The roar of the Gelora Bung Karno Stadium was not just a sound; it was a physical weight.
Eighty thousand seats surrounded the pitch. Though only the VIP section was occupied for this National Selection match, the noise echoed like a thunderstorm trapped in a concrete bowl. Scouts from Europe, agents from the J-League, and the desperate parents of a hundred hopeful teenagers were watching from the glass boxes above.
To Rio Valdes, however, the world sounded like he was drowning underwater.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His heartbeat was too loud. It didn't rhythmically pump; it hammered against his ribs like a desperate prisoner trying to bend the bars of a rusted cage. The humid Jakarta air felt thick, clogging his throat like wet cotton.
"Pass it to Rio!"
"He's making a run! Stop him!"
Rio didn't look back. He couldn't. He could feel the vibration of footsteps thundering behind him—the desperate chase of defenders who knew they were already beaten.
The ball was glued to his feet, an extension of his own nervous system. Rio was seventeen years old, a boy from the slums of Tanjung Priok who had clawed his way through poverty, hunger, and muddy backstreet pitches to reach this pristine grass.
This wasn't just a game. This was his exit ticket. This was how he would save his mother from the debt collectors who banged on their plywood door every Friday, demanding money she didn't have.
Rio shifted his weight, dropping his left shoulder violently. The opposing defender, a sturdy boy twice Rio's size, bit on the feint.
Snap.
Rio exploded to the right. The defender crumbled, his ankles broken by the sheer violence of the directional change.
Just the goalkeeper left.
The goal gaped open like a hungry mouth. Ten meters. Five meters.
Time seemed to dilate. Rio could see the rotation of the ball on the grass blades. He could visualize the net rippling before he even struck. He could taste the victory—it tasted like iron and sweat.
He pulled his right leg back to strike.
But then, the hammer inside his chest swung down.
CRACK.
It wasn't a muscle cramp. It wasn't fatigue.
Pain—sharp, white-hot, and absolute—exploded in the center of his chest. It felt as if an invisible spear had been thrust through his spine, piercing his heart and pinning him to the thick, humid air.
The signal from his brain to his legs was severed instantly.
The world tilted sideways violently. The green grass rushed up to meet his face.
He didn't feel the impact of his body hitting the ground. He didn't feel his nose break against the turf.
He only saw the ball. It rolled slowly, pathetically, trickling into the goalkeeper's confused arms.
The cheers died instantly. A horrified silence descended over the stadium, heavier than the roar had ever been.
"Rio!"
"Medic! Get the medic! He's not breathing!"
As darkness swallowed his vision, shrinking the world down to a single pinprick of fading light, Rio had only one thought. A thought that screamed louder than the pain destroying his chest.
Not now. Please, God, not now. I haven't signed the contract yet.
The smell of cut grass and glory was replaced by the stinging, chemical scent of antiseptic.
Rio opened his eyes.
The ceiling was white. Annoyingly, blindingly white. The hum of machines filled the air—rhythmic, cold, mechanical.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
"You're awake," a heavy voice said.
Rio tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of lead. He turned his head slowly. A doctor in a white coat stood by his bedside, clutching a metal clipboard. His face was grim, etched with the deep lines of a man who had delivered too much bad news in one lifetime.
"The selection..." Rio croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Did I... make the cut? Did the scouts see?"
The doctor didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his glasses, studiously avoiding Rio's desperate gaze. He tapped his pen against the chart.
"We found something, Rio. We ran a genetic panel and an echo while you were unconscious."
The doctor took a breath.
"It is a condition called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (HCM)."
Rio frowned, his brow furrowing. "Sounds expensive. Just give me some pills, Doc. I have training tomorrow morning. If I miss it, I'm cut."
"You don't understand," the doctor said sharply.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a judge's gavel.
"Your heart muscle is abnormally thick. It has been working overtime just to keep you alive since you were born. It is struggling to pump blood. What happened on the field wasn't fatigue, Rio. It wasn't heatstroke."
The doctor looked him dead in the eye.
"It was a Sudden Cardiac Arrest. You were dead for thirty seconds out there. We had to defibrillate you twice."
The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. Rio felt the blood drain from his face.
"If you run again, you will die. If you play football again, you will die. Your career is over before it started."
Rio stared at him. The words didn't make sense. It was like the doctor was speaking a foreign language.
"I'm a striker," Rio whispered, his voice trembling. "Running is what I do. It's... it's who I am. It's how I pay the rent."
"Not anymore," the doctor said ruthlessly. He wasn't being cruel; he was being precise. "From today, you are a patient. Bed rest. Minimal exertion. No excitement. With medication, we can manage the symptoms."
"Manage?" Rio laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that hurt his chest. "For how long?"
The doctor hesitated. He looked at the chart again, then out the window at the weeping Jakarta sky.
"Given the severity of the thickening... and the damage from the arrest..." The doctor sighed. "Without a transplant—which costs billions of Rupiah—I'd give you three months. Ninety days."
Ninety days.
Rio stared at the white ceiling.
A standard football match was ninety minutes. Rio Valdes had been given a ninety-day match. But there was no extra time. No penalties. No substitutions. Just the final whistle waiting to blow.
"I see," Rio whispered, tears finally leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Leave me alone."
Night fell over the hospital.
The room was dark, save for the rhythmic green blinking of the heart monitor.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
Rio lay still. He felt empty. Hollow.
Football wasn't just a hobby. For a boy born in the slums, it was his identity. It was the only thing that made him feel special in a world that treated him like dirt. Without it, he was just a dying boy in a charity ward, watching his future evaporate.
Suddenly, the beeping stopped.
Not just the machine.
The rain outside stopped hitting the glass, suspended in mid-air like liquid diamonds. The hum of the air conditioner died. The distant sound of Jakarta traffic vanished.
Silence. Absolute, unnatural silence.
Then came the smell.
It cut through the antiseptic stench. It was rich, earthy, and expensive. The smell of premium tobacco smoke.
"Pathetic."
A voice rasped from the dark corner of the room. It sounded like sandpaper sliding over concrete.
Rio bolted upright—ignoring the sharp twinge in his chest. "Who's there?"
Blue smoke curled from the shadows, coalescing into a figure.
A man sat in the visitor's chair, legs crossed, looking completely at ease. He wore a beige trench coat and a fedora hat straight out of a 1990s noir film. A cigar hung from his lips, glowing with an eerie, spectral blue light.
But the man was not solid. Rio could see the outline of the wall outlet through the man's chest.
"A ghost?" Rio blinked, rubbing his eyes. "Great. First heart failure, now I'm hallucinating. The meds must be strong."
"I prefer the term 'Spirit Advisor'," the old man grunted. He blew a perfect smoke ring that drifted toward Rio before dissolving into cold mist. "Name's Specter. And you, kid, are a disgrace. You have the eyes of a hawk but the heart of a hamster."
Rio grit his teeth. Anger flared in his chest, momentarily overpowering his fear. "Did you come here just to mock a dying man?"
"I came here to offer you a trade," Specter said.
He stood up and floated—literally drifted inches above the linoleum floor—toward the bed.
"I died on the sideline of a World Cup Final. Heart attack. Just like you. I have unfinished business with this sport. I watched you play, Rio. You have the hunger. But you lack the vessel."
Specter stopped at the foot of the bed, pointing a spectral finger at Rio's chest.
"You want to live? You want to play?"
"I'd give anything," Rio said, his voice trembling with a sudden, dangerous hope. "I don't care about living long. I just want to finish the game."
"Anything?" Specter grinned, revealing gold teeth that glinted in the darkness. "Even your time?"
Snap.
Specter snapped his fingers.
Immediately, the room plunged into darkness, illuminated only by a blue holographic screen that materialized in front of Rio's face. It hummed with digital energy.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED: SOUL BALL][HOST: Rio Valdes][STATUS: CRITICAL FAILURE]
A large red countdown timer appeared in the center of the screen, ticking down violently.
[REMAINING NATURAL LIFESPAN: 89 Days, 23 Hours, 45 Minutes]
"This is your bank account now," Specter explained, leaning over Rio's shoulder. His ghostly breath felt like ice. "The currency is time. The doctors are right—your heart is broken. I can't fix it. Not yet."
Specter tapped the screen.
"But I can bypass it. I can hook your life force directly into the System. You won't be cured, Rio. Your heart will still be thick, it will still be weak. But the System will force it to beat. It will burn your remaining lifespan as fuel to keep the engine running."
Rio looked at the numbers. "But the timer..."
"The timer keeps ticking," Specter whispered. "If it hits zero, the bypass shuts off. You die. No appeals."
"So I have 90 days to play," Rio realized. "And then I die anyway?"
"Unless you earn more," Specter grinned, his face twisting into a demonic delight. "This is a Gacha, kid. A gamble."
Text scrolled below the timer. The rules were simple. Brutal.
[THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT]
WIN MATCH: +7 Days Lifespan.
SCORE GOAL: +2 Days Lifespan.
LOSE MATCH: -30 Days Lifespan.
PURCHASE SKILLS: Costs Lifespan.
"You can buy the talent of legends," Specter whispered. "Speed, Power, Technique. But you pay with your life. And if you lose a match... if you fail... the System takes its tax."
"Lose three times in a row... and you drop dead on the pitch. No respawn. Game Over."
Rio stared at the screen.
It was insane. It was a devil's contract. It was suicide.
But then he thought of the ball rolling into the goalkeeper's arms. He thought of the debt collectors waiting at his door. He thought of returning to the slums, a cripple, watching his mother cry as he slowly withered away in a bed for three months.
He looked at the countdown. 89 Days.
"If I sign this," Rio asked, looking up at the ghost, his eyes burning with intensity. "Can I become the best?"
Specter smirked. "Kid... if you survive this, you won't just be the best. You'll be a God."
Rio didn't hesitate.
He didn't think about the risk. He didn't think about the pain.
He reached out his trembling hand and pressed the glowing blue button marked [ACCEPT].
ZAP!
A jolt of electricity surged through his veins, hotter than fire. His heart slammed against his ribs—not in pain, but in power. It was a jumpstart. A resurrection.
Rio gasped, his back arching. When he opened his eyes, the dark brown irises had shifted. A faint, luminescent blue ring now glowed around his pupils—the color of the interface.
[CONTRACT SEALED][WELCOME TO THE GAME, STRIKER.]
Specter laughed, a dry, rasping sound that faded as the world began to move again. The rain hit the window. The monitor beeped.
"Get some sleep, Rio," the ghost's voice lingered in the air. "Training starts at dawn. And trust me... you're going to wish you were dead."