"Oh God, oh God, oh God...."

Coach Viriam stood before the assembled team in what was, objectively speaking, an excellent locker room. Polished wood lockers lined the walls, each bearing brass nameplates and the Lireth Academy crest. The floors were polished marble, and soft lighting emanated from crystal fixtures that suggested someone had taken interior design very seriously indeed.

It was, in every measurable way, significantly nicer than their usual facilities.

Which made Coach Viriam's obvious distress all the more pronounced.

"Right," Viriam said, clearing his throat. "So."

He stared at his clipboard for approximately seventeen seconds, during which time the only sound was Talef methodically cracking his knuckles, what might have been Serena testing her gauntlets against her locker, and the distant roar of the crowd filtering through the walls above them—a constant rumble punctuated by occasional eruptions of enthusiasm.

"This is it," Viriam continued, with the air of a man announcing his own execution. "The tournament. The actual tournament. Which we are in. Participating."

Hugo shifted on the bench, which was sturdy enough to support his massive frame without complaint. Through the walls, another wave of crowd noise rolled down—cheering, stomping, what sounded like organized chanting.

"Coach, are you—" Hugo began.

"Fine," Viriam said quickly. "Perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? My mother always said..." He trailed off, blinking rapidly as another burst of crowd noise penetrated the room. "No, that's not important right now."

Adom examined his gauntlets with detached interest. The coach had been exhibiting signs of acute nervous collapse for the better part of an hour, which was impressive considering they'd only been in the building for twenty minutes.

"The thing is," Viriam said, beginning to pace across the generous space available, "nobody expected us to qualify. Nobody. Including me. Especially me. My mother said never count your chickens before they hatch, but she also said never put all your eggs in one basket, which is contradictory advice when you think about it."

The crowd above them erupted in what sounded like genuine celebration, and Viriam flinched slightly.

"Coach," Damus said flatly, "what are you talking about?"

Viriam stopped pacing and turned to face the team.

"What I'm saying is," he said, his voice climbing half an octave, "we're here. Against all rational probability. And now we have to... perform. In front of people. Important people. People with opinions and... and clipboards."

Another sustained cheer filtered down from above, followed by rhythmic stomping that seemed to shake the very foundations.

"We've performed before," Serena pointed out.

"Those were friendly matches!" Viriam's voice cracked slightly. "This is Lireth Academy! They have an actual budget for Krozball! And proper facilities! And probably coaches who don't have panic attacks in professional locker rooms!"

The silence that followed was the kind typically reserved for moments of profound existential reckoning.

Adom noted that even in his distressed state, Viriam had managed to acknowledge the quality of their current surroundings. Hugo looked like he was calculating whether the coach needed medical attention or simply a very strong drink.

"Right," Viriam said, attempting to collect himself as the crowd noise swelled again. "Positions. Let's discuss positions. Hugo, you're our anchor. Steady as a mountain. Dependable as... as something very dependable."

"A mountain?" Hugo suggested.

"Exactly. Talef and Mira, offense. Be aggressive. But not too aggressive. My mother always said—no, forget what my mother said. Serena, you're our spear."

"Actually," Serena said, "I'm not. He is." She nodded toward Adom.

Viriam's eyes found Adom, and for a moment, something approaching actual coaching instinct flickered across his features.

"Sylla," he said. "My ace. You're benched."

"Benched? Again?" Hugo sat up straighter. "But he's—"

"Benched," Viriam repeated firmly. "I'm saving you for when we need you. Strategic reserves. Very important concept. Some smart scholar probably wrote about it."

Adom nodded once. "Understood, Coach."

"Good. Good. That's... that's settled then." Viriam looked down at his clipboard again, and Adom noticed his hands were trembling slightly as another roar from the arena above washed over them. "Now, the important thing to remember is that we shouldn't be afraid. Fear is the mind-killer. Or the... the something-killer. The point is, don't be afraid."

"Are you afraid, Coach?" Talef asked with genuine curiosity.

Viriam's face went through several interesting color changes before settling on a pale green that complemented the marble flooring.

"Terrified," he admitted. "Absolutely terrified. My mother said this would happen. She said, 'Coach, one day you'll bite off more than you can chew, and then you'll have to swallow it anyway.'"

"Your mother called you Coach?" Serena asked.

"My first name's actually Coach. Coach Viriam. That's me."

The crowd noise reached what might have been a crescendo, accompanied by what sounded like thousands of people stamping their feet in unison.

"Your mother... named you well," Serena said dryly.

"She was a very wise woman. Also deeply pessimistic. Probably prophetic." Viriam swayed slightly on his feet. "The thing is, I never expected... I mean, we were supposed to lose gracefully in the first qualifying round. Build character. Learn from experience. Everyone said so. Even I said so."

Hugo stood up slowly, and somehow the spacious locker room felt less overwhelming.

"Coach," he said gently, "maybe you should sit down."

"Can't sit down. Have to give the speech. The inspirational speech. Very important for morale." Viriam straightened his shoulders with visible effort. "Men! And women! Today we face—"

He stopped, looked around at the polished marble and crystal fixtures, and seemed to deflate slightly.

"This isn't very inspiring, is it?"

"Not particularly," Adom said.

"Right. Well. The important thing is..." Viriam paused, consulting his clipboard again as another wave of crowd enthusiasm rolled through the walls. "Actually, I'm not sure what the important thing is. I wrote it down somewhere, but my handwriting is terrible when I'm nervous, and I'm always nervous, so..."

The silence stretched out like a patient cat.

Hugo cleared his throat. "Would you like me to—"

"Yes," Viriam said immediately. "Yes, please. Before I throw up on someone's shoes. Or this very expensive marble."

Hugo stepped forward, and somehow the impressive locker room seemed less intimidating. He looked around at the assembled team with the calm competence of someone who had never doubted they belonged exactly where they were.

"We're here," he said simply, "because we earned it. Not because anyone expected us to, but because we did the work. We showed up. We played better than anyone thought we could, including ourselves."

He paused, letting that sink in as the crowd noise continued above them.

"Lireth Academy has better facilities. Better uniforms. Probably better funding. What they don't have is what we've built together. They don't know how Serena thinks three moves ahead, or how Damus can thread a pass through spaces that shouldn't exist. They don't know that Adom can read a play before it happens."

Adom felt something warm and unexpected settle in his chest.

"So we go out there," Hugo continued, "and we play our game. Not their game. Ours. And if we lose, we lose playing the way we know how. But we're not planning to lose."

The team nodded, and Adom noticed that even Viriam looked slightly less green around the edges.

"Questions?" Hugo asked.

"Just one," Talef said. "When do we get to see what our ace can actually do?"

Hugo glanced at Adom, who was methodically checking his equipment with the same careful attention he'd given to preparing for actual life-or-death situations.

"When the coach decides we need him," Hugo said. "Trust the process."

Viriam, who had been quietly hyperventilating in the corner, managed a weak smile as the crowd above them erupted again.

"Right," he said. "Trust the process. My mother always said... actually, my mother never said anything about processes. She was more of a 'expect the worst and you'll never be disappointed' kind of person."

"Inspiring," Serena said.

"Thank you. I think."

*****

The sound hit them before they even reached the tunnel exit—a rhythmic, methodical chanting that seemed to emerge from the very walls themselves.

"What do we think about Xerkes?"

"SHIT!"

"What do we think about shit?"

"XERKES!"

"Thank you!"

"THAT'S ALRIGHT!"

The chant repeated, gaining momentum and volume with each iteration, until it merged into a sustained roar of "WE HATE XERKES! WE HATE XERKES! WE HATE XERKES!"

Coach Viriam stood frozen at the mouth of the tunnel, staring into the pulsing light and the sheer volume of public opinion that awaited them beyond. The sound washed over him like a physical force—thousands of voices united in their very specific feelings about his team's existence.

He whispered, as if to no one in particular, "Oh fuck."

"Coach," Adom said quietly, stepping up beside him. "We're outsiders. Of course it would be like that."

Viriam turned to look at him, his face still carrying that interesting shade of green.

"Don't be like that," Adom continued. "They want us to be afraid."

The chanting continued, relentless and perfectly synchronized, as if the entire stadium had rehearsed their collective disapproval.

Viriam blinked rapidly, processing this observation. Something in his posture shifted—not confidence, exactly, but a kind of resigned determination.

"Yes," he said, his voice steadying slightly. "Yes, you're right. They want us to be afraid."

He straightened his clipboard, which had somehow survived his nervous handling, and looked back at the team assembled behind them in the tunnel.

"Right then," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Into the light."

They moved forward as a group, emerging from the tunnel into the vast expanse of the arena.

And then the world opened up around them.

The noise didn't just hit them—it swallowed them whole. Thirty thousand people, maybe more, packed into tiered seating that rose up and up until the highest rows seemed to scrape the sky itself. The sound was a living thing, a creature made of voices and stomping feet and the occasional blast of what appeared to be enchanted horns.

The chant rolled down from the stands like an avalanche of organized disapproval.

Adom had seen large crowds before, but this was different. This was professional. The arena floor stretched out before them—a perfect oval of meticulously maintained grass marked with gleaming lines that pulsed with soft magical light. Three hoops stood at each end, suspended at different heights: the largest at ground level worth one point, the medium hoop floating ten feet up worth two, and the smallest hoop hovering twenty feet above the field worth three.

Banners hung from every available surface, most bearing the blue and gold of the Kingdom of Olden. A few scattered sections showed other colors—Xerkes supporters, probably, though they seemed vastly outnumbered.

"Holy shit," Talef muttered, his voice barely audible over the din.

Coach Viriam walked beside them with the rigid posture of someone trying very hard not to run away. His clipboard trembled in his hands as he surveyed the sea of hostile faces.

"This is..." he began, then stopped, apparently lacking adequate vocabulary.

The opposing team was already on the field, going through warm-up drills with military precision. Even from a distance, it was clear these weren't teenagers. The Lireth Academy players moved with the controlled grace of professional soldiers, their formations crisp and purposeful.

"Look at the size of them," Mira said quietly.

She wasn't exaggerating. The smallest member of the Lireth team looked like he could bench press Hugo, and Hugo was not a small person. They wore deep blue uniforms with gold trim, each player's posture suggesting years of disciplined training.

Lireth Academy. The premier military institution of the Kingdom of Olden, producer of generals and elite soldiers for the past three centuries. Their Krozball team consisted entirely of officer candidates, students who would graduate to command positions in one of the most formidable armies on the continent.

The youngest member of the Lireth team appeared to be around nineteen. The oldest looked closer to twenty-six, with the face of someone who had seen actual combat.

Meanwhile, the oldest player on Team Xerkes was Hugo at nineteen. Adom and Damus, at thirteen, were barely teenagers.

The crowd's attention shifted as a figure strode onto the field, raising what appeared to be a crystal device that amplified his voice to carry across the entire arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The voice boomed with theatrical flourish. "Welcome to the Inter-Academy Krozball Championship!"

A standing ovation and an ocean of screams followed.

The announcer was a man in his fifties with an impressive mustache and the bearing of someone who genuinely enjoyed being the center of attention. He wore elaborate robes that sparkled with embedded crystals, and his voice carried the cadence of a seasoned showman.

"I am Magistrate Seneca Harris, and this marks my tenth year as your official presenter for this magnificent tournament!" He gestured dramatically toward the crowd, which responded with enthusiastic cheering. "Though in all my years, I must confess, I have never witnessed such an unlikely occurrence as what we see before us today!"

The crowd's volume increased, sensing drama.

"On the east side of the field," Thorne announced, his voice carrying easily over the noise, "representing the Kingdom of Olden and its proud military tradition—the Lireth Academy Sentinels!"

The blue-uniformed team raised their fists in unison, and their section of the crowd erupted in approval. Disciplined cheering, organized and loud.

"Led by Captain Markes Whitehall in his final year, these officer candidates have dominated tournament play for the past four years! They are undefeated in regulation play, champions of the Northern League, and favorites to claim their third consecutive championship!"

The Lireth players acknowledged the crowd with waves. No showboating, no unnecessary theatrics—just calm competence.

"And on the west side," Thorne continued, his voice taking on a note of barely contained amazement, "in their first tournament appearance in thirteen years—the Xerkes Academy Wildcats!"

The response was... mixed. A scattered section of blue and silver erupted in enthusiastic support, while the rest of the crowd offered polite applause that felt distinctly lukewarm.

"Led by first-year Coach, Coach Viriam," Thorne's voice carried clearly across the field, "these unlikely champions defied every prediction to secure their tournament berth!"

All eyes turned to Coach Viriam, who had gone pale under the scrutiny of thirty thousand people. He managed a weak wave that looked more like a surrender gesture.

"Coach Viriam," Thorne announced with obvious delight, "perhaps you'd like to say a few words to this magnificent crowd?"

Viriam's mouth opened and closed several times before any sound emerged.

"We're... honored to be here," he managed, his voice cracking slightly. "Looking forward to... to playing some Krozball."

Adom was impressed the man actually managed to say something coherent.

The crowd's polite applause suggested they found his nervousness endearing rather than inspiring.

That was... good, right? Better than bad, at least.

"And what a team he's assembled!" Thorne continued, mercifully moving past Viriam's moment of crisis. "Featuring Hugo Faible as captain and anchor, veteran players Serena Voss and Talef Morrison, and promising newcomers including the youngest roster in tournament history!"

In the stands, Adom noticed a section of clearly important people—officials in expensive robes, representatives from various academies, and what appeared to be nobility from multiple kingdoms.

The Lireth team began their formal warm-up routine, and Adom couldn't help but be impressed. Their movements were synchronized, efficient, and purposeful. No wasted motion, no flashy displays.

Their captain, Whitehall, stood well over six feet tall with the build of someone who could probably wrestle bears for recreation. His teammates looked equally formidable, their ages ranging from barely-adult to full military readiness.

Stolen from NovelBin, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"The format," Thorne explained to the crowd, "remains unchanged! Ninety minutes of regulation play! Three hoops per side, worth one, two, and three points respectively! No magic, only Fluid enhancement permitted! First to reach the point cap or highest score at the final whistle claims victory!"

The noise level dropped slightly as spectators settled in for the actual competition.

"But before we begin," Thorne announced, "let us observe the traditional acknowledgment between teams!"

Both teams began moving toward the center of the field. The Lireth players advanced in formation, their steps perfectly synchronized. Team Xerkes... tried to match their professionalism with varying degrees of success.

Coach Viriam walked beside his players, still looking like he might faint at any moment. "Remember," he whispered urgently, "we belong here. We earned this. My mother always said... actually, my mother would probably tell us to run away, but we're not doing that."

Serena rolled her eyes.

The two teams faced each other across the center line. The size difference was immediately apparent—even Hugo looked small compared to some of the Lireth players.

Captain Whitehall stepped forward, his expression respectful but confident. "Good luck," he said, extending his hand to Hugo. "May the best team prevail."

"Likewise," Hugo replied, accepting the handshake with equal formality.

The crowd noise faded to a low rumble as the teams arranged themselves in traditional formation. Xerkes in their silver and blue, Lireth in their deep blue and gold, facing each other across the pristine field.

Adom stood with the substitutes on the sideline, taking in every detail.

Magistrate Harris raised his amplification crystal one final time. "Let the match... BEGIN!"

The Krozball shot into the air like a leather comet, and thirty thousand people held their breath.

Hugo launched himself upward first, his captain's instincts kicking in before anyone else had processed the whistle. But Captain Whitehall was already there, his military-trained reflexes allowing him to pluck the ball from the air with casual efficiency.

"Shit," Coach Viriam muttered from the sideline, his clipboard already showing stress fractures.

The Lireth formation moved like clockwork. Whitehall fed the ball to a Runner and suddenly Team Xerkes was on the defensive.

Adom watched from the bench as Serena backpedaled, reading the play. She was good—better than he'd realized during tryouts. Her positioning forced the Lireth Runner to take a longer route, buying precious seconds for Hugo and the Blockers to organize.

"Come on, Ser," muttered one of the benched players. "Show them why you broke those noses."

The military academy's offensive line was a thing of beauty and terror. Their Runners—a brick wall named Davies, a whip-fast woman called Torres, and their third whose jersey read 'Kozlov'—moved with like soldiers who had drilled these patterns a thousand times.

But Hugo wasn't intimidated. The Xerkes captain crashed into Davies like a controlled avalanche, the impact echoing across the arena. Both Blockers went down hard, rolled, and came up swinging.

"That's how we do it!" Lorn bellowed from his position, throwing his considerable bulk into Torres before she could capitalize on Hugo's engagement.

The ball popped loose.

Damus appeared out of nowhere—thirteen years old and faster than he had any right to be. His small frame slipped between two Lireth defenders like smoke, scooping up the Krozball before anyone realized what had happened.

"GO, GO, GO!" Coach Viriam was on his feet, stress temporarily forgotten.

Serena read the play perfectly.

As Damus sprinted toward the Lireth hoops, she positioned herself to cut off the inevitable counter-pursuit. When their Spear—a scarred veteran who looked like he'd seen actual combat—tried to intercept, Serena was ready.

She didn't engage in a full duel. Just enough contact to disrupt his angle, sending him stumbling as Damus broke into open field.

Hugo, meanwhile, had apparently decided that subtlety was overrated. He charged straight through the Lireth defensive formation like a battering ram, clearing a path that probably violated several laws of physics.

Damus reached the hoops with a clear shot. The middle hoop—two points—hung tantalizingly in range.

He didn't hesitate.

The Krozball sailed through the air in a perfect arc, spinning just enough to kiss the inside rim before dropping clean through.

The Xerkes section of the crowd exploded. Two points. First blood.

"YES!" Coach Viriam actually jumped, his clipboard forgotten entirely. "That's my boy! That's my team! We've got this! We've absolutely—"

The celebration lasted approximately fifteen seconds.

Lireth Academy reset with military efficiency. No emotional reactions, no frustration—just cold, professional adjustment. Their Keeper retrieved the ball and immediately launched it toward midfield.

"Uh oh," said the benched player next to Adom.

What followed was a masterclass in organized destruction.

The military academy's Blockers—both built like siege engines—established control of the center field through simple, brutal effectiveness. Every Xerkes advance met a wall of precisely applied force. No unnecessary violence, just the minimum amount of contact required to stop forward progress.

Their Runners, meanwhile, began dissecting Xerkes' defense. Davies bulldozed through gaps that Torres created with her speed, while Kozlov hung back to capitalize on whatever opportunities emerged.

"They're playing chess," Adom observed quietly. "And we're playing checkers."

The first Lireth score came three minutes later. One point through the largest hoop—not spectacular, but efficient.

2-1.

The second score followed two minutes after that. Torres had somehow gotten behind the entire Xerkes defense, leaving their Keeper with an impossible angle to defend.

2-2.

"Adjust!" Hugo called, trying to rally his team. "Tighten up the formation!"

But Lireth was just getting started.

Their third score was pure artistry. Davies drew two defenders with a fake charge, allowing Kozlov to slip behind them. When Serena moved to intercept, Torres was already there with a perfectly timed pass that sent the ball sailing through the three-point hoop.

2-5.

Coach Viriam had gone pale. "This isn't... they weren't supposed to be this good. The scouting reports said—"

"The scouting reports were wrong," Adom said, not taking his eyes off the field.

The pattern continued. Every time Xerkes mounted an offensive, Lireth's defense absorbed the attack and countered with machine-like precision. Their Spear was particularly impressive—a stone-faced man named Fletcher who seemed to anticipate every play before it developed.

2-8.

2-11.

2-14.

"Timeout!" Hugo called, jogging toward the sideline with his team trailing behind.

They huddled around Coach Viriam, whose hands were shaking as he tried to consult his notes.

"Okay," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "We need to... we should try... maybe if we..."

He trailed off, staring at his clipboard like it might contain answers.

Hugo took over. "They're better than us," he said bluntly. "Stronger, faster, more experienced. But they're not unbeatable."

"Could've fooled me," Talef muttered.

"Look at their formation," Hugo continued. "They're playing safe. Conservative. They don't respect us enough to take risks."

Serena nodded slowly. "Their Spear thinks he owns the field."

"Fletcher," Mira added. "Been watching him. He positions himself like he's untouchable."

"So we touch him," Hugo said simply.

Adom leaned forward. This was getting interesting.

"Challenge him to a duel," Hugo continued. "Make it public. Make it dramatic. Even if we lose, we show them we're not intimidated."

"I'll do it," Serena said immediately.

"Ser—"

"I'll do it," she repeated, her voice flat with determination. "Just get me the ball in the right position."

They returned to the field. Thirty thousand people sensed something had changed—the energy in the arena shifted as Xerkes lined up with new purpose.

The ball came to Serena two minutes later, right where she wanted it. Center field, just inside one of the marked duel zones.

She could have passed. Could have played it safe, tried to maintain possession.

Instead, she held the ball high and looked directly at Fletcher.

"You want it?" she called, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet field. "Come take it."

Fletcher's expression didn't change. But he started walking toward her, and the entire arena held its breath.

In duel zones, possession belonged to whoever emerged victorious. No teammates could interfere. Just two players, the ball, and thirty thousand witnesses.

Coach Viriam looked like he might faint. "What is she doing? This isn't... we didn't plan this..."

"She's making a statement," Adom said quietly, watching Serena drop into her combat stance.

Fletcher stopped just outside striking distance. "You sure about this, little girl?"

Serena smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"Come find out."

Fletcher was bigger. That much was obvious. Maybe six-two to Serena's five-seven, with the kind of build that suggested he'd been throwing around heavy things since childhood. His stance was textbook perfect, weight evenly distributed, hands loose at his sides.

"First one out of the circle loses," Fletcher said conversationally. "Or unconscious. Or surrenders."

"I know the rules," Serena replied.

"Just making sure." Fletcher's smile was all professional courtesy. "Wouldn't want you to get confused when I pick you up and carry you out."

Serena tilted her head. "You'd have to catch me first."

That was apparently the signal they'd been waiting for.

Fletcher moved first—a straight charge that would have worked perfectly against most opponents. Pure aggression, overwhelming force, get it over with quickly.

Serena wasn't most opponents.

She went low and left, slipping under his reaching arms like water. Her counter-attack came immediately—a sharp elbow toward his ribs that Fletcher barely managed to deflect.

"Nice try," he said, already adjusting his approach.

The second exchange was more cautious. Fletcher feinted high, then tried to grapple low. Serena read it coming, pivoted on her heel, and snapped a kick toward his knee that he had to hop back to avoid.

"You're quick," Fletcher admitted, resetting his stance. "But quick only gets you so far."

He was right, and everyone knew it. Serena could dance around him all day, but one mistake—one moment where he got his hands on her—and it was over.

The third exchange proved the point. Fletcher came in with a combination that looked deceptively simple—jab, cross, feint, grab. Serena slipped the first two, started to counter the feint, realized her mistake just in time to avoid the grab.

Almost.

Fletcher's fingers brushed her shoulder as she spun away, and for a heart-stopping moment it looked like he had her. But Serena kept spinning, using the momentum to break free and create distance.

"Getting closer," Fletcher said. He wasn't even breathing hard.

Serena, meanwhile, was starting to show the strain. Small droplets of sweat were coming out of her helmet. A slight tightness around her eyes.

"She's in trouble," muttered the benched player next to Adom.

"No," Adom said quietly, watching Serena's footwork. "She's thinking."

The fourth exchange lasted longer. Fletcher had apparently decided that patience was more effective than aggression. He pressed forward steadily, methodically, cutting off Serena's angles without overcommitting.

Serena gave ground, but she gave it smart. Each step back was calculated, each defensive movement designed to create the specific opening she wanted.

It took Adom a moment to realize what she was doing.

"She's herding him," he said, mostly to himself.

Fletcher was good—great, even. But he was fighting the duel he wanted to fight, not necessarily the duel that was happening. He wanted to get his hands on Serena, wanted to use his strength advantage to end it quickly.

Serena wanted him at the edge of the circle.

The fifth exchange was the charm.

Fletcher came in confident, sure he had her cornered near the circle's edge. His grab was perfectly timed, technically flawless, and would have ended the duel against most opponents.

Again– and this was annoyingly redundant– Serena wasn't most opponents.

Instead of trying to avoid the grab, she stepped into it. Fletcher's hands closed around empty air as Serena dropped low, spun behind him, and drove her shoulder into the back of his knee.

Fletcher stumbled. Just for a second, just enough to throw off his balance.

Serena's kick caught him in the center of his back.

It wasn't a particularly hard kick—Serena didn't have the mass for devastating power. But it was perfectly placed, perfectly timed, and Fletcher was already off-balance.

He took two stumbling steps backward.

The second step carried him over the white line.

The arena exploded.

Thirty thousand people erupted in a roar that could probably be heard in the next kingdom. The Xerkes section went absolutely insane, students jumping on each other, teachers abandoning all pretense of dignity.

Fletcher stood outside the circle, looking down at his feet.

"Well," he said after a moment. "Shit."

Serena was on her hands and knees in the center of the circle, gasping for air. She looked like she'd just run a marathon underwater, but she was grinning.

"Good fight," Fletcher said, walking back to offer her a hand up.

"You too," Serena managed between breaths. "Almost had me with that fourth combination."

"Almost." Fletcher pulled her to her feet. "That was clever. Using my own aggression against me."

"Learned it from Hugo," Serena said, still breathing hard. "He says the best way to beat someone stronger is to make them beat themselves."

The referee jogged over, consulting his notes. "Duel victory to Xerkes Academy. Standard penalty rules apply—free shot, keeper defense only."

Serena looked back toward her team, her eyes finding Hugo immediately.

"Cap," she called, her voice carrying clearly across the field. "Want to take a shot?"

Hugo was already moving, jogging toward the penalty zone with the kind of expression that suggested Lireth's keeper was about to have a very bad day.

The penalty zone was a smaller circle directly in front of the hoops, marked in red paint. Inside that circle, only the shooter and the opposing keeper were allowed. No blockers, no interference, just skill versus skill.

Hugo took his position at the penalty line, the Krozball balanced in his hands. His expression was all business now—no emotion, no hesitation.

The Lireth keeper—a tall, lanky kid who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—crouched in front of the three hoops, trying to cover as much space as possible.

The arena held its breath again.

Hugo rolled the Krozball between his palms. His eyes moved between the three hoops—one point for the largest, two for the middle, three for the smallest at the top. The math was simple: they needed something significant to swing momentum back in their favor.

The Lireth keeper shifted his weight, trying to read Hugo's intentions. Left, right, high, low—too many possibilities, not enough body to cover them all.

Hugo took three steps back from the line. Standard approach distance. His face showed nothing—no tension, no uncertainty, just the blank concentration of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

The referee raised his hand.

Time stretched like taffy.

Hugo began his approach. Three measured steps, building momentum without rushing. His form was textbook perfect—shoulders square, eyes locked on target, every movement flowing into the next.

The keeper made his choice, diving left toward the single-point hoop, betting on Hugo playing it safe.

Wrong bet.

The Krozball left Hugo's hands in a perfect spiral, aimed dead center at the two-point hoop. For a split second, it looked like a straightforward shot—powerful but predictable.

Then the spin kicked in.

Hugo had somehow managed to put just enough spin to the ball to make it curve at the last possible moment. Not a dramatic arc, just a subtle drift that carried it away from where the keeper had expected it to go.

The ball kissed the inside rim of the middle hoop and passed through clean.

Two points.

The arena detonated.

The Xerkes section turned into a seething mass of joy and chaos and somewhere in the distance a brass band started playing what might have been the academy fight song but could have been a celebration of the end of the world.

Hugo didn't celebrate. He just nodded once, satisfied, and jogged back toward his team as if scoring clutch penalties was something he did before breakfast.

Serena met him at midfield, still breathing hard but grinning.

The scoreboard flickered and updated: Xerkes 4, Lireth 14.

They were still losing by ten points.

*****

The locker room felt like a tomb.

Ten to twenty-five. Fifteen points down at halftime. In Krozball, that wasn't insurmountable, but against a team like Lireth Academy it might as well have been fifty.

Hugo sat with his head in his hands, still processing how thoroughly they'd been outplayed. Serena stared at the floor, her knuckles raw from the two duels she'd lost after her initial victory—both times lured into challenges by Lireth players who'd studied her tactics and adapted accordingly.

Damus was the only one drinking from the water bottles the academy staff had provided. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten that hydration was a thing.

"They're just better," Talef said finally, breaking the silence. "Faster, stronger, smarter. They read our plays before we make them."

"They've been playing together for three years," Mira added quietly. "We've been playing together for so much less."

Coach Viriam stood by the tactical board, his back to the team. His hands were shaking again.

The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable, then kept going until it became unbearable.

Finally, Viriam turned around.

"I owe you all an apology," he said, and everyone looked up.

"I've been a terrible coach," Viriam continued`. "When you needed someone to guide you, to prepare you, to believe in you—I panicked. I gave you drills instead of strategy. I gave you hope instead of reality. I was so worried about disappointing you that I forgot to actually help you."

Hugo raised his head. "Coach—"

"Let me finish." Viriam's voice was gentle but firm. "You've played your hearts out there. All of you. Serena, that duel victory was brilliant—pure tactical thinking under pressure. Hugo, your leadership and that penalty shot have kept us in this match. Damus, your speed and ball handling are already better than players twice your age."

He looked around the room, meeting each player's eyes.

"Lorn, Talef, Mira—you've been fighting players with three times your experience and holding your own. You should be proud. I am proud. Proud and ashamed, because I haven't given you what you deserved."

The room was dead quiet again, but it felt different now. Expectant.

"We're going to make some changes for the second half," Viriam said, turning toward his tactical board. "And I want you to trust me, because for the first time this season, I actually know what I'm doing."

Without turning around, he spoke to the back corner of the room.

"Sylla. Prepare to go in."

Every head in the room snapped toward Adom, who looked like he'd just been struck by lightning.

"What?" Serena said, the first word she'd spoken since entering the locker room.

Viriam turned around, and for the first time all season, he looked like an actual coach.

"Adom has better spatial awareness than anyone in this room," he said simply. "Better than Serena, better than Hugo, better than me. Spatial awareness is what defines a Spear position more than anything else—the ability to read the entire field, to see patterns before they develop, to be in the right place at the right time."

Serena opened her mouth, then closed it. She was competitive, but she wasn't stupid.

"We've been playing for forty-five minutes," Viriam continued. "In those forty-five minutes, it's become clear that our current strategy—rely on individual skill and hope for the best—isn't going to cut it. Lireth has challenged Serena to two more duels since her victory, and they've won both. Not because Serena isn't good, but because they've adapted to her style."

He gestured to the tactical board, where formations and player positions were sketched in chalk.

"I don't think Lireth will score their way to fifty points before the ninety-minute mark. They're too disciplined for that—they'll play conservative, manage the clock, and try to win ugly. Which means we have time. Not much, but enough."

Viriam looked directly at Adom.

"The question is whether we're brave enough to change everything when we're already down fifteen points."

Hugo was the first to speak. "What kind of changes?"

"Adom goes in as Spear. Serena moves to Runner—her speed and tactical thinking will be devastating in transition plays. Mira comes out, Jace goes in as the third Blocker to match Lireth's physicality."

He paused, studying their faces.

"Damus and Hugo stay exactly where they are. This strategy only works if our core remains stable."

The room absorbed this in silence. It was a complete tactical overhaul with forty-five minutes left in the most important match of their lives.

"Do you trust me?" Viriam asked quietly.

Adom stood up from the bench.

"Yes," he said.

*****

The tunnel leading back onto the field felt like walking through the throat of some massive beast. Adom adjusted his helmet one final time, the weight settling against his skull as the roar of thousands of voices grew louder with each step.

Then he emerged into the arena proper.

From the bench, it had looked manageable. From down here, it felt infinite. The crowd towered above them on all sides, a wall of noise and motion that seemed to press down from the sky itself.

"It appears Xerkes Academy has made some tactical adjustments for the second half," the commentator's voice boomed across the arena. "A new player taking the field—number seven, Sylla—looks to be stepping into the Spear position."

Adom found himself scanning the crowd almost involuntarily, his eyes drawn upward by some instinct he couldn't name. There—three sections over, waving like maniacs—Sam and Zuni. Sam was on their feet, with Zuni on top of his head, chanting his name along with what looked like half their dormitory.

Mia was not too far from them. Oh, Gus too. He could even see Naia, her brother, and Karion and his sisters in the crowd.

He allowed himself one small smile, then reached down to adjust the bracelet wrapped around his wrist. The metal was warm against his skin as he triggered the color change, watching his Fluid shift from its current white back to the familiar blue. Better to not attract questions for now. A Fluid user's color changing meant they had gone through either trauma, or deep insight, both of which were rare enough to make people too curious.

The crowd, the spectacle, the sheer overwhelming presence of it all—it was impressive. More than impressive. But Adom forced himself to remember why he was here. This wasn't about glory or recognition or proving anything to anyone.

This was about getting to the Giant Highlands. And for that, they needed to win.

Which meant he had absolutely no intention of going easy on anyone.

Size didn't matter in Krozball—not really. Age was just a number when Fluid was involved. Every player had their specialty, their particular mastery of the energy that flowed through their bodies. As a Spear, his job was simple: optimize his teammates' abilities while anticipating everything the enemy was going to do before they knew it themselves.

Adom looked skinnier than most thirteen-year-olds, let alone the walking mountains that comprised Lireth's lineup. But appearances could be deceiving.

The referee raised his crystal, and the second half began.

Lireth won the opening draw, just like they had in the first half. Their Runner—the same brick wall named Davies—secured the ball and immediately began organizing their methodical advance.

That's when Adom activated [Flow Prediction].

The world shifted. Suddenly he could read the micro-movements in Davies' shoulders, the way Torres was angling her run, the subtle shift in Kozlov's positioning that telegraphed their intended play structure.

Adom moved.

He intercepted Davies' pass to Torres before she'd even finished her cutting motion, his positioning so perfect that it looked like the ball had been thrown directly to him.

"What the—" Davies started to say.

Adom was already gone, threading the ball to Damus with a precision pass that split two defenders. The thirteen-year-old Runner caught it in stride and accelerated toward the Lireth hoops like he'd been shot from a catapult.

The crowd noise changed pitch, shifting from routine cheering to something approaching surprise.

Damus scored through the two-point hoop with room to spare.

12-25.

"First blood to Xerkes in the second half," the commentator announced, a note of curiosity creeping into his voice. "Excellent ball movement from their new Spear."

The Lireth players exchanged glances. That wasn't supposed to happen.

They reset for the next play, but Adom was already reading their formation. [Flow Prediction] showed him exactly how they planned to respond—a more aggressive push, designed to reestablish dominance through force.

Fletcher, their Spear, would try to draw Hugo into a physical confrontation while Torres made her run. Standard military academy tactics: identify the strongest opponent and neutralize them.

Adom positioned himself to disrupt Torres' route while staying close enough to support Hugo if needed. When Fletcher made his move, Adom was ready.

He didn't fight Fletcher directly—that would have been stupid. Instead, he used the man's own momentum against him, stepping aside at precisely the right moment to send Fletcher stumbling into empty space while Adom claimed the ball.

This time, he kept it himself.

The Lireth defense converged on him, expecting a pass. Instead, Adom accelerated straight through their formation, his Fluid-enhanced speed allowing him to slip between two Blockers before they could react.

He found himself with a clear shot at the three-point hoop. The highest, smallest target—the one most players avoided unless they were desperate.

Adom wasn't desperate. He was just accurate.

The ball sailed through the tiny hoop, then...

"WHOAAAAA!"

15-25.

The arena erupted. This time, even the neutral sections were on their feet.

Damus—who had never so much as nodded in Adom's direction during three weeks of practice—caught his eye and gave him a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment.

From the sideline, Coach Viriam was trying very hard to look calm and failing completely. "That's it!" he called out, his voice cracking with excitement. "That's exactly what we needed!"

But Lireth Academy hadn't earned their reputation by folding under pressure. Their next possession was a thing of cold, calculated precision—no emotion, no frustration, just professional adjustment to changing circumstances.

Except Adom could see that too.

[Flow Prediction] laid out their entire strategy like a tactical map. He knew more or less where they planned to go, how they planned to get there, which player would make the final attempt.

He disrupted it at exactly the right moment, stealing the ball with such perfect timing that it looked like Lireth had passed it directly to him.

Another quick feed to Damus. Another score.

17-25.

Eight minutes into the second half, and somehow the impossible was starting to feel inevitable.

That's when Captain Whitehall made his decision.

Adom saw him moving toward one of the duel zones marked across the field—the same tactical gambit they'd used to challenge Serena in the first half. The challenge was obvious: face our best player one-on-one, or watch us regain control of this match.

Adom could have avoided it. Could have stayed away from the duel zone, forced them to find another approach.

Instead, he walked straight toward Whitehall, meeting the older player's eyes across the marked circle.

"Heh. You sure about this, kid?" Whitehall asked.

Adom stepped into the circle.

"Absolutely."

[NTS: Ask Marc to check the rules for the Krozball game, and correct the flow.]

[NTS: Double check dialogue]

[NTM: Check for typos again. Thanks]

[NTS: Please proofread it again. Not sure there is no typo]