The air in the training facility didn't smell like a gym.
It smelled like a zoo.
Specifically, the section where they keep the large predators. Raw musk, aggressive cologne, and heavy, heated breath.
Soccer stood in line with twenty other Sector C survivors. He wiggled his toes in his Copa Mundials.
"They're big," Soccer whispered.
In front of the goal stood five men.
They weren't teenagers. They weren't U-18 prospects.
These were grown men. Professionals paid in Euros and sponsorships.
The Gauntlet.
Defender 1: Hans Bauer. German Bundesliga. 6'5". Thighs like tree trunks.
Defender 2: Jean-Luc Pierre. French League. Fast. Mean.
Defender 3: Sergio Silva. Italian Serie A. The Master of Dark Arts (dirty fouls).
And two others who just looked like bouncers for a giant's nightclub.
Coach Titan stood in the middle holding a microphone.
"Simple drill," Titan barked. "Start at midfield. Dribble past one pro. Score on the keeper. If you lose the ball? You drop a rank. If you get injured? That's on you."
"They're wearing pads," Vincent Drake noted, standing next to Soccer.
The pros were indeed wearing light training armor. Rib protectors. Shin guards that looked like riot gear.
"They aren't wearing pads to protect themselves," Vincent said, a dark smile playing on his lips. "They're wearing pads so they can hit us harder."
Attempt 1: Number 4 (Westside Bully).
Number 4 stepped up. He cracked his knuckles. He was big for a high schooler. He bullied kids in Regionals.
"I got this," he grunted.
He dribbled forward.
Hans Bauer stepped out. He didn't run. He just occupied space.
Number 4 tried a shoulder barge. "Move!"
He hit Bauer.
THUD.
It sounded like a bird hitting a windshield.
Bauer didn't move an inch. He simply leaned his weight forward.
Number 4 flew backward. He hit the turf hard, rolled three times, and gasped for air.
Bauer looked down at him. Bored. He kicked the ball away.
"Next," Bauer grunted.
"Holy..." someone whispered. "It's a wall. A meat wall."
Attempt 2: Speedster from District 9.
A kid known for his 100m sprint time.
He touched the ball. He tried to burn Jean-Luc Pierre on the outside.
Pierre matched his speed instantly. Long, loping strides.
When the kid tried to cut inside, Pierre put a hand on his chest.
One arm. Stiff-arm.
The kid's feet lifted off the ground. He was clotheslined. He flipped mid-air and landed on his neck.
"Foul!" the kid wheezed.
"No fouls in the box!" Titan yelled. "This is pro ball, baby. Survival of the fittest! Get him off the field!"
Medics ran in.
Soccer watched carefully.
"They're heavy," Soccer muttered. "But heavy things have inertia."
"Watch closely, Assassin," Vincent stepped forward. "I'll show you how a Dragon handles a wall."
The Dragon's Run.
Vincent Drake didn't dribble with finesse. He dribbled with intent.
He moved toward Bauer.
The German giant smiled. Finally, someone with mass.
Bauer stepped in to check him.
Vincent didn't dodge.
He roared. A primal sound.
The Kinetic Crash.
Vincent drove his shoulder into Bauer's chest.
CRUNCH.
The collision shook the floorboards.
For a second, nobody moved. The forces equalized.
Then, Bauer slid back. His cleats furrowed the turf.
Vincent kept pushing. Legs pumping like pistons. He drove the 230-pound German pro backward.
"Move!" Vincent screamed.
Bauer grunted, surprised by the teen's raw power. His footing slipped.
Vincent broke the lock. He burst through.
Sergio Silva, the Italian, slid in to trip him.
Vincent jumped—not high, but heavy—and stomped the ground right next to Silva's ear.
"MINE!"
Vincent struck the ball.
BOOM.
The net ripped back.
Vincent stood over the fallen pros, chest heaving. He looked like a barbarian king.
"One," Vincent announced, staring at Bauer. "Don't blink, old man."
Bauer stood up. He adjusted his ribs. He nodded once. Respect.
"Your turn, Prototype," Vincent walked back, dripping sweat. He slapped Soccer's hand. "Don't bounce off. Break through."
Soccer's Turn.
Soccer walked to the center spot.
He looked small. Next to the European giants, he looked like a mascot.
Hans Bauer looked at the scrawny kid. He laughed.
"Kindergarten is closed," Bauer taunted.
Soccer touched his left ankle. The titanium weave felt hot. It was buzzing.
"Okay," Soccer whispered. "Time to test the springs."
He tapped the ball forward.
He ran.
He didn't look fast. He looked... bouncy.
Bauer stepped forward to crush him, just like he crushed Number 4.
"Squish," Bauer grunted.
He threw his massive body weight into the challenge. A hip check that would shatter a normal ribcage.
Soccer saw the mass coming.
You can't move the mountain. So climb it.
Soccer planted his Titanium Foot.
He didn't brace for impact. He loaded the spring.
He pushed down.
BOING.
The lateral force was explosive.
Soccer shot sideways.
Not a normal cut. A teleportation. He moved three meters to the right in the span of a single heartbeat.
Bauer checked empty air.
The German stumbled, his momentum carrying him into the empty space where Soccer had just been.
"Was?!" Bauer gasped.
Soccer caught the ball on the other side.
"Too slow!" Soccer chirped.
Jean-Luc Pierre (the speedster) saw the breach. He came flying in from the left.
He aimed a sliding tackle at Soccer's legs.
"Gotcha, little rabbit."
Soccer didn't look down. He felt the vibration in the turf.
He planted the left foot again.
The Sky Hopper.
He didn't just jump over the tackle. He launched.
He cleared Pierre's entire body height. He went six feet into the air.
While airborne, he tapped the ball up with him, kneeing it over Pierre's head.
Soccer landed on the other side, soft and silent.
Pierre slid past, taking out Bauer's legs by accident. A pile of expensive limbs tangled on the floor.
Soccer was through.
Sergio Silva (Dark Arts) was the last defender.
He didn't go for the ball. He reached out and grabbed Soccer's jersey. Two handfuls. He yanked back.
"Sit down!" Silva hissed.
It was a blatant foul. A tactical kill.
Soccer felt the fabric stretching. He was being pulled backward.
Most players would fall and take the foul.
But Soccer?
He felt the tension. The resistance.
A rubber band.
He leaned forward against the pull. He planted his titanium foot hard, anchoring himself.
Then he twisted.
The Corkscrew.
He spun into the pull. The rotation confused Silva's grip. The jersey didn't rip—Silva's fingers slipped.
The sudden release of tension catapulted Soccer forward.
Sling-shot.
He exploded out of the hold, moving faster than his legs should allow.
He was one-on-one with the keeper.
A giant named "Goliath" (probably).
Goliath came out big. Arms spread. Blocking everything.
Soccer had too much momentum from the slingshot move. He was going to crash into the keeper.
Stop? No. Stopping is boring.
Soccer stepped on the ball with his right foot. He used it as a pivot.
He spun his body away from the keeper.
He back-heeled the ball.
The Blind Assassin.
The ball rolled between the keeper's open legs.
Soccer didn't even watch it go in. He was busy recovering his balance, bouncing on his toes near the corner flag.
Net rattle.
GOAL.
Silence.
Hans Bauer picked himself up off the floor. Pierre was rubbing his neck.
Coach Titan dropped his microphone.
"Time?" Titan asked the assistant.
"4.2 seconds," the assistant stuttered. "Fastest time recorded in facility history."
Soccer turned around. He beamed at the pile of terrifying professional defenders.
"You guys are fun!" Soccer yelled. "Very big! Hard to jump over! Can we go again?"
Hans Bauer stared at the kid. He looked at the skinny legs. Then at the weird black Copa Mundials.
"No," Bauer said, rubbing his shoulder. "Once is enough, you little bouncy ball."
The Assessment.
Coach Titan walked over.
He marked something on his tablet. A red checkmark.
"Soccer. You pass."
He pointed to a door on the upper gantry.
SECTOR B.
"Go," Titan said. "Get out of my C-block. You're terrifying the regulars."
Vincent walked up. He wiped sweat with a towel.
"Bouncing off walls?" Vincent grinned. "Cheap trick."
"It worked," Soccer shrugged.
"It works on defense," Vincent leaned in close. "But up in Sector B... the strikers there don't just defend. They attack."
Vincent pointed to the upper level.
"We just beat the Tutorial, Assassin. Now the game starts."
Soccer looked at the stairs leading up.
He felt the adrenaline fading, leaving a dull ache where the titanium graft met his bone. Dr. Klaus was right. The spring was strong, but the landing hurt.
He needed ice.
But first...
He looked back at Hans Bauer.
"Hey!" Soccer waved.
Bauer groaned. "What?"
"Nice thighs!"
Soccer grabbed his bag and bolted up the stairs before the angry German could throw a water bottle at him.
Sector B: The Pressure Chamber.
Sector C was a gym.
Sector B was a lounge.
Leather couches. Smooth jazz playing. A buffet table filled with actual food (steaks, pasta, fruit).
There were only twenty players here.
Soccer walked in. Vincent followed.
The vibe was different. These guys weren't hungry wolves like in The Pit. These guys were calm. Successful.
One player sat in the middle of the room, reading a book.
He had perfectly styled black hair and wore rimless glasses. He held a tea cup.
Silas Vance. (From Iron-Point Tech).
"Calculated probability of your arrival: 89%," Silas said without looking up from his book. "Though your path was... unorthodox."
Soccer grinned. "Calculator! You made it!"
"Logic prevails," Silas closed his book. "I analyzed the pro defender movement patterns. Minimal exertion required."
"Who else is here?" Vincent grabbed a steak from the buffet with his bare hands.
Silas pointed to a dark corner.
A figure was doing handstand pushups against the wall.
White hair. Ghostly skin.
Zero.
And in the other corner, sharpening a set of studs with a file...
Kai Rivers.
The Golden King.
Kai stopped filing. He looked up.
His eyes landed on Soccer immediately.
The last time they saw each other, Kai was ejected. Humiliated.
Kai stood up. He walked over.
The room went silent. Silas adjusted his glasses. Zero paused mid-handstand.
Kai stopped three feet from Soccer.
He looked at the new, thicker left leg.
"New toy?" Kai asked coldly.
"Yeah. Dr. Klaus special."
"Does it fix your touch?" Kai sneered. "Or are you still relying on luck?"
"Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity," Soccer quoted a fortune cookie he read once. "But yeah, my touch is better."
Kai tossed a grape at Soccer.
Fast. A hard projectile.
Soccer caught it.
Not with his hand.
With his left foot.
He lifted his leg so fast it blurred. He caught the grape on his toe. Stalled it. Then flicked it into the air and caught it in his mouth.
Gulp.
"Tasty," Soccer said.
Kai didn't blink. But his pupil contracted.
"Showoff."
Just then, the main screen illuminated.
"ATTENTION SECTOR B."
"CONGRATULATIONS ON PASSING THE GAUNTLET."
"NEXT PHASE: THE BLUE LOCK ELEVEN SELECTION."
"YOUR OBJECTIVE: FORM A TEAM. 5 PLAYERS."
"YOUR OPPONENT: THE JAPANESE U-18 NATIONAL TEAM."
The room exploded.
"Japan?" Silas whispered. "They're technical masters. Top 5 in the world rankings."
"We play a National Team?" Vincent licked steak juice off his fingers. "Now we're talking."
"RULE: LOSE, AND YOU ARE ALL ELIMINATED. WIN, AND YOU REPRESENT THE COUNTRY."
Coach Titan's voice cut through the speakers.
"Pick your teammates wisely. If you pick a weak link, the chain breaks."
Soccer looked around the room.
Kai Rivers. The Golden Perfection.
Vincent Drake. The Dragon.
Zero. The Void.
Silas. The Calculator.
Five players. One team.
Soccer smiled. A true, mountain-top grin.
"Hey," Soccer said, stepping into the center of the room. "I need a team. Who wants to hunt?"
Kai stared at him.
Vincent burped.
Zero flipped upright.
And the alarm for the next chapter began to ring.