo, The Academic, choosing him?
Bapala blinked, his shock quickly morphing into a grin that split his face. The randomness, the awkwardness, the unpolished lineup of his team suddenly felt like an opportunity. The field, the ball, the Shadow Kings—it was no longer about humiliation or fear. It was about starting something new.
The 5 v 5 battlefield had just shifted. And Bapala? He was ready.