The alarm went off before the sun even touched the academy rooftops. Noah didn't hit snooze. His eyes opened the moment it buzzed, body awake with a weight he hadn't felt before—not dread, but a heavy clarity. This wasn't just another game day. It was the day. The final.
He sat up and let his feet touch the cool floor, staring at the boots by the door. They were scuffed and worn, proof of every sprint, every turn, every late-night drill that had brought him here. "Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Let's do this."
The morning routine was automatic—shower, uniform, breakfast—but it all felt sharper today. The dining hall was unusually quiet. Normally Leo would be making jokes or playing music on his phone, but even he just kept his head down and ate. The team as a whole moved slower, as if the day's importance was thick enough to press down on their shoulders. Coach Harper didn't bother with small talk, only giving them a nod as they passed.
Noah checked his phone once before leaving for the bus. A text from his mom lit up the screen: "Proud of you. No matter what." He smiled softly, pocketed the phone, and didn't type back. He wanted to hold those words close, unspoiled, as fuel for what was coming.
The bus ride to the stadium was silent except for the hum of the engine. Players stared out windows, headphones in but music barely audible. Some bounced their knees, others gripped their thighs. Noah sat still, eyes focused on his reflection in the window. He didn't look like the kid who had once been afraid to take chances on the pitch. He looked like someone ready to take ownership.
When they arrived, it hit him. The stadium was packed already, hours before kickoff. Flags waved, drums pounded, and chants rolled like waves over the stands. There were more cameras than ever, more officials in suits, and he caught sight of scouts almost immediately—recognizable badges on jackets, clipboards in hand, sharp analytical eyes scanning everything. One wore an England badge. Another bore the symbol of Japan. There was even a rep from Spain who Noah swore he'd seen on a headline before. He didn't stare long; the thought alone was enough to raise his pulse.
In the locker room, Harper stood with arms folded and a tactical board behind him. "This is it. We've been building for this day since the start of the season. Their system is tight, compact. They live for counter-attacks and punish mistakes fast. But you've prepared for this. You know your roles, your assignments. Noah and Riku—control tempo, break their rhythm. Force them to chase." His eyes swept across the players. "Today isn't about proving something to anyone else. It's about proving it to yourselves. Show me who you are when everything's on the line."
Heads nodded around the room. Noah's eyes met Riku's, and for once, there was no rivalry in the look. Just focus. Riku gave him a small nod. Noah nodded back, adjusting his armband.
The tunnel was loud before they even stepped out. The crowd noise rolled over them, vibrating through the concrete. Noah took a slow breath, letting it soak in, then fixed his gaze forward. Riku walked beside him and whispered, "Keep your head clear."
"You too," Noah replied.
The anthem played, handshakes were exchanged, and finally they took their positions. Noah scanned the pitch one last time as the whistle blew.
The final began at a blistering pace. The opposition didn't waste time feeling things out—they pressed aggressively, lines tight and compact, cutting off central passing lanes and forcing Noah to drop deeper than usual to receive. For a brief moment, he felt the old instinct—play safe, recycle possession, avoid risk—but he shoved it down and asked for the ball anyway.
First touch, quick pivot, switch to Leo in space. It wasn't spectacular, but it set a tone: they wouldn't be bullied out of their rhythm.
The next ten minutes were a battle of ideas. The opposition's midfield sat narrow, pressing the moment a passing lane opened. Noah adjusted, drifting between the center-backs at times to create a temporary overload and draw their striker higher, which in turn left space behind. He could feel Riku adjusting as well, rotating into half-spaces and dragging markers with him.
The console in his peripheral vision flickered faintly:
[Skill Triggered: Conductor's Vision – Passing lanes sharpen under pressure.]
It was like something in his brain clicked. Passing options seemed clearer, lanes wider. He could see their holding midfielder leaning just a fraction too far one way, leaving space for a disguised pass. He pulled their structure one step, then two, passing not just to teammates but into situations that forced their shape to bend.
Then came the first big chance. Noah feinted a pass backward, spun, and chipped an angled through ball toward Leo, who squared it perfectly across the box—but the defender stretched just enough to deflect it wide. The roar from the crowd told him everything: they were in this game, and the fans knew it.
The opponent landed the first real blow, though. A slip on the flank, a fast turnover, and within seconds their winger cut inside and curled one into the far post. 0–1. For a heartbeat, the stadium went quiet except for the other team's small contingent celebrating wildly.
Noah clenched his fists, breathing heavy. Old habits whispered: play safe, minimize mistakes, don't risk it. Then Leo clapped him on the back. "We're good," he said calmly. "Just play."
Don't play safe. Play because you love it. His mom's words replayed in his mind like an echo.
From the restart, Noah shifted gears. He began demanding the ball in tighter spaces, spinning out of traps and linking passes faster than the opposition could react. He baited their press deliberately, holding the ball half a second longer just to draw their holding midfielder out, then slipping a no-look pass into Riku. Riku didn't hesitate—one touch, forward to Leo—and this time Leo didn't miss. The shot thundered into the net, 1–1.
The roar that followed washed over Noah, but he didn't celebrate wildly. He just turned, nodded at Riku, and reset his focus.
The first half continued as a tactical chess match, with Noah orchestrating tempo and Riku finding pockets of space. By halftime, the match was level, but the momentum felt like it had tilted. Noah walked toward the tunnel with his heart pounding, but it wasn't fear anymore—it was hunger. The final wasn't just a game to survive anymore. It was a stage, and he was finally ready to step into the center of it.