The dark streets and unstable climate of Krow City were, for many, places to avoid. It was like an unwanted anthill in constant agitation. But for some, it was a method to escape a social web that was too perfect to be believable. In any case, it was the ideal place for Belt Konp.
Belt, a young man of medium build with piercing blue eyes and messy red hair, had a strong preference for solitude.
"This is the perfect place to go to school," he told himself. "No one to push me, no one to talk to me, just my only friend: silence."
Belt avoided conversations, faithful to the solitude that had raised him almost like a parent.
Arriving at Krow High School—a sort of sanctuary with white walls marked by time, where young humans bustled about like Wall Street traders—he faced the immensity of the place. Further away, he could see large sports fields and giant posters carrying the hope of the football team. On the main poster, the face of the captain, Bill Maël, was proudly displayed, holding a partnership contract worth over €50,000 in his hand.
Seeing this, Belt thought: "Another one who likes to be noticed," as he entered the main building.
The hall swarmed with noisy students. Futile conversations, forced laughter. Belt walked through the crowd without a glance.
The library: his refuge. A place where silence was king. It was here that he spent his free time investigating physics and logic, subjects he judged to be missing these days.
Later, during chemistry class, Belt heard voices so loud that even the worst conductor would not have reached such a level of useless noise. He looked out the window: it was the high school football team training. Belt was surprised by their overflowing energy and their rage to improve under a blazing sun. The coach, Rick Ninan, was there, standing with a golden whistle. Next to him, the substitutes were running with all their might, as if their lives depended on it.
Belt did not understand this struggle. Yet, the determination on their faces did not express suffering, but a desire to prove that, in this system, a mediocre man can achieve greatness where others see only weakness.
Belt was surprised by this observation, which shook his idealism.
Suddenly, a girl with impeccably styled hair approached him:
"You must be Belt, right?"
Surprised, Belt asked:
"How do you know my name?"
The girl replied with an assured tone:
"Idiot! I am the class representative. Just because you ignore the people around you doesn't mean they do the same. I saw that you were intrigued by what you saw out the window."
She looked outside and added:
"Ah, that is the football team. It is even said that a new law will give them access to a salary! The only excuse is that later, they will be legends like Tans Kael, the best player in the history of this country."
Then she apologized:
"Sorry... really sorry. I think I pushed too hard with the explanations. By the way, my name is Quiena."
Belt, still in shock from her confidence and beauty, froze like a computer dividing by zero. He regained control:
"Okay, that's great. By the way, who is that man on the poster outside with the contract? A descendant of Tans Kael?"
"Him? That's just the new captain. Bill Maël."
"Given your tone, I sense you are not friends," Belt replied.
"True. I hate people who show off just to be seen. Sometimes, silence is a weapon of social respect. That is surely why I approached you, Belt, because you seem to be the only one who understands that here."
Belt was surprised. It was the first time someone appreciated him for his behavior. His logical system was already showing flaws. Then Quiena returned to her seat.
Later, in the library, Belt sat in an isolated corner and picked up a book. But not just any book: a book about football. He discovered the unstable universe of this sport. Suddenly, he fell upon a page dedicated to the legend: Tans Kael.
Tans Kael, the "Player from Space." An attacker as stealthy as a wolf and as ruthless as a dragon. His debut was at Komguiri High, a school known for its delinquency. Yet, he created a club there, chained one hundred matches without defeat, won the World Cup, and became a legend that even a narrator could not describe.
Belt closed the book, shaken:
"This Tans Kael forces social rules to adopt him as a method, and not as a simple subject of analysis!"
On the way home, he felt a hand on his arm. It was Quiena.
"I looked for you everywhere so we could walk home together!" she said, breathless.
"That's new... I didn't know we had the same route," he replied, looking suspicious.
"No, I stop just before your bus stop!" she said cheerfully.
"If you say so..."
Not far away, they spotted an old sports complex. A place marked by time, perfect for those seeking to progress in silence, away from critics. Driven by a strange curiosity, Belt approached. Quiena then decided to challenge him:
"I bet you can't score a goal in the top corner, even without a goalkeeper."
"Why would I do that? I don't have time for useless things."
"Why did you ask questions about the poster then? Why did the story of Tans Kael interest you? If you want my opinion, you are just a chicken!" she said, laughing.
Belt, frustrated by these mockeries, entered the field. It was the only way to silence her.
The ball waited for him in the middle of the field, like an invitation. Belt took his stance and moved back six steps. He looked at the top corner not as a goal, but as a way to save his honor.
He shot with all his strength. The ball rose like a rocket... but missed the target.
He tried again. Once. Twice. Twenty times. Without result.
A strange sensation ran through him. He finally screamed:
"Why am I so angry about missing this shot?!"
Quiena's laughter still echoed. Suddenly, a mad rage invaded him. His teeth clenched, ready to bite. He was discovering a raw feeling, without a name.
He charged at the ball like a furious bull. He struck.
The ball described a perfect curve and slammed violently against the crossbar. The metallic sound rang out, but the ball did not go in. Belt opened his eyes, disappointed.
Quiena, however, was amazed:
"My apologies if I pushed you to the edge... but what an incredible shot! Bravo!"
Belt did not understand her reaction, but his honor was saved.
Quiena's phone rang.
"I have to go, my tutor is waiting... See you tomorrow, Belt!"
She disappeared into the distance. Belt gathered his things, ready to leave. Suddenly, footsteps behind him, followed by a powerful voice:
"If Tans Kael had given up so easily, British football would not be here today."
Belt turned abruptly. An imposing old man, dressed in a coach's uniform, was sitting on the blue bleachers.
"Who are you?"
"Just a spectator... call me Uncle Jisk."
"If you are here, is it destiny?" asked Belt, ironic.
"Possible."
"Why am I angry about missing this easy shot?"
"Ask yourself why you want to succeed."
"I don't know... Maybe because I am surprised that something easy is so complicated."
"No, kid. What is difficult is admitting your feelings. Every great thing comes from passion."
"Passion?" repeated Belt, lost.
Uncle Jisk stood up:
"Try again. Visualize the top corner as the culprit of your failures. Hate it."
"You want me to hate an object?"
"Anger is a weapon. Use it. Go!"
Belt got into position. He moved back three steps, like for a free kick. He breathed, channeling all his social frustration against this target.
He struck.
The ball left at insane speed, rising and descending abruptly as if guided by a divine mission.
Barely had he opened his eyes when the nets were already screaming in pain, violated by the strike. A perfect top corner.
Belt, stunned:
"How... just with anger?"
Uncle Jisk smiled:
"Not just anger. Your passion. You struck this ball like a loaded weapon. Only the intention was missing."
"How is this possible?"
"Forget it, kid. Come back tomorrow at the same time, if you want to understand the force of despair."
Uncle Jisk walked away, leaving Belt alone, now addicted to this new drug called football.