The mud tasted like copper.
Soccer lay on his side. His left ankle was screaming. It wasn't a normal ache; it felt like a wild animal was chewing on his bone.
The scoreboard burned red through the rain.
Northwood: 3 - Royal Vanguard: 3
Time: 89:00
"Get up," Marcus grabbed Soccer's jersey. His voice was panic wrapped in adrenaline. "We can't play 10 vs 10 with you on the ground. Get up!"
Soccer dug his fingers into the slime.
He pushed. His arms shook.
He stood.
He put weight on his left foot.
White light. A bolt of agony shot up his spine and exploded behind his eyes.
"I can't run," Soccer hissed. The smile was gone. He looked feral. "My stabilizer is gone."
"Then stand there!" Marcus shouted. "Stand there and be scary! Distract them!"
The whistle blew. Restart.
Royal Vanguard didn't care they were down a man. Their King was ejected, their honor was stained, and they wanted blood.
"ATTACK!" Rex, the temporary captain, screamed.
The Gold Army surged.
Stoppage Time. 90:00+1
Northwood retreated. They were exhausted, broken, and terrified.
The rain lashed down, relentless.
Vanguard connected passes through the puddles. Short, angry, precise passes. They bypassed Northwood's midfield like it didn't exist.
"They're coming!" Dylan screamed from the goal. "They're actually trying to score!"
"Hold the line!" Coach Cross yelled, soaked to the bone. "Don't let them shoot!"
Vanguard pushed into the box. Rex received the ball. He was eight yards out.
Marcus lunged. Too slow.
Rex wound up.
He hammered it.
It was a kill-shot. Aimed right for the top corner.
Dylan Foster stood on the line. He was the coward. The joke. The kid who cried during training.
He saw the ball screaming toward him.
If I move, it hurts.
If I don't move, we lose.
Dylan didn't dive. He exploded upward.
He threw his face in front of his hands. Reckless bravery.
WHAM.
The ball hit his gloves, deflected onto his forehead, and popped up into the air.
Dylan crashed into the post. He hit the mud.
But the ball...
The ball spun backward. Away from the goal.
"CLEAR IT!" Dylan shrieked, lying in a puddle.
Elijah Storm didn't hesitate. He swung his leg and punted that ball harder than he'd ever kicked anything in his life.
BOOM.
The ball soared. High into the black, rainy sky.
It flew past the midfield.
Vanguard had pushed everyone up. Everyone.
The backfield was empty.
Except for one limping figure in a torn black jersey.
The Last Stand
Soccer saw the ball coming down.
He was standing forty yards from goal. There was one Vanguard defender left—a sprinter named Miles who had stayed back just in case.
Miles looked at the ball. Then he looked at Soccer.
"You can't run," Miles smirked. He saw Soccer wobbling on one leg. "I win."
Miles positioned himself to catch the ball on his chest. He was going to settle it, turn, and end the threat.
Soccer stared at the ball.
I can't run.
He looked at his damaged ankle. It was useless. Dead weight.
But I don't need to run.
Soccer remembered the Eagle's Peak. Sometimes, the ledge was too far to jump. Sometimes, you had to throw yourself across the gap and trust you'd catch the other side.
The ball dropped.
Miles puffed out his chest.
Soccer leaned back. He lifted his good leg.
He hopped on his bad ankle.
A surge of nausea ripped through him. He screamed—a silent, internalized scream that turned his vision red.
One hop. Two hops.
He launched himself.
He threw his body horizontal in the air. A human missile aimed at the ball's landing point.
The Living Torpedo.
Miles wasn't expecting a tackle from the air.
Soccer's head crashed into the ball just as it touched Miles's chest.
THUD.
Soccer literally head-butted the ball through the defender. The force knocked the wind out of Miles, sending him staggering backward into the mud.
Soccer hit the ground hard. Face first in the muck.
But the ball squirted loose.
It rolled forward. Toward the goal.
Thirty yards.
The Vanguard keeper was rushing out.
Soccer scrambled up on all fours. He looked like a wolf with a broken leg.
He couldn't sprint. He hobbled. It was painful to watch. A dragging, lurching gallop.
The keeper was fast. He was going to get there first.
"Shoot!" Marcus screamed from the other side of the world. "SHOOT!"
Soccer looked up.
Keeper closing in: 10 yards away.
Ball distance: 5 yards.
If he tried to run to it, the keeper would slide and clear it.
If he tried to shoot now, he was too far.
Soccer grit his teeth. He bit his tongue until blood filled his mouth.
The mud.
The field was a swamp.
Soccer stopped running.
He threw himself onto his stomach.
He slid.
Hydroplaning.
His chest surfed on the layer of water. He moved faster sliding than he did running. He became a sled.
The keeper saw the maniac sliding toward him. He hesitated.
Soccer reached the ball while sliding on his belly.
He couldn't kick it. His legs were dragging behind him.
So he used his head again.
He slammed his forehead into the turf, bracing his neck muscles.
He Head-Shoveled the ball.
He literally nudged the ball forward with his skull, inches before the keeper's hands grabbed it.
The keeper missed. He grabbed a handful of Soccer's wet jersey instead.
The ball rolled slowly. So slowly.
It trickled toward the post.
The stadium went silent. The rain seemed to freeze.
Every eye watched that white sphere struggle through the mud.
Roll.
Roll.
Roll.
It hit the post.
Tink.
And fell inward.
GOAL.
Northwood: 4 - Royal Vanguard: 3
The referee blew the whistle.
Three times.
Game over.
Aftermath
Soccer didn't stand up. He just rolled onto his back.
The rain washed the mud from his face, revealing a grin that looked equal parts angelic and psychotic.
"Did it... go in?" he croaked.
Marcus collapsed on top of him. Then Dylan. Then Elijah.
The pile-up crushed him into the ground.
"You crazy bastard!" Marcus was crying. Snot and rain mixed on his face. "You crawled! You actually crawled!"
"I slid," Soccer corrected, his voice muffled by Marcus's chest. "It was... aerodynamic."
Coach Cross stood on the sideline. He forgot to be cool. He forgot his toothpick. He dropped to his knees in the mud.
They beat Royal Vanguard. The Titans.
Luna was crying silently, her hands covering her mouth as she stared at the team pile.
In the tunnel entrance, Kai Rivers watched.
He was dressed in civilian clothes now. He had showered. He looked human.
He watched the Northwood team celebrate the "trash" goal. A goal scored by a sliding, broken cripple.
Kai looked at his own hand. It was shaking.
Not from anger anymore.
"He discarded pride," Kai whispered to no one. "He threw away technique. He threw away dignity. Just to move the ball one inch."
Kai turned and walked into the shadows.
"I need to train," Kai said. "I need to learn how to crawl."
The Hospital
The emergency room was bright and smelled of antiseptic.
Soccer sat on the edge of the bed. His left leg was elevated, wrapped in ice packs so thick it looked like a glacial deposit.
The doctor, a stern woman with grey hair, looked at the X-rays.
"Well," she said. "The good news is, it's not broken."
"Cool," Soccer munched on a bag of pretzels Luna bought him. "Bad news?"
"High ankle sprain. Grade 2, bordering on Grade 3. Ligaments are stretched like chewed bubblegum. And you have deep bone bruising."
Coach Cross stood in the corner, arms crossed. "Recovery time?"
The doctor looked over her glasses. "For a normal person? Six weeks. Crutches. Boot. Physical therapy."
Cross closed his eyes. "We don't have six weeks. The Regional Finals are in five days."
"Then he doesn't play," the doctor said simply. "If he plays on this, he risks a complete tear. Then it's surgery. Then it's six months."
The room went quiet. The hum of the vending machine in the hall seemed deafening.
Soccer looked at his leg.
"Six months without football?"
"Yes."
Soccer stopped eating pretzels.
"Five days," he murmured.
"Soccer, no," Luna said, stepping forward. Her eyes were red. "It's not worth it. We made the finals. That's enough. That's history."
"Who are we playing?" Soccer asked Cross.
Cross hesitated. "St. Mary's Academy won their semi-final. They're good. Defensive specialists."
"St. Mary's..." Soccer tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling tiles. "If I don't play, Marcus loses. Dylan loses. They worked hard."
"They'd rather you have a leg in the future," Luna argued.
"The future is far away," Soccer said. "The mountain is now."
He looked at the doctor.
"Can you tape it?"
"Tape isn't magic, son. It gives stability, not healing."
"Just tape it so tight it can't move. Turn it into a hoof."
"Soccer, listen to me," Cross's voice was low. Serious. "If you ruin your ankle now, you ruin your career. The pros. The World Cup. All those dreams you don't even know you have yet."
Soccer looked at Cross.
"Coach, before I came down here, I climbed Eagle's Peak. It took two days. I ran out of water. I twisted my knee halfway up. My dad told me to come back down."
"And?"
"I kept climbing. Because the view from the bottom sucks."
Soccer grinned. It was a weak grin, full of pain medication and exhaustion, but the spark was there.
"Tape me up on Friday. I'll just be the decoy. I'll stand in the box and look scary."
The doctor sighed. She shook her head.
"Teenagers are immortal until they aren't." She tossed a brace onto the bed. "Wear this. Sleep in it. Ice it twenty minutes every hour. If the swelling doesn't go down by Friday... I'm medically disqualifying you myself."
Two Days Later: The Strategy
Practice was weird without Soccer.
He sat on the bench in a giant plastic boot, yelling instructions.
"No, Dylan! Don't look at the ball! Look at the striker's hips! If his hips turn, he shoots!"
The team looked heavy. Slow.
They had beaten Vanguard, but it cost them everything. They were emotionally drained. And without their nuclear weapon on the field, they felt vulnerable.
Coach Cross walked over to the bench.
"They're scared," Cross noted.
"They rely on me too much," Soccer said, chewing on a blade of grass.
"That's what happens with an Ace."
"Coach, who is St. Mary's Ace?"
Cross pulled up a file on his tablet.
"They don't have one."
"What?"
"St. Mary's Academy. They play... 'Anti-Football.' They pack the defense. Eleven men behind the ball. They foul constantly. They waste time. They play for 0-0 draws and win on penalty kicks."
Soccer frowned. "That sounds boring."
"It is. And it's effective. They call themselves 'The Iron Curtain.' They haven't conceded a goal in the entire tournament."
Cross looked at Soccer's boot.
"And to break a wall like that... you usually need a wrecking ball."
Soccer looked at the team running drills. Marcus was limping slightly. Elijah looked gassed.
"I can't run," Soccer said quietly. "Even if I play Friday. I'm gonna be a turret."
"I know."
"So..." Soccer's eyes lit up. He grabbed a pen from Luna's clipboard. He started drawing on the plaster of his cast.
"Coach, what if we don't need a wrecking ball?"
"What do we need?"
"A catapult."
Soccer drew a circle. Then arrows pointing away from the goal.
"They pack the box, right? They form a wall inside the penalty area?"
"Yes."
"So the space outside the box... the twenty-five yard line... that's open."
"Sure, but we don't have long-range shooters. Only you can hit from that distance with accuracy."
"Exactly," Soccer grinned. "And I can't move."
He pointed to the drawing.
"I stand here. Like a statue. If I just stand there, they'll surround me anyway, right? Because they're scared."
"Probably."
"Good." Soccer tapped the cast. "Teach Marcus the 'Cliffside Drop.'"
"The what?"
"It's a thing I did with stones. You drop a big stone to smash the brush, so the little stones can roll through."
Soccer looked at the team.
"Friday is going to be ugly, Coach. But ugly is my favorite color."
Friday Night. Regional Finals.
The air was crisp. The rain was gone.
The stadium was packed. Even more than before. Scouts were in the stands. Real ones. Men in suits with notebooks.
"That's the kid?" a scout from the national league whispered, pointing. "The one in the boot?"
Soccer limped out of the tunnel. No boot today. Just tape. Layers and layers of white athletic tape. His left ankle looked three times thicker than his right.
He walked stiffly. Every step was a calculation.
St. Mary's Academy walked out. They looked like soldiers. Gray uniforms. Buzz cuts. No expressions.
Their captain, a center back named "The Butcher" Banes, stared at Soccer's leg.
He smiled.
It wasn't a competitive smile. It was the smile of a man who sees a weakness he plans to exploit.
"Target the left leg," Banes whispered to his team. "First chance you get."
The ref blew the whistle for the captains.
Soccer and Marcus walked to the center. Banes was there.
"Hope you brought crutches," Banes sneered.
Soccer leaned on Marcus for support. He looked Banes in the eye.
"I brought my friends," Soccer said cheerfully. "Crutches are wood. Friends hit back."
Banes blinked.
The coin toss. Heads. Northwood kicked off.
The Final Battle began.
And St. Mary's didn't wait.
Ten seconds in. Soccer received a pass. He was stationary. Anchored.
Banes came flying in. Sliding tackle. Aimed directly at the taped ankle.
"BREAK IT!" Banes roared.
The crowd screamed.
Soccer didn't move. He couldn't move.
He closed his eyes.
Root the tree.
He slammed his injured foot into the turf, locking the knee, bracing for impact.
He wasn't going to dodge. He was going to absorb.
The Iron Root Stance.
Banes's cleats smashed into Soccer's ankle.
THUD.
Pain white-hot and blinding.
But Soccer didn't fall. His leg stayed planted like a post driven into bedrock.
Banes, expecting the kid to crumble, bounced off the rigid leg. The impact force traveled back up Banes's own leg.
Banes rolled away, clutching his own shin. "Ow! What the hell is your leg made of?!"
Soccer opened his eyes. Sweat poured down his face. He was pale.
But he was standing.
He passed the ball to Marcus.
"Is that all?" Soccer whispered through clenched teeth.
The Legend of the Assassin was about to become the Legend of the King.