The World Cup Stadium was a cauldron of noise.
Fifty thousand spectators filled the stands. Flags waved, drums beat, and the air buzzed with electricity. For the host nation and the international media, this was supposed to be a warm-up match. A gentle opener for the mighty France against a minnow from Southeast Asia.
"Look at the size difference," a commentator remarked in the press box, chuckling. "It looks like men against boys."
In the tunnel, the contrast was indeed comical.
Jean-Luc Pierre, the French captain, stood at the front of his line. He was a mountain of muscle, towering over Rio Valdes. The French players were chatting loosely, adjusting their shin guards, looking relaxed. They expected a training session.
Rio stood silent. His gaze was fixed straight ahead. Behind him, the Indonesian squad didn't speak. They breathed in unison.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
[SYSTEM ALERT][MATCH START: INDONESIA vs FRANCE][Win Condition: Win or Draw][Lose Condition: Defeat][Penalty for Defeat: -15 Days Lifespan][Reward for Victory: +60 Days Lifespan / S-Rank Skill Gacha Ticket]
Minus fifteen days, Rio noted. The System was being generous. It usually took more for a loss. Perhaps even the System knew the odds were impossible.
The referee blew the whistle.
KICK-OFF.
France started with the ball. They moved it with lazy elegance. Pass. Pass. Pass. They were inviting Indonesia to chase shadows, waiting for the underdogs to tire themselves out.
Jean-Luc received the ball in the midfield. He didn't even sprint. He just jogged forward, shielding the ball with his massive frame, daring anyone to take it.
"Hold the line," Adrian Vance shouted from the midfield, his voice cutting through the noise. He adjusted his glasses—a visual signal. "Wait for the trigger!"
The Indonesian players stood still. They formed a compact block, refusing to press.
The crowd booed. Boring football. Parking the bus. Jean-Luc scoffed. He pushed forward, entering the Indonesian half. "Cowards," he muttered.
He passed the ball wide to their winger, a speedster named Mbappe Jr. The winger prepared to sprint past the Indonesian fullback.
Then, Adrian shouted the code.
"EXECUTE!"
The switch flipped.
Bambang Pamungkas (Number 99) didn't go for the ball. He launched himself like a missile at the French center-back who had just released the pass.
CRASH!
It was a late tackle. Brutal. Loud. Bambang slammed into the defender, sending the Frenchman tumbling across the turf.
FWEEET!
The referee blew the whistle immediately. A foul. The crowd roared in anger.
But Bambang didn't apologize. He stood up, sweat dripping from his shaved head, and glared at the fallen Frenchman. He grinned—a manic, unhinged grin of a man who had nothing to lose.
"Welcome to hell," Bambang whispered in broken English.
The French players were stunned. A foul? In the first two minutes? In their half?
"Yellow Card!" The referee flashed the card at Bambang.
Bambang took it without blinking. He retreated, still grinning.
"What are they doing?" the commentator asked, confused. "Getting a yellow card this early? It's suicide!"
But Rio, watching from the midfield, saw the subtle shift. The French defenders were checking their ankles. They were looking at Bambang with confusion and irritation. The rhythm of their "elegant dance" was broken. They were no longer playing football; they were looking over their shoulders.
[SYSTEM STATUS][Opponent Mental State: IRRITATED][Chaos Level: RISING]
The free-kick was taken. France tried to restart their passing game.
But now, every time a French player touched the ball, an Indonesian player was there. Not trying to intercept, but trying to collide. Nudging ribs. Stepping on toes. Pulling shirts.
It wasn't football. It was a street brawl disguised as a match.
"Protocol Chaos," Adrian muttered, intercepting a loose pass. "If you can't outplay them, drag them down to the mud."
Jean-Luc Pierre had enough.
"Give me the ball!" The Titan roared.
He received a pass deep in the midfield. This time, he didn't jog. He exploded.
[WARNING! SSS-CLASS THREAT INBOUND]
Jean-Luc bulldozed through two Indonesian midfielders. One tried to grab his jersey; Jean-Luc shrugged him off like a fly. He was unstoppable. A force of nature.
He reached the edge of the penalty box. He wound up his right leg. A cannon shot.
BOOM!
The ball screamed toward the top corner. The Indonesian goalkeeper didn't even move. It was too fast.
CLANG!
The ball smashed against the crossbar. The sound echoed through the entire stadium like a gunshot. The goalpost vibrated violently.
The crowd gasped.
Jean-Luc spat on the ground. He glared at Rio. "Next time, the net breaks."
Rio felt a cold sweat on his neck. That power... it's absurd. If that hit me, my ribs would shatter.
But Rio noticed something else. Jean-Luc had come forward. The French midfielders had pushed up to support him. And for a split second, the space behind Jean-Luc was empty.
Rio looked at Adrian. He nodded once.
"NOW!"
The Indonesian goalkeeper, who had recovered the rebounded ball, didn't clear it long. He rolled it short to Adrian.
Adrian was immediately pressed by two French players. They wanted to crush the little tactician.
Adrian didn't look at the ball. He looked at the rushing Frenchmen, and his body language screamed: Panic! I'm going to pass back to the keeper!
The French players bit the bait. They sprinted to cut off the back-pass.
[SKILL: FALSE SIGNAL]
Adrian let the ball roll through his legs. He spun around, leaving the two Frenchmen chasing air.
"What?!"
Adrian was free. He looked up. "Surgeon!" Adrian shouted.
He drilled a laser pass to Rio in the center circle.
Rio trapped the ball. [First Touch: 20]. The ball died instantly at his feet.
Jean-Luc Pierre was running back. The Titan was fast. He was closing in on Rio like a freight train.
[System Calculation][Physical Duel Chance: 0%][Evasion Chance: 12%][Passing Lane: DETECTED]
Rio didn't try to dribble Jean-Luc. That was suicide. He engaged [Vulture's Eye].
Time slowed. The grid appeared. He saw the French defense scrambling back. They were looking at Bambang, who was running like a maniac down the left flank, screaming for the ball, waving his arms.
"Decoy engaged," Rio whispered.
The French defense shifted right, terrified of the "Mad Dog" who had already fouled them. They overcommitted to cover Bambang.
Leaving a tiny, invisible corridor on the right.
Rio swung his leg. He didn't look right. He looked straight at Bambang. [No-Look Pass].
The ball curved. It sliced through the air, bypassing Jean-Luc by inches, curving away from the defenders, spinning violently into the empty space on the right wing.
"Who is he passing to?!" the commentator screamed. "There's nobody there!"
The crowd laughed. A bad pass.
But then, the grass seemed to ripple.
A pale figure materialized out of the green void.
Ole Romeny.
He had been walking near the sideline for five minutes, staying in the defenders' blind spots. His [Aggro] was zero. The camera hadn't even tracked him.
He caught the ball in stride. He was alone. The goalkeeper was the only thing between him and the goal.
The stadium went silent. The laughter died in their throats.
"Le Fantôme!" a French defender screamed, pointing too late.
Ole entered the box. The keeper rushed out. Ole didn't smash it. He didn't chip it. He simply passed the ball into the corner of the net, as if passing to a teammate.
Roll... swish.
GOAL.
INDONESIA 1 - 0 FRANCE
Rio dropped to his knees, his chest heaving. Adrian adjusted his glasses, a smirk playing on his lips. Bambang roared at the French defenders, laughing like a villain.
And Jean-Luc Pierre stopped running. The Titan stared at the scoreboard, his eyes wide.
The stadium was dead silent.
Rio tapped his armband. "Protocol Chaos," Rio whispered to the wind. "Phase One complete. Now... we just woke the giant."