The Presentation Ceremony
The air around the Krow City High reception hall was a physical weight—a humid, electric pressure cooker. A dense crowd was pressed against the security barriers, a sea of blurred faces craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the new "Golden Generation." The usual grey gloom of the industrial city seemed to have been chased away by the blinding, rhythmic flash of professional cameras, each pop of light stinging Belt's eyes like a needle.
A security guard, his forehead glistening with sweat, guided the five new recruits through the throng. Belt could feel the gazes of the students and parents—some filled with hope, others with the sharp, jagged edge of jealousy. To them, this was a celebration. To Belt, it was a marketing circus.
Inside, the hall had been transformed into a factory for manufacturing stars. Blue and gold spotlights swept the room, and official banners hung from the rafters like the tapestries of an old empire. Belt stood in the line-up, his expression a wall of blank marble. While the other four recruits waved awkwardly or forced nervous smiles to appease the lenses, Belt was a computer processing useless data. The noise was a distraction. The artificial light was a lie. The enthusiasm was a mask for people who wanted to live vicariously through others.
He hated every second of it.
The Sports Director, Benite Bam, stepped up to the mahogany podium. His eyes shone with the sharp, predatory ambition of a man who didn't just want a team; he wanted a dynasty. He signaled Belt to step forward.
"And finally... for the Number 13—a number that no starter dared to touch, a number usually reserved for the cursed or the forgotten, but which this young man specifically requested... Here is our wild card, Belt Konp!"
The applause that followed was a strange mixture: polite from the officials, but confused and whispering from the students who had heard rumors of the "Tiger" from the trials. The Director handed him the jersey. It felt unexpectedly heavy in his hands. The black and gold fabric was high-end, a symbol of the academy's wealth. As Belt ran his thumb over the gold '13' on the back, he realized this wasn't just polyester. It was a contract of blood. It was the weight of a responsibility he hadn't asked for, or perhaps the giant, glowing target he had just painted on his own back for every veteran in the league to aim at.
The Press Conference
The polite atmosphere didn't last long. As soon as the players sat behind the long table, the journalists moved in. They smelled blood. They sensed the anomaly sitting at the end of the row. One man in the front row, his face etched with permanent skepticism and a notepad held like a dagger, stood up.
"Mr. Konp," he barked, his voice amplified by the room's acoustics. "During the pre-selections, we observed a... peculiar style of play. To put it bluntly, you have an asocial game that clashes with this team's DNA, which has historically been based on collective passing and mutual trust. You even went as far as snatching the ball from your own teammate's feet. What do you have to say to justify such a blatant act of unsportsmanlike conduct?"
The room went deathly quiet. The other recruits shifted in their seats, looking away. The journalist leaned in, his eyes hungry for a scandal.
Belt stared into the man's eyes, then down at the microphone. A spike of cold frustration rose in his chest, but he crushed it instantly with the mechanical precision of his own logic. This was his first duel in the media arena. They want to trap the beast in a cage of words? he thought. Fine. Let's see who has the sharper teeth.
He leaned toward the mic, his voice calm, flat, and sharp as a razor.
"First of all, I didn't 'steal' that ball," Belt replied, his tone devoid of any defensive emotion. "I made a tactical correction. I saw a mistake before it manifested as a turnover. I didn't act out of ego; I acted out of efficiency. And as you all saw, that action ended with the ball in the back of the net. The scoreboard doesn't care about social etiquette."
The journalist sneered. "Certainly, but what if it had failed? Such an act dissolves the very spirit of a team! It's unheard of at this level!"
"If it hadn't worked, I would have borne the burden of that failure alone," Belt retorted without blinking. "I took the risk, and I delivered the result. Why are we debating a hypothetical failure when the reality of the goal proves the decision was correct? In the system of Krow City, results are the only currency that matters."
Another journalist chimed in from the back, her voice dripping with irony. "So, for you, the end justifies the means? Even if you have to humiliate your own partners on the world stage?"
Belt sketched a slight, cold smile—a predatory expression that sent a visible shiver through the front row.
"Life is a gamble. Football is simply a faster version of that gamble. I saw a window of opportunity, and I took it while others were still waiting for permission. Sometimes, you have to act instead of thinking too long and losing 'politely'." He stared directly into the camera lens, speaking to the city itself. "For me, a draw is a defeat. I am here to reign, not to make friends."
The room remained stunned. This kid wasn't playing the media game. He wasn't looking for fans. He was a professional who had already moved past the need for approval.
Meeting Number 7
Ten minutes later, Belt escaped the suffocating humidity of the hall. He found a deserted training courtyard behind the building, where the air smelled of wet concrete and old rubber. He leaned against a rusted fence, looking at his hands.
"Finally... I did it," he whispered, his heart rate finally slowing. "I entered the jungle. Now, I must adapt. Like a beast. Patience and precision."
"Well, well. You must be the new guy who just gave the press a heart attack."
Belt spun around, his reflexes on high alert. Leaning against a goalpost was a player Belt hadn't seen during the trials. He looked relaxed, almost lazy, wearing the prestigious Number 7 jersey. He was popping a piece of chewing gum, and despite his casual posture, he exuded an aura of effortless, natural confidence—the kind of presence that only comes from being an undisputed master of one's craft.
"Yes, that's me," Belt snapped, his defensive walls slamming back into place. "Why? Do you have a problem with my presence here?"
Number 7 burst into a frank, melodic laugh. "Easy there, kitten! Put the claws away before you hurt yourself."
"Kitten?" Belt's eyes narrowed into icy slits.
"I'm glad you're here, actually," the player replied, pushing himself off the post. "This team was starting to get boring. Too many 'yes-men.' I just hope you won't be one of those loudmouths who deflates the moment a real defender tackles you into the mud."
Belt took a step forward, his shadow looming. "Do you want me to prove the opposite right now?"
"No need," the player replied, holding out a hand. "I'm forgetting my manners. My name is Bobby. I am the starting Attacking Midfielder. They call me 'The Creator' around here."
Belt hesitated, analyzing the hand as if it were a trap. He shook it briefly—a hard, quick grip. "Belt."
"Nice to meet you, Belt. By the way, the Coach and the Director are waiting for you in Room 4. Immediately. And a tip? Don't use that 'Absolute Sovereign' tone with Ninan. He bites harder than you do."
Signing the Contract
Belt found Room 4 at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. The door was massive, heavy oak that seemed designed to intimidate. He knocked once.
"Enter!" boomed a voice that felt like a physical blow.
Inside, Director Benite Bam and Coach Rick Ninan were waiting. They stood around a sleek glass table that reflected the harsh overhead lights. The atmosphere was cold, clinical, and heavy with the scent of expensive leather and power.
"Sit down, son," the Director said, gesturing to a chair that felt too comfortable to be safe.
Coach Ninan stared at Belt, his eyes searching for a crack in the boy's armor. But Belt remained as still as a statue, locking his emotions in a vault deep within his mind. The Tiger showed no fear before the tamer.
"You achieved the improbable," Ninan grunted, crossing his massive arms. "Given your psychological profile and the way you acted during the tests... you are a massive risk for my locker room. You're a tactical anomaly. But the result is indisputable: you score goals that no one else sees."
The Director took over, his tone shifting into the smooth, practiced resonance of a businessman. "Our team's level has been mediocre for ten years. We have the facilities, we have the money, but we lacked the 'killing edge.' I took the reins to change that. The question is simple, Belt: are you going to bring us the victory needed for the Regionals, or will you just be another fire I have to put out?"
Belt stood up, his gaze burning with cold determination. "Victory is the only logical conclusion. I don't waste my time with half-measures."
The Coach smirked—a jagged, frightening look. "I like your fire. Let's see how long it lasts against the real monsters of this league. They won't just try to take the ball; they'll try to take your legs."
The Director opened a drawer and slid a heavy, crisp document across the glass table.
"All that's missing is your signature. As you know, the government recently validated the 'Elite Athlete' law. High school students at this level are now entitled to a professional salary. We are offering you a rookie contract: 800€ per month for the duration of the season. Plus performance bonuses for goals and assists."
Belt's eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second.
800 euros.
It was more money than he had ever seen. In the grey, struggling streets of Krow City, that was a fortune. It wasn't just cash; it was a certificate of existence. It was proof that the system finally recognized his value. It meant he could finally help his mother—the woman who bore the weight of his silence every night.
"Since you are a minor," the Director added, "the sum will be paid into a blocked account managed by your parents, as per the law. Sign here, and you are officially a Krow City player."
Belt grabbed the heavy fountain pen. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. The scratching of the pen against the paper sounded like a blade being sharpened.
Belt Konp.
As he finished the last stroke of his name, Belt realized he wasn't just signing a contract. He was selling his soul to the game. He was no longer just a boy with a "Mirror." He was a weapon belonging to Krow City.
The hunt was officially open, and the Tiger finally had his claws.