"Break his legs."
The words hung in the humid air like smoke.
Number 4 didn't whisper it. He didn't hide it behind his hand. He said it with the casual certainty of a butcher asking for a cleaver.
The restart whistle blew.
Westside kicked off. They didn't pass the ball backward to set up play. They booted it forward, high and chaotic.
It wasn't a pass. It was a signal. Go hunting.
The Westside midfielders swarmed. They were big. Not gym-sculpted big, but farm-fed, hay-bale-lifting big. They crashed into Northwood's smaller players like trucks hitting deer.
Thud.
Crack.
The sound of bodies hitting bodies echoed across the pitch.
Marcus Kane caught a shoulder to the chest that knocked the wind out of him. He crumpled, gasping.
"Play on!" the referee waved.
Of course.
Coach Cross chewed on his toothpick on the sideline. He didn't yell at the ref. He knew the deal. Westside had been playing this way for ten years. It was their brand. They turned football into a brawl, and by the time the ref found his cards, the other team was already broken.
"Coach!" Luna squeezed her clipboard until her knuckles turned white. "Marcus can't breathe! You have to stop this!"
"I can't stop a hurricane, Luna," Cross said, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. "I can only watch if our house is strong enough to stand."
Soccer jogged near the center circle.
He felt the vibration through his thin leather soles. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three sets of footsteps. Behind him.
He didn't need to look. He knew the cadence.
Number 4. Number 5. And a defensive midfielder with a neck like a tree stump.
They weren't looking at the ball. The ball was thirty yards away, near the Northwood corner flag where Westside was pummeling the left back.
They were looking at him.
"You're dead, kid," Number 5 breathed.
Soccer tilted his head. "But I don't have the ball."
"Does it look like I care?"
Number 5 lunged.
He stomped on Soccer's foot. Hard. It was meant to shatter toes. To crush the metatarsals into powder.
But Soccer's foot wasn't there.
He hadn't run away. He had simply... lifted his foot.
The Heron Stance.
For a split second, Soccer stood on one leg, motionless, while Number 5's cleats hammered into the turf where his toes had been a microsecond before.
Soccer set his foot back down. Tap.
"You missed," Soccer noted helpful. "The grass can't feel pain, but that looked like it hurt the ground."
Number 5 growled. His face turned purple. "You little—"
"Hey!"
A shout from downfield.
Soccer looked.
Marcus had the ball. He had recovered his breath and made a tackle. Now he was looking upfield, searching for a pass.
"Soccer! Run!" Marcus screamed, launching a long ball into space.
It was a bad pass. Too high. Too floaty. It hung in the air like a bloody steak tossed into a pit of lions.
The Westside defenders saw it. They saw the arc. They saw the landing point.
And they saw Soccer running toward it.
"Sandwich him!" Number 4 roared.
It was the classic execution maneuver. Two defenders converging from opposite angles at full speed. They wouldn't go for the ball. They would go through the player jumping for it.
Airborne collision. No leverage. Maximum damage.
Soccer saw the ball dropping. He saw the two blue jerseys rushing him like missiles.
Geometry, Soccer thought.
On the mountain, if you jump for a ledge and miss, you fall. If you jump and a rock falls on you, you die.
He calculated the trajectories.
Blue Jersey A coming from the left at 20 mph.
Blue Jersey B coming from the right at 18 mph.
The ball dropping at... roughly gravity speed.
He had to jump. If he didn't jump, he lost the ball. If he jumped, he got crushed.
Or.
Or he could change the nature of the collision.
Soccer sprinted. He didn't slow down. He planted his black Copa Mundials into the turf.
He leaped.
He went insanely high. His vertical was ridiculous—built from years of jumping gap-to-gap on cliffs.
He reached the ball a full second before the defenders arrived.
He headed it. A cushion header, dropping the ball down to the space in front of him.
Then, gravity took over. He started to fall.
The defenders arrived.
They smashed into him mid-air.
It should have broken his ribs. It should have sent him spinning into the hospital wing.
But Soccer didn't stay rigid.
Leaf in the Wind.
At the moment of impact, Soccer went completely limp. He relaxed every muscle in his torso. He exhaled all the air in his lungs.
When two hard objects hit, things break. When a hard object hits a soft one, energy absorbs.
Soccer folded around the impact. He let their momentum carry him. He spun off Number 4's shoulder, used Number 5's arm as a pivot, and rotated in the air.
The three of them crashed to the ground in a heap.
A whistle?
No whistle.
"Get off me!" Number 4 shoved Soccer.
But Soccer was already up.
He rolled backward, springing to his feet like he was made of rubber bands. The ball, which he had headed down, was bouncing happily two yards away.
Soccer snagged it with his toe.
"Thanks for the boost!" he chirped.
He turned toward goal.
Only one defender left. The sweeper. A smaller, faster guy.
Soccer didn't dribble. He just punched the ball forward—thirty yards—into open space.
"Catch me!"
It was a race. And nobody beat the boy who raced avalanches.
He burned the sweeper. Left him eating rubber pellets.
Goal keeper one-on-one. Again.
The keeper learned from the last time. He stayed on his line. He spread his arms. No chip this time.
Soccer arrived at the box.
He raised his right leg to shoot. A massive wind-up.
The keeper tensed, crouching low, ready to spring for the bottom corner.
Soccer's foot came down.
Chop.
He chopped down on the ball, creating insane backspin.
The ball popped up. Not forward. Up.
It floated over the confused keeper's head, agonizingly slow. The keeper jumped, swatting backward.
The ball kissed the crossbar. Clang.
And dropped over the line.
GOAL.
Northwood: 2 - Westside: 0
Silence again. But this time, the silence had teeth.
Soccer turned to celebrate. "Two nil! Marcus, did you see that jum—"
He stopped.
Marcus wasn't cheering.
Marcus was on the ground back at the midfield line. He was clutching his ankle. He wasn't getting up.
Number 4 stood over him, spitting on the turf. He had "followed through" on the pass long after Marcus had kicked it.
The referee finally blew the whistle. Not for the goal. For the injury.
Soccer's smile vanished.
It didn't fade. It didn't turn into a frown.
It was just... deleted.
He walked past the celebrating Dylan, past the cheering bench. He walked all the way back to the midfield circle where Luna was sprinting onto the field with a medical kit.
"Marcus?" Soccer asked. His voice was flat. Empty.
Marcus hissed through grit teeth. "I'm... I'm okay. Just a twist. They stepped... on the achilles."
"It's swollen," Luna said, hands shaking as she touched the ankle. "Coach, he needs to come off."
"No!" Marcus grabbed Luna's wrist. "If I come off... they win. The team... look at them."
Soccer looked.
The rest of Northwood—Dylan, Elijah, the wingers—they were pale. They were trembling. They watched Number 4 standing with his hands on his hips, laughing with Number 5.
They were prey. And they knew it.
If the Alpha went down, the pack would scatter.
"Tape it," Marcus growled. "Tape it tight. I'm staying."
Coach Cross looked at Marcus's eyes. Then he nodded. "Tape him."
Soccer stood there. He looked at Marcus's pain-twisted face. Then he looked at Number 4.
The Westside captain met his gaze and drew a thumb across his throat.
Nature is cruel, Soccer thought. In the mountains, the wolves pick off the sick. They separate the injured.
He had scored two goals. He had humiliated them.
And because they couldn't catch him, they were hurting his pack.
His pack.
They are my responsibility.
It was a strange thought. He never had people before. He only had survival. But looking at Marcus—who gave him the pass, who trusted him—something hot ignited in Soccer's stomach.
It wasn't the fun excitement of playing.
It was cold.
Soccer walked over to Number 4.
He didn't get in his face. He stood a respectful three feet away.
"You stepped on him on purpose," Soccer said. It wasn't a question.
Number 4 sneered, towering over the shorter boy. "That's football, pixie. It's a contact sport. Maybe you should go back to playing with dolls."
"Okay," Soccer nodded slowly. "Contact sport."
He turned away.
But as he walked back to his position, he bent down and tightened the laces on his Copa Mundials. He pulled them so tight the black leather creaked.
Grip check.
"Game on," Soccer whispered.
Westside kickoff.
Usually, strikers drop back to the center line to defend.
Soccer didn't drop back. He stood right on the edge of the center circle, staring at the ball.
The whistle blew.
Westside passed back to Number 5.
Number 5 looked up to launch a long ball—
Whoosh.
A black streak.
Soccer didn't just run. He exploded.
The distance between them—ten yards—evaporated.
Number 5 panicked. He saw the demon coming. He tried to turn, to shield the ball with his massive body.
Soccer didn't go for the ball.
He ran into the space Number 5 wanted to occupy.
Shoulder-to-Shoulder.
Legal contact. But it requires leverage.
Number 5 was bigger. He leaned in, expecting to bounce the kid off.
But Soccer wasn't running upright. He was running at a 45-degree angle, driving his shoulder low, right into Number 5's center of gravity.
And Soccer didn't just lean. He pulsed.
A technique used by mountain rams. A short, explosive burst of muscle at the point of impact.
BANG.
It sounded like a car crash.
Number 5 didn't just stumble. He flew. He was lifted off his feet and tossed sideways, crashing onto the turf five yards away.
Soccer emerged with the ball.
The referee put the whistle to his lips—then stopped. Shoulder to shoulder. Clean. Brutal, but clean.
Soccer didn't shoot.
He stopped.
He put his foot on the ball. He stood in the middle of the Westside half.
"Come and get it," he said.
It wasn't a taunt. It was an order.
Number 4 saw his brother on the ground. He saw red.
"GET HIM! EVERYONE!"
This was what Soccer wanted.
Three midfielders and Number 4 converged. They abandoned their positions. They abandoned the wings. They rushed the center like water swirling down a drain.
Marcus, limping near the halfway line, saw it.
"He's... he's drawing aggro," Marcus realized. "Like a raid boss."
Soccer waited until the studs were inches from his shins.
Then he moved.
Not a dribble.
A pass.
The Mountain Echo.
In a canyon, sound bounces. It comes from everywhere and nowhere.
Soccer flicked the ball with the outside of his heel. A no-look back-pass.
It rolled perfectly into the massive empty space the angry defenders had just vacated.
Into the path of Elijah Storm, the nervous Vice-Captain.
Elijah was wide open. Nobody was within twenty yards of him. The entire Westside defense was crowded around Soccer.
"Shoot!" Soccer yelled, diving over a sliding tackle that aimed to snap his femur.
Elijah blinked. He had never been this open in his life. He looked at the goal.
He took a touch. He settled himself.
He shot.
It wasn't a great shot. It scuffed the ground. But the keeper was blocked by his own wall of defenders trying to kill Soccer. He didn't see the ball until it rolled past him.
Bottom corner.
GOAL.
Northwood: 3 - Westside: 0
The Westside players stood frozen.
Soccer picked himself up off the ground. He had dirt on his cheek and a scrape on his knee.
He looked at Number 4.
"That's three," Soccer said calmly. "And I still don't have a bruise. Are you trying?"
Number 4 was shaking. Literally shaking with rage. But now, mixed with the rage, there was something else.
Fear.
Because this wasn't football.
This was a boy playing with wolves. And the boy wasn't afraid to get bitten.
"You're a freak," Number 4 whispered. "What are you?"
Soccer walked away, toward his team who were dog-piling Elijah. He stopped for a second and looked back.
"I'm the environment," Soccer said. "You guys are just the tourists."
Halftime.
The locker room was different this time.
Usually, Northwood at halftime was a morgue. Heads down. Arguing. Silence.
Today, it was vibrating.
"Did you see that pass?" Elijah was still hyperventilating. "He dragged four of them! Four! I could have driven a bus through that gap!"
Marcus sat on the bench, his ankle heavily taped. He was watching Soccer.
Soccer was sitting on the floor, eating an orange slice. He looked peaceful. The predatory aura was gone, replaced by the innocent mountain boy.
"My ribs hurt a little," Soccer mentioned, poking his side. "Ground here is hard."
"Soccer," Marcus said. The room went quiet.
"Yeah?"
"Why didn't you score the third one? You had the lane. You could have ghost-stepped Number 4."
Soccer swallowed the orange slice. He looked at his teammates. He looked at Dylan, who wasn't shaking anymore. He looked at Elijah, who was standing taller.
"Wolves are scary," Soccer said simply. "But if you show the pack that the wolves can bleed... the pack isn't scared anymore."
He pointed at Number 5, who was currently limping off the field through the window.
"I tipped the cow. You guys ate the steak."
Coach Cross stood in the doorway. He let out a low whistle.
He realized he had made a mistake.
He thought he was bringing in a weapon. A solo assassin.
But Soccer wasn't just an assassin.
He's a King, Cross thought. An uncrowned, dirt-poor, uneducated King.
"Listen up!" Cross barked. "Three-nil is dangerous. Westside is going to come out dirty. The ref has lost control. The second half isn't going to be about scoring."
Cross looked at Soccer.
"It's going to be about survival. They're going to try to injure you, Soccer. Seriously this time. Not just tackles. Off-the-ball stuff."
Soccer shrugged. He started tying his laces again. Tighter.
"Let them try."
He looked at Marcus.
"But Captain, can you do something for me?"
"Anything," Marcus said instantly.
"If I draw all of them to me..." Soccer's eyes darkened. A shadow passed over his face. "Make sure you don't miss."
Second Half Kickoff
Westside didn't set up a formation.
They set up a firing squad.
Seven players stood on the halfway line. They stared at Soccer.
The crowd sensed it. The cheering had stopped. The atmosphere was ugly. The air felt static, like right before lightning strikes a peak.
Luna whispered a prayer on the sideline. "Please don't die."
The whistle blew.
Soccer didn't wait.
He didn't run away. He didn't look for a pass.
He ran straight at the wall of seven players.
Alone.
Without the ball.
The sheer audacity made them freeze. He's charging us?
"BALL!" Soccer screamed, pointing to the sky.
It was a bluff. The ball was with Northwood's back line.
But for a split second, seven heads looked up.
That split second was all he needed.
The Assassin was among them.
He didn't have the ball, so they couldn't tackle him legally. But they tried anyway. Shoulders, elbows, trips.
He danced.
It was the most beautiful, terrifying thing Marcus had ever seen.
Soccer moved like he was running through a falling rockslide. He ducked an elbow. He hopped over a sweep. He spun around a check.
He wove through the heart of the enemy formation, leaving a wake of confused, tangled bodies behind him.
He broke through the line. He was in the clear.
And he realized something.
I forgot the ball.
He stopped. He turned around to face the angry mob he had just embarrassed.
"Oops," Soccer grinned. "Can we start over? I forgot to bring the thing."
Westside's Number 4 screamed. It was a primal, broken sound. His mind snapped.
He sprinted at Soccer, fists clenched. No ball. Just violence.
The referee blew his whistle—shrieked on it—but it was too late.
Number 4 threw a punch.
Soccer didn't fight. Mountain boys don't box. They survive.
Soccer dropped into a crouch—The Stone Guardian.
He ducked the swing. Number 4's momentum carried him over Soccer's back. Soccer stood up at exactly the wrong moment for Number 4.
Leverage.
Number 4 tumbled over Soccer, hit the ground, and rolled three times.
He stood up, looking for a fight... and saw the referee holding a Red Card directly in his face.
"OFF!" the ref shouted. "OFF THE FIELD! NOW!"
Number 4 stared at the red card. Then at Soccer.
Soccer was checking his fingernails.
"I didn't even touch you," Soccer said. "Gravity did. You should sue gravity."
The crowd at Westside was silent.
Their bully had been beaten. Not with fists. Not with muscles.
With a dance.
And the Assassin? He was just getting warmed up.
"Okay," Soccer turned to his stunned team. "Eleven against ten! Who wants the next goal?"
Marcus laughed. He threw his head back and laughed until his ribs hurt.
Northwood wasn't the joke anymore.
The monster had been slain. And the boy standing in the middle of the pitch?
He was just happy the grass didn't slippery when wet.