Chapter 2: The Game of Tag
"Oh? Is it my turn?"
Bachira Meguru juggled the ball from one foot to the other, a wide, euphoric grin stretching across his face. Deep inside him, a certain "monster" had just woken up.
In the next heartbeat, Bachira exploded forward.
His movement was nothing like the clumsy desperation of the monk earlier. It was fluid, rhythmic, like a sprite dancing through a storm. His dribbling tempo was erratic, impossible to predict. The ball seemed glued to his cleats as he waltzed through the panicked crowd, humiliating anyone who tried to scramble away.
The countdown on the giant screen plummeted.
[58]
[57]
Rohan didn't move.
He stood like a statue on the edge of the chaos. The screaming, the running, the desperate flailing—none of it registered. His eyes were narrowed into slits, locked onto a single target like a hawk tracking a field mouse.
Kira Ryosuke.
The Jewel of Japan.
Kira's movements were undeniably elegant. He used minimal energy, sidestepping the stampede and the ball with efficient, practiced footwork. A faint, confident smile lingered on his lips, as if he were watching a comedy show from a VIP box.
But to Rohan, that composure didn't look like confidence.
It looked like arrogance.
He isn't taking this seriously, Rohan analyzed, his internal voice cold. He doesn't feel threatened. His muscles are loose. His guard is down.
Perfect prey.
At that moment, as if guided by fate, Bachira's dribbling path veered straight toward Rohan.
Opportunity.
Bachira noticed the only boy who wasn't running away. He tilted his head, his eyes widening in delight. The monster inside him roared. It decided that this statue-like boy would be the next toy to break.
Bachira dropped his shoulder. A feather-light heel flick, followed instantly by an explosive cut to the left!
It was his signature rhythm change—a move designed to snap a defender's ankles and leave them grasping at air.
But Rohan's reaction defied logic.
He didn't look at the ball. He didn't react to the feint. He didn't fall for the mesmerizing footwork.
The moment Bachira shifted his weight, Rohan moved.
He dropped his hips, sinking into a wide, grounded stance—not a football jockey, but the defensive stance of a Kabaddi Corner.
With a burst of torque from his core, Rohan launched himself. He didn't curve his run to intercept the ball; he moved in a straight, violent line toward Bachira's body.
In Kabaddi, you don't chase the hand. You tackle the torso.
"What the—?"
Bachira's pupils contracted.
His dribbling, his pride, had been completely ignored. Rohan had read the center of gravity, bypassing the technical skill entirely to attack the space Bachira was trying to move into.
Rohan didn't give him a millisecond to adjust. Leveraging his 92 Balance and 90 Speed, he cut across Bachira's path, inserting his body between the boy and the ball with the force of a closing iron gate.
Clash.
Rohan shoulder-checked the space, forcing Bachira to stop, and simply extended his foot to poke the ball dead.
The ball rolled to a stop.
The room fell silent. The boys who were scrambling for their lives froze, staring in disbelief.
Bachira stood there, blinking. He looked down at his empty feet, then up at Rohan. There was no anger in his eyes. Instead, a terrifying thrill washed over his face.
"So..." Bachira whispered, his grin widening. "You have a monster inside you too, don't you, Rohan?"
Rohan ignored him. He bent down, picked up the ball, and stood tall.
Now.
He was "It."
[30]
Thirty seconds left.
"Run!"
"The tagger changed!"
The paralysis broke, and the panic redoubled. The herd scattered again.
But this time, the predator didn't chase.
Rohan tucked the ball under his arm and began to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Straight toward the center of the room.
His eyes never wavered from one person.
Kira Ryosuke.
The smile finally vanished from Kira's face. He furrowed his brows, finally acknowledging the Indian boy who had just dismantled Bachira with such strange, violent movement.
For the first time, the Jewel of Japan felt a chill crawl up his spine.
[20]
Rohan stopped in the center of the arena. He dropped the ball at his feet.
He faced Kira. The other players, sensing the atmosphere, backed away to the walls, leaving the two of them alone on the central stage.
It was a duel.
"What is he doing?"
"Is he challenging Kira? Is he insane?"
"That's the National Team player!"
Whispers rippled through the dark.
"Come on, Genius," Rohan said, his voice flat but carrying a heavy, jagged edge. "Let's dance."
Kira Ryosuke took a deep breath. He lowered his center of gravity, assuming a professional defensive posture. The look of condescension was gone, replaced by the focus of an athlete facing a legitimate threat.
[15]
Time was dying.
The moment the clock hit fifteen, Rohan exploded.
He didn't dribble. He didn't pass.
He planted his left foot and swung his right leg back—a massive, exaggerated wind-up for a power shot.
But he wasn't aiming at Kira.
He was aiming to the right. At the boy standing frozen against the wall, paralyzed by fear.
Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi's face went pale. He saw the cannon aiming at him and realized he couldn't dodge.
I'm going to die.
Kira saw it too. His genius football brain processed the information instantly. He's going for the weak link. It's the logical choice. Why risk missing me when he can hit the easy target?
It was the rational play.
And because it was rational, Kira reacted.
His body, trained by years of high-level drills, instinctively shifted its weight. He leaned laterally, preparing to dodge the ricochet or intercept the angle if the ball came wide.
His center of gravity shifted by a fraction of an inch.
Got you.
Rohan's swinging leg, moving at terminal velocity, suddenly froze mid-air.
A Feint.
His support leg—rooted like a steel pylon—twisted. He channeled every ounce of strength from his core, whipping his hips around with violent torque.
Boom!
There was no technique. No spin. No finesse.
Just 88 Power.
Rohan smashed the ball.
It left his foot like a cannonball, screaming through the air with a terrifying, low-pitched hum.
It wasn't flying toward Isagi. It was flying straight at the off-balance Kira Ryosuke.
It was too fast.
Kira's dynamic vision caught the white blur, but his body, already committed to the wrong movement, couldn't reverse momentum in time.
I can't—
BANG!
The ball slammed into Kira's face.
The impact was sickeningly loud. The force lifted the "Jewel of Japan" off his feet and sent him stumbling backward. The ball ricocheted off his nose and rolled harmlessly away.
[1]
[0]
The red timer on the screen hit zero.
A deathly silence strangled the room.
Three hundred eyes bulged. Jaws dropped.
What... just happened?
The genius? The National Treasure?
Eliminated?
By a complete nobody, with a single feint and a brute-force kick?
Kira Ryosuke sat on the floor, dazed, blood trickling from his nose. He stared at the ball, his mind a blank slate. He couldn't process it. Why did he fall for the feint? How did that amateur generate that much power from a standing start?
It didn't make sense.
Before he could speak, the scratchy, electronic voice of Ego Jinpachi blasted through the speakers, sealing his fate.
"Time is up."
"The one who is 'It'..."
"Is Kira Ryosuke."
(To be Continued)