The Final Test
The stadium was silent, save for the heavy breathing of the twenty surviving candidates.
The president tapped the microphone. The feedback shrieked through the speakers, making everyone flinch.
"Congratulations," his voice boomed. "You survived the physical hell. But endurance isn't enough."
He paused, letting the tension build.
"The final test starts now. One match. Thirty minutes. Six against six. It's locker room versus locker room."
He scanned the exhausted faces below.
"This is where we separate the athletes from the champions. The results will be mailed to you in two weeks. Good luck."
Belt stood apart from the group, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Good luck..." he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Always that word. Pathetic. Luck is for the weak."
He grabbed his water bottle and headed for the locker room without waiting for the others. He didn't need luck. He had a plan.
The Strategy of Chaos
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with humidity and anxiety. The adrenaline from the race was fading, replaced by the fear of elimination.
Snick Kans (Number 8) naturally stepped up. He clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.
"Okay, guys, listen up! We can't go in blind. The other team is going to be organized."
He turned to Belt, who was sitting in the corner, staring at the wall.
"Hey, Number 13! You're the one with the vision. How do you think we should play?"
Belt took a slow sip of water. He didn't blink.
"I don't know," he said flatly. "I don't ally with people. I do what I have to do."
A cold chill went through the room. The team exchanged worried glances.
Nans Hamen (Number 4) sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"This guy is freezing... But he's not wrong. If we rely too much on each other, we become weak links."
Bang.
Number 5 slammed his fist into his open palm. He was still boiling with rage after his humiliation on the track.
"I don't care about tactics," he growled, glaring at Belt. "I'm going to do what I do best: score goals. I don't need anyone. Especially not a copycat."
Snick ignored the tension and turned to the magnetic tactical board on the wall.
"Right. We'll play a 2-2-2 formation. Nans, you stick to defense with Number 15. I'll control the midfield."
He hesitated, holding the magnet marked '13'.
"You, the little genius... you'll be our Center Forward."
Belt stood up slowly. The room went quiet. He walked to the board, his cleats clicking on the tile floor.
Without a word, he grabbed his magnet (13) and moved it back a notch, into a weird false-nine position. Then, he grabbed Number 5's magnet.
He placed it right at the front, aggressively high.
"What the hell?!" Nans shouted. "You want to play with him? You two hate each other!"
Belt went back to his bench and sat down.
Number 5 looked at the board, stunned. Then, a carnivorous smile spread across his face.
"Perfect," Number 5 sneered. "You want to see how a real striker plays up close? Fine. This is my last chance to crush you in a real match. I accept the challenge, 13."
Snick slumped his shoulders, resigned.
"Okay... I guess two beasts who hate each other are better than two sheep who love each other. Let them roar."
The Kick-Off
The teams walked out onto the pitch. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the turf. The speaker system crackled to life, introducing the players.
"Number 8: The Strategist. Number 4: The Pivot..."
Then came Belt's turn.
"Number 13: The Enigma. The player who has broken every rule so far. Let's see if he is a King or an impostor."
The referee blew the whistle.
Immediately, Number 5 demanded the ball. He got it and rushed forward alone, head down. He dribbled past one defender, then a second. He looked powerful, but predictable.
He tried to force his way through a third defender and lost the ball stupidly.
"Counter-attack!" screamed the opposing captain.
The enemy team moved the ball with insane speed. They bypassed the midfield in seconds.
Snick scrambled back, looking for help.
"Belt! Help us defend!"
But Belt was motionless. He stood near the center circle, hands on his hips, watching the clouds.
"Move, 13!!" Snick yelled, desperation in his voice.
It was too late. Distracted by playing 5 against 6, Snick missed his interception. The opposing striker (Number 12) found space and fired a low shot.
GOAL.
1-0 for the opponent.
The crowd began to murmur. Boos rained down from the stands.
"What is Number 13 doing?"
"He's just standing there!"
Belt's team was disorganized, cut in two by the ego of its strikers.
The first half was pure torture. Belt didn't touch a single ball. He was a statue. But his eyes were moving constantly. He observed. He analyzed the cracks in the enemy defense. He was downloading data.
Half-Time: The Ultimatum
Back in the locker room, Nans exploded. He kicked a bench, sending water bottles flying.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he screamed at Belt. "Number 5 is playing for himself, and you... you're a ghost! We're fighting for our lives out there! It's your match too, dammit!"
Belt looked up. His expression was bored.
"Calm down," he said coldly. "Just focus on getting the ball where I want it. The match is already won."
Nans looked like he was about to punch him.
"Won? Are you crazy? We are losing 1-0!"
"That's just a detail," Belt replied, retying his laces.
The Second Half: The Awakening
The whistle blew for the second half. The atmosphere had changed. Belt's aura was different.
Nans intercepted a pass in defense. He looked up.
Number 5 was waving his arms frantically in the attack. "Pass! I'm open! Here!"
Nans wound up to send a long ball to him.
Suddenly, a black blur crossed the field.
It was Belt.
He sprinted across the pitch and appeared right in front of his own teammate—Number 5.
He jumped and intercepted the pass meant for him!
"What are you doing?!" Number 5 screamed, his eyes popping out of his head. "That was my ball!"
Belt didn't even look at him.
With his back to the goal, he performed a blind backheel pass. He slashed the ball toward the opposite wing.
The ball flew straight to Snick, who was totally unmarked in the box.
The defenders had all been sucked in by Belt and Number 5. No one had seen the "Hyena" lurking in the shadows... except Belt.
Snick didn't even have to trap it. He just tapped it in.
GOAL!
1-1. Equalizer.
Nans ran over to Belt, grabbing his shoulders.
"You're a genius! But... why did you steal the ball from Number 5? Again?"
Belt shrugged calmly.
"That idiot was going to try to dribble three defenders. They were waiting for him. It was a trap. I took the bait—the ball—and gave it to the hyena waiting in the empty space. I knew Snick would be there to eat the carcass."
Number 5 overheard him. He turned red with rage.
"You call me a carcass?!" he spat. "You'll pay for this, copycat!"
The Finishing Blow
One minute left on the clock. The stadium held its breath.
Number 5 was desperate. He wanted to prove his worth. He demanded the ball and rushed head-down toward the goal again.
"I'll show you!" he grunted.
But he was trapped. Three defenders surrounded him at 40 meters.
"Don't shoot!" Snick yelled. "Pass it back!"
Number 5 didn't listen. He unleashed a powerful but desperate strike.
Thud.
The opposing defender headed it away easily. The ball flew high, very high into the sky, looping back toward the midfield. A clearance.
But someone was waiting.
Belt appeared in the center of the pitch. He wasn't running. He was waiting.
He had anticipated that Number 5 would fail. He had positioned himself exactly where the rejection would land.
35 meters from the goal.
The ball fell from the sky.
Belt didn't control it. He didn't trap it.
He planted his left foot and cocked his right leg back. All his rage, all the frustration of his life, all the grueling training with Tink concentrated in his right foot.
BOOM.
The sound was like a cannon shot.
The ball left his foot like a missile. It didn't spin. It rose, screaming through the air, then dropped abruptly with an illogical, zigzagging trajectory—like an eagle diving on its prey.
The goalkeeper didn't even move.
CLANG.
The ball smashed against the underside of the crossbar and bounced in.
GOAL.
2-1.
The Aftermath
Silence fell on the stadium. It lasted for two seconds.
Then, an explosion of noise.
In the VIP stands, Morgking, the Titan, stood up, stunned. He gripped the railing.
"That kid..." he whispered. "He really has a weapon of mass destruction in his foot."
The referee blew the final whistle. The test was over.
Quiena sprinted down from the stands to the sidelines. She saw the scoreboard and screamed with joy.
"Belt! The Emperor struck again!"
Belt walked past her without stopping. He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate with his team.
He threw his towel over his shoulder, a sarcastic smirk on his lips.
"As if I needed to prove anything..."
He walked into the dark tunnel alone, leaving the other players and recruiters in shock on the sunlit field.
The selections were over. Now, the waiting game began.