The locker room for the World Cup Final didn't feel like a room. It felt like a pressure chamber deep underwater.
It was silent.
Team USA sat in their mismatched kits (dirty, torn, taped together). They looked less like a football team and more like the survivors of a plane crash who decided to play sports.
Vincent Drake had a bandage wrapped around his head.
Silas Vance was missing a lens in his glasses.
Kai Rivers' golden boots were scuffed gray.
Zero was sleeping on the floor.
And Soccer?
Soccer sat on the training table. His left leg was no longer in a cast. It was encased in a Black Exo-Brace.
Dr. Klaus (who had flown in just for the Final) tightened the screws with an Allen wrench.
"This is not medical," Klaus warned, his voice grave. "This is structural engineering. The synthetic ligament is fused. But the bone surrounding it is micro-fractured. This brace takes the load off the bone and puts it onto the carbon fiber frame."
"Does it let me run?" Soccer asked, staring at the ceiling.
"It lets you run," Klaus nodded. "It locks your ankle range of motion to 15 degrees. You cannot point your toe. You cannot finesse shot. You are a sledgehammer."
"I like hammers."
"One more thing," Klaus leaned close. "The brace runs on a small hydraulic battery to assist the spring. Battery life: 45 minutes of intense activity. After that? It locks rigid. You become a pirate with a wooden leg."
"So I play one half," Soccer sat up.
"You play the second half," Coach Titan interjected. "We can't risk you burning out early. We need you for the kill."
"So who starts?" Vincent growled.
"Me," a voice said.
Number 4 (from Westside High, the guy Soccer humiliated in Chapter 5) stepped forward. He had survived the cuts. He was a reserve defender.
"I play striker for the first half," Number 4 said. "My job is simple. Tire them out. Hit them. Bruise them."
"You're a sacrificial lamb," Kai sneered.
"I'm a battering ram," Number 4 corrected. "I soften the wall. Soccer breaks it."
The Tunnel.
Walking out for the World Cup Final is different. The air tastes like electricity.
Team France stood on the left.
They wore pristine navy blue kits with gold roosters. They looked like royalty.
Noel Noa stood at the front.
He didn't look at Number 4. He looked at the bench where Soccer sat.
Soccer waved. A tiny, cheerful wave.
Noa didn't wave back. He turned to his team.
"Delete them," Noa said in French. "Fast. Before the insect comes out."
First Half.
It was a massacre.
Minute 5: Noa dribbled past three defenders. Goal. 1-0.
Minute 12: Noa assisted his winger with a backheel pass that split atoms. Goal. 2-0.
The crowd—90,000 mostly French fans—were partying. Allez Les Bleus!
Number 4 tried. He really did. He charged at the French defense. He threw his weight around. But against elite technique, brute force looked clumsy.
A French defender sidestepped Number 4's tackle and sent him crashing into the advertising boards.
"Pathetic," the defender sneered.
Minute 35.
Vincent Drake lost his cool. He tackle-slammed a French midfielder. Yellow Card.
"Calm down!" Silas shouted. "If we go down a man, probability of victory drops to zero!"
"We're already at zero!" Vincent roared. "Look at the score!"
France attacked again.
Noa received the ball at the edge of the box.
He wound up. A curl shot aimed at the top corner.
Zero dove.
But Noa had learned.
Mid-swing, Noa changed his foot angle.
He didn't curl it. He dragged it near post.
The Reverse Snake.
The ball hissed along the ground, under Zero's diving body.
GOAL.
France: 3 - USA: 0
Halftime.
Locker Room.
Dead.
Absolute silence. The sound of despair is quiet.
3-0. Against the best player in the world.
"It's over," Dylan squeaked. "They're just... better. In every way."
Number 4 limped in. His nose was bleeding. His jersey was torn.
"I hit them," Number 4 gasped, collapsing on the bench. "I hit them hard. their defenders... are bruising."
Titan looked at Soccer.
Soccer was sitting quietly, eyes closed.
"Soccer," Titan said.
Soccer opened his eyes. They weren't gray anymore. They looked almost black. The pupils were dilated.
"Is it time?"
"45 minutes left," Titan said. "3 goals down. Klaus says the battery lasts 45 minutes."
Soccer stood up. Whirrrr-click. The Exo-Brace engaged.
He looked at his team.
"They're partying," Soccer said. "I can hear them through the wall. Champagne. Music."
He walked to the center of the room.
"Who likes parties?"
No one answered.
"I hate parties," Soccer said. "Too loud. Too messy."
He bounced. Boing.
"Let's go turn off the music."
Second Half Kickoff.
The crowd saw the substitution board.
OUT: #4
IN: #15 (SOCCER)
A ripple went through the stadium. The Anomaly was in.
Noa saw him. He stopped drinking his water. He tossed the bottle aside.
"Finally," Noa whispered.
Soccer walked to the center circle. He limped slightly—the brace forced a stiff gait.
He stood opposite Noa.
"You're late," Noa said. "The game is over."
"Game ends at zero," Soccer grinned. "Or ninety. I forget."
Kickoff.
Soccer tapped to Vincent.
"Go!"
The USA didn't pass back. They exploded.
Vincent charged. Kai ran the wing. Silas took the center lane.
Soccer stayed back. He hovered in the midfield.
Noa watched him. Why isn't he attacking?
Vincent bulldozed a defender. "Move!"
He laid the ball off to Kai.
Kai shot.
Blocked by a French defender.
The ball bounced out to midfield.
To Soccer.
Soccer was 40 yards out.
"Too far," the French keeper laughed.
Soccer planted his Exo-Brace leg.
He heard the hydraulic whine. Vrrrrr-CLICK.
The piston loaded.
He swung his right leg.
The Railgun.
It wasn't a chip. It wasn't a finesse shot.
It was violence.
The ball flew. It didn't spin. It stayed perfectly still in the air while the stadium moved around it.
It traveled 40 yards in less than a second.
The French keeper raised his hands.
The ball hit his gloves.
It bent his fingers back. It tore through his grip.
SMASH.
Into the roof of the net.
GOAL.
France: 3 - USA: 1
Time: 46:15
Soccer stood at midfield. Smoke seemed to rise from his boot.
"One," Soccer counted.
Noa stared at the keeper shaking his stinging hands.
"Power," Noa noted. "Raw power. Crude."
Minute 60.
France was unsettled. The 40-yard screamer woke them up.
"Control the ball!" Noa ordered.
France went into possession mode. Tiki-Taka.
They passed around the Americans. Trying to drain the clock. Trying to drain the battery.
Soccer chased them.
His brace whirred. Zip. Zip.
He was fast. Unnaturally fast. The hydraulics boosted his stride.
He cornered a French defender.
The defender tried to turn.
Soccer didn't tackle the ball. He tackled the turn.
He stepped into the turning radius. The defender hit the brace.
Clang. Like hitting a lamppost.
The defender fell. Ball loose.
Soccer picked it up.
"Counter!"
He ran.
Noa chased him. The King chasing the Insect.
Noa was faster naturally. But Soccer had mechanical assist.
They were neck and neck.
"You rely on a machine!" Noa hissed, running shoulder-to-shoulder.
"You rely on talent!" Soccer shot back.
They reached the box.
Soccer stopped. Hard stop.
The brace locked. Click.
Noa stopped too—perfect reaction.
Soccer couldn't dribble past Noa. Noa was too good.
So Soccer passed.
He didn't look.
He scooped the ball over his own head.
To Vincent, who was steaming in like a freight train.
Vincent caught the ball on his chest.
He didn't volley.
He waited for the bounce.
Then he hit it on the half-volley.
The Dragon's Breath.
Low. Hard. Corner.
GOAL.
France: 3 - USA: 2
"Two!" Soccer screamed, holding up two fingers at Noa.
Noa looked furious. "Chaos," he muttered. "Unfiltered chaos."
Minute 80.
3-2.
The battery light on Soccer's brace blinked red.
WARNING: POWER LEVEL 15%.
"It's dying," Soccer felt the spring getting weaker. The rebound wasn't as snappy.
He slowed down.
Noa noticed.
"You're fading," Noa grinned coldly. "Your toy is breaking."
Noa attacked.
He dribbled past Kai. He stiff-armed Vincent.
He was in the box. One on one with Zero.
Noa wound up to end the game. 4-2 would be the nail in the coffin.
Soccer was at midfield. He couldn't catch him.
"ZERO!" Soccer screamed.
Zero stood in the goal.
He closed his eyes.
The Void is infinite.
Noa shot. A blast.
Zero didn't use his hands.
He threw his face in the way.
The Faceless Block.
CRACK.
The ball hit Zero's forehead. It sounded like a melon dropping.
Zero flew backward into the net.
But the ball...
The ball bounced out.
"CLEAR IT!" Zero moaned from the ground.
Silas punted it.
The ball flew to midfield.
Soccer trapped it.
Ten minutes left. One goal down. Battery dying.
Minute 88.
USA had possession. They were desperate.
"Everything forward!" Titan screamed. "Zero, go up! Everyone up!"
Corner kick USA.
Everyone in the box. Even Soccer.
Kai took the corner.
"Golden Curve," Kai whispered.
He whipped it in.
It swerved toward the back post.
Noa was marking Soccer. Personally.
"You will not jump," Noa grabbed Soccer's jersey.
The ball came in high.
Soccer's battery light flashed. 5%.
He needed one jump. Just one.
He looked at Noa.
"I don't need to jump," Soccer said.
He planted his exo-leg. He didn't use it to spring up.
He used it to anchor down.
He leaned back, using Noa as a pivot point.
He pulled Noa down with him.
They fell together.
But Soccer, falling backward, extended his right leg up.
A hook kick.
He caught the ball with his heel.
The Falling Hook.
The ball deflected off his heel, between Noa's legs, and trickled across the line.
GOAL.
USA: 3 - France: 3
Time: 89:30
The battery died.
Whirrrr-thunk.
The brace locked rigid.
Soccer lay on the ground next to Noa.
"Three," Soccer whispered.
Noa stared at the sky.
"Impossible," Noa breathed. "I marked you. You fell."
"Gravity wins," Soccer wheezed.
Stoppage Time. Minute 90+4.
The referee announced 5 minutes of extra time.
Score 3-3.
Heading to penalties? No. France didn't want penalties. They attacked.
But Vincent intercepted.
"Last chance!" Vincent screamed.
He booted it long.
To the only player left upfield.
Soccer.
He was standing at the halfway line. His brace was dead weight. He was essentially dragging an anchor.
But he had the ball.
Noa was behind him.
40 yards to goal.
Soccer started to run.
It wasn't a run. It was a lurch. Drag-step. Drag-step.
Noa was gaining. Fast.
30 yards.
20 yards.
Noa caught up.
"It's over!" Noa shouted, reaching to tackle.
Soccer felt him.
He looked at the goal.
He looked at his team.
Kai sprinting. Vincent laboring. Silas collapsed.
I can't shoot, Soccer realized. I can't pivot.
Noa slid. A tackle to end it.
Soccer did the only thing he could.
He jammed his good foot into the turf.
He stopped.
Noa slid past him.
Soccer was alone at the 18-yard line.
The keeper came out.
Soccer looked at the ball.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered the mountain. The first time he kicked a rock off the edge. Just to see it fall.
He didn't power it.
He poked it.
A tiny, delicate toe-poke with his good foot.
The ball rolled.
The keeper dove.
It rolled under the keeper's hand.
It rolled toward the post.
It hit the post.
Clang.
It bounced... onto the line.
It spun.
And sat there.
Stopped. On the line.
Silence.
90,000 people froze.
Soccer fell to his knees. "Go in... please..."
A shadow appeared.
Kai Rivers.
The King had followed the play. He sprinted past the collapsed Soccer.
He didn't smash it.
He tapped it.
GOAL.
USA: 4 - France: 3.
Time: 90+5.
The whistle blew.
The Aftermath.
Pandemonium.
Titan was crying. Zero was unconscious in his own goal. Vincent was carrying Silas like a baby.
Kai stood over the ball in the net. He looked at Soccer.
"I cleaned up your mess, Savage," Kai smiled, tears running down his face.
Soccer lay on the grass. His brace was smoking. His leg was surely ruined again.
He laughed. A deep, belly laugh.
Noel Noa walked over.
The God of Football. Defeated.
He looked down at Soccer.
"You broke the game," Noa said.
"We fixed it," Soccer corrected, grabbing Kai's hand to stand up. "We made it fun again."
Noa looked at the American team celebrating. The misfits. The monsters.
He took off his jersey.
He handed it to Soccer.
"World Champion," Noa said quietly. "Enjoy the view from the peak."
Soccer took the jersey. He tied it around his neck like a cape.
"The peak is just the start," Soccer said, bouncing on his one good leg.
He looked at the sky.
"There's always a bigger mountain."
The team lifted him up.
The Assassin Striker was King of the World.
And he still had 1900 chapters to go.