The scrapyard screen flickers, but it never fails on Red Match night.
It sits on a stack of crates like a tiny altar. Wires hang like vines. The speakers crackle when the wind moves. Around it, kids pack close, shoulder to shoulder, faces lit by the glow. They shout, they laugh, they chant team names like spells.
Kai Arden does not chant.
Kai sits on a broken concrete block a few steps back. He keeps his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight. He watches the screen like it shows a storm that can jump out and bite.
The stadium feed fills the yard with noise.
A massive Solar Arena pulses with crimson light. The crowd roars so loud it sounds like a single creature. The pitch shines beneath a black-glass ceiling that reflects the chaos like an eye.
Then the voice arrives.
It always arrives.
The commentator's voice cuts through the roar—bright, sharp, alive, like he lives for moments like this.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM—AND EVERYONE WATCHING FROM THE EDGE WORLDS!" the commentator shouts. "THIS IS YOUR NIGHT! THIS IS YOUR GAME! THIS IS—CRAZY SOLAR FOOTBALL GAME!"
His partner jumps in, playful and intense.
"And tonight, this is not your normal league clash! Tonight is not 'points and pride!' Tonight is not 'sponsors and rankings!'"
A metallic stadium voice booms next, cold and official:
"RED MATCH CONFIRMED."
The screen stamps the warning in huge letters:
CSFG — CRAZY SOLAR FOOTBALL GAME
DELETION CLAUSE: ACTIVE
LOSER: DELETE-ELIGIBLE
The kids in the scrapyard erupt.
"RED MATCH!" someone screams.
"LET'S GO!" another yells.
Kai's stomach tightens. The words on the screen look too clean for something so ugly.
The commentator laughs like the warning excites him, like he sells fear for a living.
"You see it! You hear it! Red lights! Red banners! Red law!" he shouts. "For new viewers—yes, NEW VIEWERS—listen up! In CSFG, a Red Match means the Deletion Clause is active! That means the loser becomes Delete-Eligible!"
His partner adds, fast and smooth, like he explains rules in an opening episode.
"And if you think CSFG is normal football, you are in the wrong universe! This is Crazy Solar Football Game! The arena runs the chaos! The lanes shift! The walls stay live! The targets move! Your heart jumps every minute!"
Kai hears the kids repeat parts of the explanation like they already know it, like it becomes a joke and a chant at the same time.
Kai does not repeat anything.
Kai watches the pitch.
The camera glides low across the arena floor and shows the lanes—three long glowing zones that stretch from end to end:
SOL Lane shines warm and steady.
LUNA Lane looks pale and slick, fast like moonlight.
UMBRA Lane smolders dark, heavy like pressure.
The seams between lanes pulse like they breathe.
The commentator continues, excited.
"Three lanes, baby! SOL, LUNA, UMBRA! You master one, you die in the next! Because the arena shifts them whenever it wants!"
Kai's fingers dig into the edge of the concrete. He hates how the voice turns danger into entertainment.
The camera cuts to the targets at the far end.
A wide Main Gate waits like a mouth.
A smaller Core Ring floats beside it, mounted on rails, sliding slow like it never feels fear.
The partner commentator speaks in a teach-you-fast tone.
"Scoring rules for the new blood! Main Gate gives you one! Core Ring gives you two! And the Ring moves! So you either have aim like a sniper… or courage like a fool!"
The crowd roars again.
Kai hears one kid beside him whisper, almost lovingly, "Core Ring is peak."
Kai does not answer.
The camera finds the teams at midfield. Eight players each. One keeper. Seven field players. Suits with padding at shoulders and ribs. Light strips glow along arms and backs, tracking impacts like the match measures pain.
Then the camera zooms in on what everyone really wants.
The aura.
The commentator practically sings.
"And now we talk about the elite! We talk about the monsters! We talk about the ones who bend the match with pure presence—SYNTHEC!"
His partner snaps in right away.
"Synthec is the synthesis of spirit, mind, and body! When it aligns, it manifests as an aura! It shows the crowd what level you play at!"
The screen shows a captain in cobalt colors. He stands in SOL lane, calm, breathing slow. His posture looks clean, like he carries discipline in his bones.
A white aura flickers around him—thin, controlled, bright like a blade polished to perfection.
The crowd explodes.
The commentator loses his mind.
"WHITE SYNTHEC ON THE FIELD! A PINNACLE MANIFESTATION!" he screams. "That is not common! That is not normal! That is the kind of mastery the Solar System writes songs about!"
Kai leans forward without meaning to.
White aura looks unreal. It looks beautiful.
Kai hates that it looks beautiful.
The camera cuts to the opposing striker in red-orange. He stands with one foot on the line of UMBRA like he claims it. His smile stays sharp and empty.
A black aura rises around him like smoke. The light near him looks dimmer, like the color drains out of the air.
The crowd screams louder than before—fear and worship mixed into one sound.
The partner commentator speaks softer now.
"And there is Black Synthec," he says. "Also pinnacle. Also rare. And it always feels… different."
Kai swallows. The black aura looks heavy. It looks hungry.
The commentator shouts again, because shouting is his job.
"WHITE VS BLACK! ORDER VS HUNGER! DISCIPLINE VS DOMINATION! THIS MATCH WRITES ITSELF!"
The screen flashes the phase banner.
PHASE 1: IGNITION — 10:00
DIRECTIVE: WALL-LIVE
Ricochets count as clean touches.
The commentator claps in the mic.
"WALL-LIVE ACTIVATES! That means the walls become tools! Rebounds become passes! Angles become weapons! Let's go!"
The whistle screams.
The ball launches into motion.
The match moves fast. The ball hits a wall and returns like it has a mind. Players run patterns that look like dance, then smash into each other like a brawl tries to wear a uniform.
The black-aura striker surges into LUNA lane. He uses the light footing to explode forward. He slams the ball into the side wall, takes the rebound, and shoots straight at the Core Ring.
The Ring slides.
The ball pierces the center anyway.
A chime rings out.
0–2.
The scrapyard kids erupt.
Kai feels his stomach drop.
The commentator screams like the goal scores inside his chest.
"CORE RING HIT! TWO POINTS! HE STARTS WITH VIOLENCE!"
His partner laughs.
"He does not warm up! He does not ask permission! That is Black Synthec confidence!"
Kai clenches his hands. He watches the cobalt captain's face on the screen. The captain does not panic. He raises a hand. His team shifts into shape with clean discipline.
The captain's white aura pulses, controlled like breathing.
He builds a sequence in SOL lane. He uses a wall bounce like a planned pass, then cuts into LUNA for speed, then snaps a shot to the Main Gate.
1–2.
The commentator shouts, delighted.
"And White answers! Clean! Sharp! Efficient! That is mastery!"
The match becomes a storm.
WALL-LIVE makes every rebound dangerous. The ball never feels safe. Players chase angles. Defenders predict ricochets. Goalkeepers jump like they guard a prison door.
Kai watches everything. He notices how the captain never wastes steps. He notices how the black striker chooses UMBRA when he wants to hurt someone, then uses LUNA when he wants to finish fast.
The kids around Kai shout like they ride the match as a roller coaster.
Kai feels like he watches a public execution dressed as entertainment.
Then FLARE arrives.
The screen stamps the next Directive.
PHASE 2: FLARE — 10:00
DIRECTIVE: LANE FLIP
SOL and UMBRA swap ends in 30 seconds.
The commentator howls.
"LANE FLIP! THE FIELD TURNS ON YOU! THIS IS WHERE ROOKIES BREAK!"
His partner speaks fast, clear.
"For new viewers: Lane Flip means SOL and UMBRA swap ends! Your stable lane becomes your heavy lane! Your heavy lane becomes your stable lane! If you rely on comfort, you suffer!"
A countdown appears. Players reposition. Coaches shout. Goalkeepers wave arms like traffic controllers.
Kai's jaw tightens. He knows what this does. He sees the moment the arena forces you to admit the field controls you.
The lanes flash.
The pitch shifts.
SOL and UMBRA swap ends.
A few players stumble. A few adjust instantly. The black striker grins, like the lane becomes heavier and that makes him happier.
He charges into the new UMBRA and bulldozes through a defender. The hit looks legal, but it looks cruel. He shoots the Main Gate.
1–3.
The crowd roars like it wants more.
The commentator screams, laughing.
"UMBRA FEEDS HIM! HE RUNS LIKE THE LANE LOVES HIM!"
Kai's hands shake slightly. He does not look away.
The white captain answers with calm precision. He pulls his team into SOL structure, then uses LUNA speed at the exact moment UMBRA defenders sink into heaviness. He shoots for the Core Ring.
The Ring slides.
The shot lands.
3–3.
The commentator yells like he sings.
"RING STRIKE! TIE GAME! THIS IS WHY CSFG IS LIFE!"
Kai's stomach twists again. He hates that the voice makes it sound like joy.
Then ECLIPSE arrives.
The banner flashes.
PHASE 3: ECLIPSE — 10:00
DIRECTIVE: MULTIBALL ENABLED
Ball Two drops in 60 seconds. Duration: 90 seconds.
The scrapyard kids explode.
"MULTIBALL!" they scream.
Kai's chest tightens. Multiball does not feel like a game mechanic to him. It feels like a system that wants people to make mistakes.
The commentator goes wild.
"MULTIBALL IN ECLIPSE! THIS IS CHAOS WITH A WHISTLE! THIS IS WHY THE CROWD COMES BACK EVERY WEEK!"
His partner adds, almost laughing.
"Two balls means two threats! Two balls means two goals can happen back-to-back! Goalkeepers hate this, defenders hate this, strikers love this!"
A second ball drops from the arena ceiling and hits the pitch with a heavy metallic sound.
Two balls roll.
The match fractures into two battles.
Players split. Some chase Ball One to the Main Gate. Some hunt Ball Two because Ball Two always becomes the Core Ring weapon. Everyone moves faster. Everyone breathes harder. The crowd becomes one continuous scream.
The black striker claims Ball Two. He drives it into UMBRA, then throws it into a wall, then takes the rebound like the wall obeys him. He shoots at the Core Ring.
The cobalt goalkeeper dives.
He misses by a fingertip.
Core Ring chime.
3–5.
Kai's throat tightens. Two points feels too easy for something that looks like violence.
The white captain steals Ball One and answers instantly with a Main Gate strike.
4–5.
The commentator loses his voice and still screams.
"THIS MATCH DOES NOT BREATHE! THIS MATCH BITES!"
Multiball ends. Ball Two disappears into the floor. The arena pretends it never exists.
The crowd accepts it like normal.
Kai does not accept it.
Then the screen floods crimson again.
FINAL MINUTE — SOLAR OVERRIDE
ALL GOALS +1
The commentator speaks like he announces doom and romance at the same time.
"SOLAR OVERRIDE! THE MIRACLE MINUTE! EVERYTHING COUNTS MORE! EVERYTHING HURTS MORE!"
The partner speaks quickly, practical.
"Goal values jump! Momentum swings hard! One mistake ends you! One miracle saves you!"
The scoreboard shows:
Cobalt: 4
Red: 5
One minute.
The black striker pushes forward for the finish. He wants a Main Gate goal with boosted value. The white captain hunts a Core Ring shot, because Ring under Override flips the match in one clean strike.
The arena seams pulse. Lane edges shift slightly. Footing changes. Players collide. The match looks like a storm tries to take human shape.
The black striker surges toward the gate.
The cobalt goalkeeper charges out.
The striker's black aura surges—
Then his leg trembles for a fraction of a second. His aura flickers unevenly. His eyes sharpen with anger at his own body, like it dares to hesitate.
Kai catches that moment.
Kai stores it.
The keeper dives and strips the ball clean. The ball pops loose.
The crowd screams like it loses something personal.
The white captain reaches the ball first. He does not hesitate. He does not look at the Main Gate.
He looks at the Core Ring.
He shoots.
The Ring slides.
The ball pierces the center.
The Ring flashes bright.
The chime sounds louder than the crowd.
The scoreboard flips.
Cobalt: 7
Red: 5
The horn blares.
The stadium falls silent for one heartbeat.
Then the screen stamps the sentence.
MATCH RESULT: RED TEAM DEFEATED
DELETION CLAUSE: PROCESSING
DELETE-ELIGIBLE: CONFIRMED
Kai's breath stops.
A countdown appears.
DELETION IN: 00:00:30
The scrapyard goes quieter. Even the kids who scream the loudest go still, because this part always feels different. This part does not feel like sport. This part feels like punishment.
The commentator's voice drops, calmer, but still theatrical, like he performs the fear.
"And now… the Clause processes," he says. "And now… the Solar System watches."
His partner speaks softly.
"This is why Red Matches haunt people," he says. "This is why fans celebrate and pray at the same time."
The broadcast shows an official solar map. Planets shine in neat orbits. Names glow clean beneath them.
One small world flickers.
Its label glitches.
The countdown ticks down.
Kai hears someone in the scrapyard whisper, "No…"
The planet vanishes.
No explosion. No debris. No fire.
Just absence.
A gap where something belongs.
The feed stutters with static for a breath.
Then text appears:
DELETION COMPLETE.
The commentator speaks again, and Kai hates how he finds words for it.
"And the system confirms it," the commentator says. "Deletion completes."
The feed cuts instantly to a cheerful sponsor ad with bright music and smiling athletes.
The contrast makes Kai feel sick.
The kids start talking again, too fast, too loud, like they race to cover discomfort.
"Did you see the Ring shot?"
"That White aura is insane!"
"Black Synthec almost takes it!"
Kai stands.
His movement snaps through the yard like a whip crack.
"A world disappears," Kai says, voice tight, "and you talk like it is a highlight."
A kid shrugs. "That is CSFG. That is the rule."
Kai's eyes burn. "Rules do not make it right."
The kid laughs. "If you do not want deletion, then do not lose."
Kai's fists clench. He looks up at the real sky above Earth's scrapyard district. It looks pale, dusty, fragile. It looks like it can turn red if the wrong people decide it.
Kai hates that thought.
He turns away from the screen.
Footsteps crunch behind him.
Kai pivots.
A man stands near the fence line where rusted metal sheets form a crooked wall. He wears a plain jacket and clean boots that do not belong in scrap mud. His posture stays calm, like he keeps rhythm inside his bones.
He looks at Kai, not at the screen.
"You are Kai Arden," the man says.
Kai narrows his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man holds out a thin ID card between two fingers. The logo glows as the screen light catches it.
ORION JUNKYARD FC — SOLAR CIRCUIT REGISTRATION
Kai's heartbeat kicks.
Orion Junkyard FC is not famous. It is a name people mock. A team that survives on patched gear and stubborn pride. A team that plays in the Solar Circuit and still refuses to vanish.
Kai knows the name because Kai watches everything.
The man speaks evenly.
"I watch street leagues," he says. "I watch rooftop cages. I watch players who learn balance on lying surfaces."
Kai scoffs. "Street leagues do not matter."
The man shakes his head slightly. "Street leagues show truth."
Kai's jaw tightens. "Truth is that CSFG deletes worlds."
The man nods once. "Yes."
Kai's voice stays low. "Then why do you recruit for it?"
The man answers like he gives a fact.
"Because refusing does not stop it," he says. "Refusing only removes you from the field where anything changes."
Kai's chest tightens. He hates that the sentence feels logical.
The man tilts his head toward the screen, where the sponsor ad still smiles like nothing disappears.
"You do not cheer when deletion completes," he says.
Kai's eyes harden. "Why should I?"
The man's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Because most people learn to cheer. It is easier."
Kai shakes his head. "I do not want easy."
The man extends the card again.
"Orion Junkyard FC needs a striker," he says. "We need someone who plays like the ground lies."
Kai looks at the card, then looks back at the man.
"What is your name?" Kai asks.
"They call me Rhythm," the man says.
Kai frowns. "That sounds fake."
Rhythm shrugs. "It fits."
Kai's gaze stays sharp. "What do you want from me?"
Rhythm answers simply. "I want you to try out."
Kai laughs once, bitter. "Try out for the league that turns sport into execution?"
Rhythm stays calm. "Yes."
Kai steps closer. "I do not play to entertain them."
Rhythm nods. "Good."
Kai's hands clench. "If I join, I play to win."
Rhythm nods again. "Yes."
Kai's voice lowers further. "And if a Red Match comes?"
Rhythm's eyes sharpen, but he does not dramatize it. He does not whisper secrets. He states what everyone knows.
"If a Red Match comes," he says, "then losing becomes dangerous."
Kai swallows. He thinks of the missing orbit. He thinks of the static. He thinks of how fast the system replaces grief with an ad.
Kai grips the ID card until the edge bites into his palm.
Rhythm watches him.
"You feel anger," Rhythm says. "That matters. But anger alone does not survive Lane Flip. Anger alone does not hold shape during Multiball."
Kai's eyes narrow. "So what survives?"
Rhythm answers with one word.
"Discipline."
Then he adds a second.
"Teammates."
Then he adds a third.
"Choice."
Kai looks back at the screen, at the smiling ad, at the bright lies.
He looks at the kids, already laughing again, already pretending a world does not vanish thirty seconds ago.
Kai feels something settle inside him—not calm, not peace, but a decision.
He turns back to Rhythm.
"I come," Kai says.
Rhythm nods once, satisfied.
"Dawn," Rhythm says. "Orion trains at dawn."
Kai slips the card into his pocket like it becomes a key to a door he does not fully understand yet.
The wind moves through the scrapyard. Metal clinks. The screen keeps playing cheerful music.
Kai walks away from the noise.
He keeps one thought tight in his chest:
If CSFG decides who exists, then the only way to fight that decision is to step onto the field and refuse to lose when the lights turn red.