The medal was heavy.
Soccer held it up to the fluorescent hospital light. It was gold. Solid, heavy gold. It had scratches on it from where he'd accidentally dropped it in the ambulance.
"Stop playing with that," Dr. Klaus snapped. "And hold still."
Dr. Klaus was using a specialized laser cutter to remove the burnt-out Exo-Brace from Soccer's leg.
ZZZZZT.
The black carbon fiber split open. Smoke drifted up, smelling like burnt plastic and ozone.
Klaus peeled the casing away.
Underneath, the skin was angry. Red, swollen, and pulsating with heat. The titanium graft inside had held, but the flesh around it had been cooked by the friction and hydraulic overload.
"You cooked yourself," Klaus said, tossing the ruined brace into a bio-hazard bin. "Medium-rare."
"We won," Soccer smiled weakly. He was high on painkillers again. "Did you see the last goal? It went dink."
"I saw," Klaus prodded the ankle. "I saw a reckless idiot destroy a million-dollar prototype to kick a ball three inches."
Klaus sighed. He sat down.
"The good news: The graft is intact. The titanium is permanent. The bad news: You fried the nerves. You need complete reconstruction. Again."
"How long?"
"Six months," Klaus said. "No negotiations this time. You are growing. If we don't let the bone density catch up to the metal, your leg will shatter just from walking."
Six months.
Soccer dropped the medal on his chest. Clunk.
"Six months feels like forever."
"In the scope of a career, it is a blink," Klaus stood up. "Sleep, Champion. When you wake up, your life will be different."
Two Days Later.
The hospital room was crowded.
It wasn't doctors this time. It was suits.
Mr. Hawk stood at the front. He looked exhausted but electric. He held a tablet with numbers that were so long they didn't look like money; they looked like phone numbers.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Hawk said.
Soccer blinked. He was eating hospital pudding.
"Is the pudding different in France?" Soccer asked. "It tastes like clouds."
"Forget the pudding," Hawk swiped his tablet screen toward the wall TV.
BREAKING NEWS:
USA WINS U-18 WORLD CUP.
"THE MIRACLE OF PARIS."
"The world went insane," Hawk said. "Football isn't just a sport in Europe, Soccer. It's a religion. And you guys just burned down the church."
He tapped the screen again.
TRANSFER MARKET EXPLODES.
BLUE LOCK 5 VALUATION.
"Because of your performance," Hawk said, his voice trembling slightly, "the European clubs have engaged in a bidding war. An illegal bidding war, technically, since you're all minors, but money talks."
He pointed to the screen.
KAI RIVERS.
Offer: $50 Million.
Club: Real Madrid (Spain).
"Fifty million dollars?" Soccer tried to do the math. "How many puddings is that?"
"Enough to buy the factory," Hawk said. "Kai fits their style. Ego. Galactico energy. They want the King."
VINCENT DRAKE.
Offer: $45 Million.
Club: Bayern Munich (Germany).
"The German Machine wants the Dragon," Hawk explained. "They like power. They like tanks. Vincent fits perfectly."
SILAS VANCE.
Offer: $30 Million.
Club: Manchester City (England).
"They want his brain. Their coach loves tactical robots."
ZERO.
Offer: $40 Million.
Club: Juventus (Italy).
"Italian defense is legendary. They want the Void to guard their gate."
Hawk paused. He looked at Soccer.
"And then... there's you."
Soccer looked at the screen.
SOCCER.
Status: Medical Leave (6 Months).
Valuation: Pending.
"Pending?" Soccer asked. "Am I free?"
"No," Hawk smirked. "You're complicated."
He pulled a thick, gold-leaf envelope from his jacket pocket.
"Most teams are scared of your injury. They think you're a glass cannon. One shot and you break."
Hawk tossed the envelope onto the bed.
"Except one."
Soccer picked it up. It was heavy. It had a wax seal.
He opened it.
A contract. A badge.
A red and blue shield. With a tower in the middle.
PARIS SAINT-GERMAIN (PSG).
"PSG?" Soccer tilted his head. "Isn't that..."
"Noel Noa's team," Hawk nodded. "Or rather, the senior team associated with the French academy you just beat."
Hawk leaned in.
"They aren't offering you a U-18 contract, Soccer. They are offering you a Senior Team reserve spot. In six months, when you heal... you join the main squad."
"With Noa?"
"With Noa. And the World Number 2. And the World Number 3. They are building a Super Team."
Hawk grinned.
"They figured if they can't beat the Chaos... they should buy it."
Soccer looked at the contract. The salary was a blur of zeros.
But he didn't care about the zeros.
He cared about the names. Noa. The best players on Earth.
"A Super Team," Soccer whispered. "A super pack."
"Do you want to sign?"
Soccer picked up the pudding spoon. He licked it clean.
"If I sign," Soccer asked, "do I get to tackle Noa in practice?"
"Every day."
Soccer grabbed a pen.
"Where's the line?"
The Farewell.
The day before the surgery. The last day the Pack would be together.
They gathered in Soccer's room.
It was awkward. These were monsters who hated each other weeks ago. Now, they stood in silence, unified by a trophy sitting on the nightstand.
Kai Rivers was wearing a suit that probably cost more than Soccer's childhood home.
"So," Kai brushed lint off his shoulder. "Madrid. The White House. It suits me."
"It's full of peacocks," Vincent grunted. "You'll fit right in. Munich is where the real men go. Beer and iron."
"Statistical probability of success in Germany for your playstyle is 78%," Silas noted. "Manchester fits my cognitive processing speed."
"Italy has good pizza," Zero said from the corner. "The Void requires carbs."
They looked at Soccer.
"PSG," Kai sneered. "Going to play with your new best friend Noa?"
"He's not my friend," Soccer said, tapping the contract. "He's the summit. To climb the mountain, you have to go where the peak is."
Kai walked over. He looked at Soccer's mangled leg.
"Six months, Savage," Kai said. "We will be playing in the leagues. We will be evolving. While you sleep."
"I know."
"When you come back," Kai leaned down, eyes burning with blue fire, "don't be rusty. Because next time we meet, it won't be on the same side. It will be in the Champions League."
Kai extended a fist.
Soccer bumped it.
"I don't rust," Soccer grinned. "I hibernate."
Vincent stepped up. He squeezed Soccer's shoulder (hard).
"Heal up, shrimp. The world is boring without you."
Zero simply nodded. "See you in the abyss."
Silas adjusted his glasses. "I will send you my match data weekly. Try to learn reading."
They left. One by one.
The monsters scattered to the four winds. To Spain. To Germany. To England. To Italy.
Leaving the Assassin alone in Paris.
The Dark Room.
Nightfall.
The hospital room was quiet.
Soccer lay in the dark.
The surgery was tomorrow. Six months of silence. Six months of no running. No grass. No wind.
He felt small.
The World Cup was loud. The cheering, the goals, the adrenaline. It filled the hole inside him—the hole left by the lonely years on the mountain.
Now, silence returned.
"Mom," Soccer whispered to the ceiling.
He reached under his pillow and pulled out the old, torn photograph Luna gave him. The Northwood team holding the regional trophy. Marcus laughing. Dylan crying joyfully.
Then he looked at his new contract. PSG.
The future.
He felt fear. Real fear.
What if the titanium didn't hold? What if he woke up slow? What if the "glitch" was patched?
The door creaked open.
A nurse?
No.
A figure walked in. Wearing a hoodie. Moving silently.
Noel Noa.
He shouldn't be here. He should be on a yacht in the Mediterranean.
Noa stood by the bed. He looked at the contract on the nightstand.
"You signed," Noa said quietly.
"Yeah."
"Good."
Noa pulled a chair and sat. He looked at Soccer's leg.
"Do you know why I lost?" Noa asked.
"Because I broke the logic," Soccer said.
"No." Noa shook his head. "I lost because I became perfect."
Soccer blinked. "That doesn't make sense."
"Perfection is a cage, Soccer. I optimized every movement. Every shot. I removed all waste. But when you remove all waste... you remove adaptability."
Noa looked at his own hands.
"You played like a child. You played with joy. I forgot that variable."
Noa stood up.
"Six months," Noa said. "I will wait. When you join the training camp... bring your chaos. I need it."
"You need me?"
"I need to destroy you," Noa corrected. "To sharpen myself."
He walked to the door.
"Sleep well, Assassin. The nightmare begins when you wake up."
Noa left.
Soccer stared at the empty chair.
He needs me.
Soccer closed his eyes. The fear vanished, replaced by a low, burning ember in his chest.
The mountain wasn't just rocks anymore.
The mountain was alive. And it was calling him.
Epilogue to Arc 3: The Global Broadcast.
Screens all over the world flickered to life.
A montage of the World Youth Cup played.
Kai's curve shot.
Vincent's battering ram.
Soccer's overhead flip kick.
THE NEW GENERATION HAS ARRIVED.
In a small living room in Northwood, USA, Marcus Kane sat with Dylan, Elijah, and Luna. They were watching the news.
"50 Million..." Marcus whispered. "Kai went for 50 million."
"And Soccer went to PSG," Luna smiled, clutching the signed ball Soccer sent back. "He made it."
"He's gonna be lonely," Dylan sniffled.
"No," Coach Cross walked in. He held a new clipboard.
"He won't be lonely. Look at the reserve roster list."
They looked.
Below the massive signing of Soccer... was a list of Academy Trainees invited for tryouts.
The PSG Global Academy.
List of Invites:
Marcus Kane (USA)
Dylan Foster (USA)
Elijah Storm (USA)
The room went silent.
"What?" Marcus dropped his soda.
"They want the Chaos Engine," Cross grinned. "They figure if Soccer runs on chaos... maybe they should buy the parts that made the engine."
"We..." Dylan fainted. "I'm going to Paris?"
Luna stood up. Her eyes flashed.
"Pack your bags, boys," Luna commanded. "The Alpha needs his pack."
TIME SKIP LOADING...
SIX MONTHS LATER.
PARIS SAINT-GERMAIN TRAINING FACILITY.