Paris didn't smell like mountains.
It smelled of butter, exhaust fumes, and old stone.
Soccer pressed his face against the window of the team bus. His breath fogged up the glass.
"That tower is pointy," Soccer noted.
"That's the Eiffel Tower, you uncultured savage," Kai Rivers adjusted his silk tie. He looked immaculate in the team's formal travel suit. Soccer looked like a child wearing his dad's clothes; the tie was crooked, and he was wearing his black Copa Mundials with the suit.
"Is it sharp?" Soccer asked.
"What?"
"If I climbed to the top and jumped... would it hurt?"
"You'd die," Silas Vance said, tapping away on a French smartphone he'd bought at the airport. "Terminal velocity from 300 meters is approximately 195 km/h. Upon impact with the pavement, your skeletal structure would liquefy."
"So don't jump. Got it."
Vincent Drake, sitting in the back, groaned. "I'm hungry. Where is the meat? This country is just bread and tiny coffees."
Zero sat on the roof of the bus.
Wait. No. He was hanging from the luggage rack inside the bus. Upside down. Again.
"Gravity feels different here," Zero murmured, his hair dangling. "The air is heavy with history."
The bus swerved.
"We are arriving!" Coach Titan barked from the front. "Listen up, misfits. We are not tourists. We are here for the World Youth Cup."
He stood up, looking at the team of five monsters (and the 18 other reserve players filling out the roster who looked terrified of the main five).
"32 Nations. The best U-18 players on Earth. France. Brazil. Germany. Spain. They have academies older than your country."
Titan pointed out the window.
A massive stadium rose from the city outskirts like a spaceship made of concrete and light.
LE GRAND STADE.
"Group stages start in three days," Titan grinned. "The world thinks the USA is a joke. They think we play 'Soccer'—a soft sport for suburban kids."
He looked at Soccer.
"Show them that we play Hunting."
The Player Village.
It wasn't a village. It was a fortress.
Armed guards. Ten-foot fences. Inside, high-rise glass hotels housed the teams.
Team USA walked into the lobby.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
It wasn't loud. It was deadly quiet.
The lobby was filled with players from other nations.
A group of Brazilians were juggling a ball near the fountain. They moved like dancers—fluid, laughing, rhythmic.
A squad of Germans stood by the elevator. Tall. Blond. Mechanical.
And in the center...
Team France.
They sat on the plush velvet couches. They wore navy blue suits. They weren't talking. They weren't juggling.
They were bored.
"Don't look," Kai whispered. He froze mid-step. His arrogant strut vanished.
Soccer felt the change. He looked at the Golden King.
Kai was sweating.
"Which one is he?" Soccer asked.
"The one in the middle," Kai choked out. "The Monster of Paris."
Soccer looked.
Sitting with his legs crossed, reading a magazine, was a boy with pale blonde hair and eyes that looked like shattered glass. He looked delicate. Beautiful, even.
Noel Noa.
He didn't look like a football player. He looked like a prince who had never run a day in his life.
"He looks sleepy," Soccer said loudly.
The room stopped.
The Brazilians stopped juggling. The Germans turned.
Noel Noa turned a page of his magazine. He didn't look up.
"Did you hear me?" Soccer asked, stepping forward. His titanium ankle made a distinct click on the marble floor. "I said you look sleepy."
Vincent Drake grabbed Soccer's shoulder. "Hey, Prototype. Maybe don't poke the apex predator yet."
"Why not?"
Noel Noa finally looked up.
His eyes landed on Soccer.
It felt like walking into a meat locker. Cold. Sterile. Absolute.
Noa didn't speak English. Or French.
He stood up.
He walked over to Soccer. He moved silently. He was wearing expensive sneakers that looked brand new.
Noa stopped one inch from Soccer. He was taller.
He looked down at Soccer's Copa Mundials. The old, scuffed black leather.
Then he looked at Soccer's face.
Noa leaned in.
"Dust," Noa whispered in perfect English.
"Dust?" Soccer tilted his head.
"You are dust on my trophy case. I will wipe you away."
Noa didn't wait for a reply. He walked past them, toward the dining hall. The rest of Team France followed him like loyal soldiers.
Soccer watched him go.
"He smells nice," Soccer noted. "Like winter."
"He just threatened to delete your existence," Silas said, pushing up his glasses. "Noel Noa: 45 goals in the European U-18 league. Top speed: 36 km/h. Shot accuracy: 99.8%. He is statistically a god."
"Dust," Soccer tasted the word.
He bounced on his heels. Boing.
"Dust is annoying," Soccer grinned. "It gets in your eyes. And if you have dust in your eyes... you can't see the mountain."
The Draw Ceremony. 7:00 PM.
The auditorium was packed. Flashbulbs popped like lightning storms.
FIFA officials stood on stage with glass bowls containing the fate of 32 nations.
Team USA sat in the third row.
"I hate this part," Dylan (who had made the reserve squad) squeaked. "Please give us an easy group. Please. Group H. Give us Panama."
"Group A," the official announced. "The Host Nation."
FRANCE.
The crowd cheered.
"Group A... Position 2," the official swirled the balls. He pulled one out.
EGYPT.
"Ahmed Hassan," Vincent nodded. "The Pharoah. Good player. Strong."
"Group A... Position 3," the official pulled another ball.
BRAZIL.
The room gasped.
France and Brazil in the same group? It was a nightmare scenario. Two titans.
"Group of Death," Kai whispered. "Whoever gets the fourth spot is dead. They are fodder."
"Group A... Position 4," the official smiled. A cruel smile.
He opened the plastic ball.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Silence.
Then, a low murmur of laughter.
"They're laughing," Marcus (reserve defender) clenched his fist. "They think we're the free points."
"Brazil. France. Egypt," Silas calculated. "Survival probability: 2%."
Soccer looked at the screen. The flags.
Tricolour. Green and Yellow. Red, White, and Black.
"Group of Death," Soccer whispered.
He stood up.
"Where are you going?" Titan grabbed his arm.
"To the bathroom," Soccer said. "Too much sparkling water."
He walked out. But he didn't go to the bathroom. He went to the balcony overlooking the stage.
He looked down at the French team table. Noel Noa was sitting there, looking bored again.
Soccer leaned over the rail.
"HEY! NOA!"
The shout echoed through the massive hall. The FIFA official stopped talking.
Every face turned upward.
Soccer waved.
"YOU SAID I WAS DUST!" Soccer screamed, grinning wilder than he ever had on Eagle's Peak.
"BUT DUST DOESN'T BLEED! PREPARE YOUR ANKLES! BECAUSE I'M GONNA BITE THEM!"
Security guards scrambled toward the balcony.
Noa looked up.
For the first time, the boredom cracked. A tiny, microscopic smirk appeared on the Prince's face.
Vincent Drake put his face in his hands.
"He just declared war on the entire world," Vincent groaned.
"No," Zero whispered, staring at the balcony. "He just told the world that the war has started."
Training Ground B. The Next Morning.
"You're an idiot," Kai Rivers said, juggling the ball aggressively. "Do you know what you did? Brazil practiced at 5 AM this morning. Because they want to humiliate the 'loudmouth American.'"
"Good," Soccer sat on the grass, tightening his laces. "Angry prey runs faster. More fun to catch."
"We play Egypt first," Silas pulled up the holo-screen. "In two days."
MATCH 1: USA vs EGYPT
"Their star is Ahmed Hassan," Silas swiped. "They call him The Sandstorm. He plays dribble-heavy football. Technical. Tricky."
"Dribbling?" Zero perked up from inside the goal (where he was currently sleeping in the net hammock style).
"He makes defenders disappear," Silas warned. "He uses a technique called the Mirage Step."
Soccer stood up. He tested his titanium ankle. It felt locked. Loaded.
"Mirage," Soccer muttered. "I like deserts. They're just hot mountains."
Coach Titan blew the whistle.
"SCRIMMAGE! Main 5 versus Reserves! Don't kill the reserves, Vincent!"
"No promises!" Vincent roared, charging at Marcus.
The practice began.
And it was... terrifying.
Vincent was stronger. The European pro defenders in the Gauntlet had hardened him. He didn't just push; he pulverized.
Kai was sharper. His touch was cleaner. The "Golden Eclipse" technique was becoming second nature.
Zero was a black hole.
And Soccer?
Soccer received a pass.
Marcus stepped up to defend. "I know your tricks, buddy!"
Soccer didn't use the Ghost Step. He didn't use the Spring Step.
He ran at Marcus.
He stomped the ground with his right foot (the normal one).
Marcus froze, expecting the left-foot spring.
Soccer simply ran past him.
"You faked... without faking?" Marcus stumbled.
Soccer laughed.
"I learned something from Noa," Soccer said, tapping the ball into the net. "Sometimes, the scariest move... is just walking."
Two Days Later. Le Grand Stade.
The opening match of Group A.
USA vs EGYPT.
The stadium held 80,000 people. It was full. Mostly French fans waiting to see their team play next, but they were bored and wanted entertainment.
They wanted to see the "Clowns from America" get slaughtered.
The Egyptian team walked out. They looked relaxed. Confident.
Ahmed Hassan led them. He was lean, with dark curly hair and a smile that said, I am going to embarrass you.
"Nice to meet you," Hassan said to Soccer in the center circle. "I heard you bark. Can you bite?"
"I have new teeth," Soccer tapped his ankle.
The coin toss. USA kicks off.
"The world is watching," Coach Titan said into his headset. "Don't blink."
KICKOFF.
Soccer tapped to Silas. Silas to Kai.
"Attack!" Vincent screamed, running forward like a mad bull.
Egypt didn't defend. They pressed.
Ahmed Hassan intercepted a pass intended for Kai.
"Showtime," Hassan whispered.
He faced Vincent.
Vincent charged. "I'll break you!"
Hassan didn't move. He stood still.
Vincent lunged.
Hassan rolled the ball backward through his own legs, pirouetted, and flicked it forward with his other heel.
The Sands of Time.
Vincent tackled empty air. By the time he turned around, Hassan was three meters past him.
"Slippery!" Vincent growled.
Silas stepped up. "Calculation: He favors the right."
Hassan feinted right. His body language screamed right.
Silas shifted.
Hassan didn't touch the ball. He let the wind move it—or maybe he touched it so lightly it was imperceptible. He glided left.
The Mirage.
"My eyes..." Silas blinked. "I tracked a phantom movement."
Hassan was through the midfield. He was dancing. It was beautiful. It was art.
He approached the defense (which was non-existent because USA played 0-5-5 or whatever chaos Titan invented).
Only Zero stood in goal.
Hassan reached the penalty arc.
"The Void," Hassan grinned. "Let's see if you can catch sand."
Hassan kicked.
He scuffed the ground intentionally. A plume of dust (or turf spray) kicked up, obscuring the ball's contact point.
The shot was a wobbler. A dry-leaf knuckleball that looked like it was going high, then dipped low.
Zero reached out.
The ball fluttered. It moved six inches to the right mid-air.
It slipped past Zero's glove.
It hit the post... and went in.
GOAL.
Egypt: 1 - USA: 0
Time: 5:00
The crowd roared. They loved an artist.
Hassan bowed to the crowd. He looked at Soccer.
"You bark loud," Hassan yelled. "But you Americans are just tourists. Go buy a keychain and go home."
Soccer stood at the center circle.
The vibration of 80,000 people shouting was different than the Regional final. It was deeper. Scarier.
He looked at his team. Kai was fuming. Vincent was red-faced. Silas was rebooting. Zero was staring at his glove.
"Tourists," Soccer whispered.
He remembered the bus ride. The Eiffel Tower. The city of stone and bone.
"He called us tourists," Soccer said to Kai.
"I heard him," Kai hissed.
"Tourists take pictures," Soccer bounced. Click.
He passed the ball to Kai.
"We take heads."
Soccer turned to the Egyptian magician.
"Hey Sandman!" Soccer yelled. "You made one mistake."
Hassan laughed. "What?"
"You showed us your trick," Soccer grinned. "And my eyes..."
He pointed to Silas, Kai, and Zero.
"...our eyes are really, really good."