The day I awakened was the day I truly began to live.
For three years, I chased the ghost of that feeling—the rush of the game, the fire in my veins. Rain or shine, sick or healthy, I played. Alone, always alone. The world around me blurred into insignificance. Nothing existed but the ball at my feet and the hunger inside me.
When I joined a local academy, I saw it as my launchpad to greatness. I was confident—no, I was certain—that my skill would speak louder than words. I gave it a month. One month before they'd be begging to put me in the starting lineup.
But reality didn't care for talent.
It was cruel.
Favoritism. Nepotism. Politics. The academy didn't reward the strongest—it fed the connected. I watched slower, clumsier players stroll into matches while I was left on the sidelines. I saw coaches nod at lazy passes, praising mediocrity while I sat with fire burning in my chest.
It stung.
But I refused to break.
If they wouldn't see me, I'd make them. While they joked on the sidelines, I ran. While they rested, I trained. My hands blistered. My lungs tore themselves apart. My vision swam.
None of it mattered. I kept going.
Then came the announcement.
A scout. A real one.
My shot. My moment to silence the world.
My teammates sneered. They always had. My blindness, my poverty, my intensity—it made them uncomfortable. I played like every touch might be my last, and they hated that. Hated me.
They tripped me in drills. Whispered behind my back. Laughed when I fell.
Pathetic.
But I saw it in their eyes. Beneath the mockery—fear. They knew that if I ever got the spotlight, I'd take it all.
The morning of the match, I woke electric with anticipation. Today would change everything.
My mother was already gone—another grueling shift just to keep the lights on. But on the kitchen table, a box. A note.
"Sorry I can't watch you play, Yugen. I know this is a big day. Here's a little something."
Inside—brand new boots.
My hands trembled.
We could barely afford food. Rent was always late.
How did she even…?
Tears welled up before I could stop them. I clutched the boots like they were life itself.
I won't waste this. I swear.
The match began.
The scout watched.
And I sat.
Ninety minutes. Not a second on the pitch.
The same worthless, talentless hacks who mocked me were given the stage.
When the final whistle blew, they made sure I understood.
"See this, you blind bastard? It's all thanks to my connections. You never had a chance. Go use that talent to eat shit."
A kick to the ribs sent me sprawling. Laughter echoed around me.
I didn't fight back. I didn't scream.
I just walked away.
Behind the building, where no one could see, I crumbled.
"Heh… heh… How pathetic. Wanting to be the best striker… but I can't do shit."
My scream cut through the air, raw and ragged, a sound torn from the heart of something broken.
The walk home was silent. The sky hung low, thick with gray. My chest ached with emptiness.
Then
A whistle of air. A blur in my periphery.
Instinct moved me. My body twisted.
The ball—fired like a bullet—was trapped mid-air, silenced in one touch.
"Hah! I knew I wasn't wrong about you!"
A voice.
A woman stood across from me, wild grin on her face like she'd just found treasure in a junkyard.
"Who the hell are you?" I snapped.
She raised her hands.
> "Relax, relax. Name's Mika. I'm a good guy. Probably. Just wanted a dramatic entrance."
But I wasn't listening.
That shot—its speed, its precision—wasn't ordinary.
She's strong.
"You've got skill," she said, head tilted. "Didn't expect to find someone like you in a dump like this. Kinda sad, really."
"Did you come just to mock me?" My voice cut sharp. "Get lost."
Her smile faded. For the first time, her tone turned serious.
> "I've got a rough idea of what went down," she said, rolling the ball under her foot. "So let's make this interesting. One-on-one. If you win, I'll do whatever you want. If I win… you're mine."Deal?"
I didn't hesitate.
If I win, I'll change everything.
Match Start.
No fear. No delay. I charged in.
Mika's aura changed instantly—playfulness vanished. The air thickened.
She met me with force.
A stepover—lightning fast. I read it. Left.
But she pivoted—dragged, stopped, rabona flick—right between my legs.
The ball rolled away, unchallenged.
Yugen "What the—?!"
Mika "Looks like I win." She winked. "Teehee."
Then her tone darkened.
> "And seriously—moping because a scout didn't pick you? That's your breaking point? What a joke."
Her next words hit harder than any tackle:
"If you can't find a path… carve your own."
A flash of memory—muddy fields, sleepless nights, my mother's cracked hands handing me new boots.
She handed me a slip of paper.
"Make your own damn path."
I clenched my fists. My vision blurred again—but this time, not from despair.
"Tch… Pathetic. Letting something like that break me."
I took the paper.
Mika turned, already walking away, but glanced back with a grin.
"See you around, Striker."
Alone again, I stared at the paper in my hands.
And for the first time in years…
I smiled.