"Hey, you two! Quit the chattel and keep up your pace! You're lagging like a pair of old retired ladies!"
Mr. Elias's voice cracked like a whip across the vast track, amplified by the shrill blast of his silver whistle.
Matthias and Isha, who had momentarily slowed during their discussion, immediately doubled their effort, accelerating to rejoin the back of the jogging pack. Matthias was huffing, the early morning chill catching in his lungs, his face a miserable shade of scarlet.
"I don't know, Isha, it's kinda difficult," Matthias managed, speaking between ragged, desperate breaths. His gaze drifted momentarily toward the far end of the field where Laila and the basketball team were stretching. He was overwhelmed by the complexity of simply existing near her, let alone speaking to her.
"Of course, it isn't difficult! It's basic social interaction, Matt," Isha replied, his tone exasperated yet supportive, as they quickly made their way toward the front row. "We're all in Class 3C, right? The notoriously chaotic 3C. You can meet her up during lunchtime—you know she eats outside by the Founder's Circle—or even after school by the Green House."
"And say what exactly, hmm? 'Hi, Laila, I've been silently orbiting your existence for six months, and I occasionally run into things when you walk past. Nice hair by the way' It's not like I'm good with pick-up lines or, you know, normal conversation." Matthias's voice was thick with self-deprecation.
Isha slowed slightly, matching his stride.
"You know what, Matt? This is beneath my current pay grade, but I can't watch you suffer. Meet me up at the Café after training. I know a way to hook you up, buddy. A strategy that is foolproof." Isha tapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.
Matthias, bending over slightly to tie a loose lace that was threatening to trip him, stopped to wait for Isha, his interest piqued despite the physical exhaustion.
"And I suppose that won't come for free, Isha?" he asked, one eyebrow arching in skeptical curiosity. Isha, an entrepreneur since the fifth grade, rarely gave away his genius for free.
Isha smiled mischievously, a grin that lit up his whole face.
"Of course not, my friend. But it comes at the most reasonable price ever. Trust me."
"And that will be…,"
Matthias began, straightening up, but he couldn't finish his sentence. His peripheral vision caught a terrifying sight: Mr. Elias, face like thunder, was angrily advancing towards them, his arms pumping like pistons, the silver whistle glinting.
"Damn it, Isha, move it! Ballistic missile incoming!"
Matthias warned, pushing Isha forward. They both took off running, Mr. Elias's furious whistling and cursing echoing just behind them. Despite the imminent threat of extra laps, they couldn't help but share a quick, adrenaline-fueled smile. This was the usual chaos of their morning.
Then, the mood snapped.
A large, muscular figure, running in the opposite direction on the boundary line, suddenly shifted his shoulder out and deliberately shoved Matthias. The impact was startlingly hard, catching Matthias mid-stride and sending him toppling sideways onto the muddy grass.
Isha stopped instantly, his humor dissolving into a furious scowl. The perpetrator was Lionel Hasley, the undisputed class bully, a behemoth who also happened to be the team's top defender—a wall of muscle and aggression. It was a deliberate, malicious action. Lionel glanced back, a sneer plastered on his face, and produced a universally understood middle finger directed straight at the wincing Matthias.
Lionel's group of goons—known collectively as the 'Hasley Hounds'—jogged past, laughing uproariously at Lionel's mischievous, brutal act.
"All brawn and no brain, that ape!"
Isha helped Matthias up, brushing mud off his white shorts. "Come on, Matt, don't let that bully get at you. He's looking for a reaction."
Matthias, rubbing the smarting impact point on his shoulder, paid less attention to the verbal jibe. He was a cool-headed kid who avoided conflict at all costs. He had a normal body build—not too skinny, not muscular either, just a regular high schooler, built more for evasion than confrontation. But this constant, low-grade harassment was grating on his nerves.
First the missing pair of expensive running shoes from his locker. The suitcase wedgie he found last week. Now the blatant shove. Something wasn't adding up. The class bully, the Apex Predator of 3C, had only recently started picking on him, and Matthias couldn't figure out the reason. He didn't occupy Lionel's social space, nor did he pose a threat. It felt like targeted cruelty.
Soon, the warm-up exercise concluded. The sprawling football team, comprising four distinct houses -Larkhouse, Falcons, Swans, and the Moorhouse- was divided into two training teams, Team A and Team B, for a scrimmage drill. Twelve players were nominated to participate.
Matthias, a striker in the Moorhouse, whose technical skill compensated for his lack of size, was assigned to Team B. Lionel, the 'Demolition Man,' as he was nicknamed for his crushing tackles, who's in the Swan House,was placed on Team A and immediately set himself up in defense, guarding the goal like a hawk circling prey.
Matthias gulped hard. This was bad. An unsupervised scrimmage was a bully's playground.
Lionel stared across the damp field, his smile menacing, his eyes locking onto Matthias with predatory intent. Matthias felt a chill. What in the world have I done to Lionel to deserve this level of targeted psychological and physical warfare?
The starting whistle sounded—a single, sharp blast—and the training commenced. The air instantly filled with the shouts of teammates, the thud of the ball, and the rhythmic pound of cleats on the soft turf.
Team B pressed forward. A few quick passes, a failed shot, and a swift tackle later, the ball suddenly landed perfectly at Matthias's feet. Instinct took over, burying his anxiety. He was a different person with the ball. He dribbled past two opponents with his unmatched skills, performing tight, evasive maneuvers that Lionel's lumbering goons couldn't match.
Matthias was almost at the opponents' goalpost. His team cheered him on wildly, calling him the Super Striker who never missed his target. This sudden surge of affirmation, this brief feeling of being invincible, got his hopes up and, fatally, made him drop his guard for one split second.
He saw a narrow opening between the central defender and the goalie, lining up his body to take a perfect, curling shot with his dominant southpaw left foot.
But in what seemed like a nanosecond—an eternity measured in the force of pure kinetic energy—he was midair.
One moment, he was in control of the ball, the next, a force like a moving train had rammed directly into his flank. It wasn't a tackle; it was a physical assault. It was Lionel Hasley, who had abandoned his defensive position entirely to sprint the length of the field for this single, brutal hit.
Matthias couldn't process what was happening as he landed on the field with a bone-jarring, painful thud. The wind was knocked out of him, leaving a horrifying vacuum in his chest.
The foul whistle blew—a long, continuous, furious scream from Mr. Elias.
"That was unfair! You douchebag! Shame on you !" a furious voice echoed from the sidelines, booing Lionel.
Lionel's small cluster of loyalists cheered loudly at his brutal performance, completely disregarding the blatant foul.
Matthias lay still, the reality of the pain slowly seeping in. His left ankle felt hot and oddly twisted. He was a southpaw, and Lionel must have targeted his dominant leg, shifting his ankle in the impact.
He slowly and painfully pushed himself to a sitting position, struggling to stand. He limped, biting back a grunt, determined to take the foul shot. His teammates, worried and shouting, rushed over. Even Mr. Elias, his khaki muffler askew, was beside him, his voice tight with concern.
"Gerald, you're in no shape to play! Substitute immediately and get to the first-aid station!" Mr. Elias demanded, his fury temporarily replaced by professional worry.
But Matthias refused, shaking his head.
"I'm taking the shot, sir."
He had had enough. Enough of the missing shoes, enough of the wedgies, enough of the fear, and certainly enough of the Class 3C bully, Lionel Hasley. This was more than a game now; it was a reckoning.
He managed to stagger to a striking stance, leaning heavily on his right leg. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He gazed from the goalpost, past the defensive blockade, directly to Lionel, who was standing arrogantly, sneering, clearly expecting a weak, wobbly shot.
"My ankle is probably dislocated. It hurts. It will hurt more later. But this is the only chance I'll get". His mind soared, concentrating all the pain, all the frustration, and all the accumulated fury of the past few weeks into a single, precise target.
Then, he struck.
He kicked the football as hard as he could, putting every last ounce of spite and adrenaline-fueled strength into the swing. His ankle shrieked in protest, the sudden torque confirming his fear—it was surely dislocated this time.
But his shot hit its mark.
It was precise and perfect. It didn't aim for the goalpost. It didn't aim for the keeper. It was a low, rising missile aimed directly at Lionel's unsuspecting face. The bully didn't see it coming; he was still too busy sneering at Matthias's limping form.
The wet leather ball hit Lionel like a stray bullet shot from a high-caliber sniper rifle—square in the nose and eye. Lionel's head snapped back with a sickening crack, and he dropped flat on the pitch, not moving, his hands flying up too late to cover his face. A hush fell over the entire field.
"Whoah! That's what I call a perfect revenge!" Isha roared, a mixture of shock and utter triumph in his voice.
Matthias, finally allowing the sheer, blinding agony to take over, dropped down too, collapsing onto the grass beside his damaged leg.
Mr. Elias's whistle blew again—a rapid, panicked series of blasts—calling for help, but Matthias was already fading, consumed by pain, and a strange, deep-seated satisfaction.
As Matthias's vision swam, focusing weakly on the horrified crowd gathering around the now-silent Lionel, he saw a slender figure detach herself from the basketball court area across the field.
It was Laila. She wasn't running toward the chaos of the injured bully or the shouting coach. She was running toward him.
Her eyes, usually focused and cool, were wide with alarm. She slid onto the grass beside him, ignoring the mud soaking into her uniform.
"Matty! Are you okay? Don't move that leg! Oh, that looked terrible, what were you thinking , you idiot."
She stopped, her usual composed facade utterly shattered. Her hand, soft but firm, immediately went to brace his throbbing ankle. " But that shot...It was brutal, but I've seen that move before. That's the Templar Feint… the one you can only do if you're a southpaw. Where did you learn that?"
Matthias, dizzy from the pain and the unbelievable proximity of his crush, could only manage a raspy whisper:
"I... I read about it... in the old archives..."
Laila leaned in close, her expression serious, not romantic, but intensely focused.
"The old archives aren't supposed to be public. Listen to me: you need to get help, but promise me something first. Meet me at the Founder's Circle tonight. We need to talk about that shot and what it means for Class 3C. And for you."
Matthias nodded weakly, the pain secondary to the sheer shock that Laila was touching his ankle, talking about secret Templar Feints, and asking him on a clandestine evening rendezvous.