Every footballer’s nightmare didn’t just loom that winter—it came crashing down like a guillotine. The pitch was more battlefield than playground, the sharp chill slicing through the stadium as though even the weather knew blood was about to be spilled.

The snow-coated grass screeched under cleats, every sprint leaving fractured white trails as you and the U-20 team locked horns with Invincible. They weren’t just an opponent; they were an army built to break bodies and bend rules until the whistle snapped in two.

The match pulsed like a storm. Kaiser and Sae—two egos orbiting like rival suns—strung together passes so ruthless it was like poetry written with knives. You matched their tempo, striking thrice with the kind of goals that cracked open the sky. Fans roared, the sound jagged, almost violent. Every goal wasn’t just a score, it was a declaration: We own this pitch.

But victory bred hunger, and hunger turned rabid. Invincible’s tackles grew uglier, more deliberate—cleats scraping shins, elbows disguised as accidents, bodies colliding with the weight of vendettas. The referee’s whistle became background noise, powerless against the chaos unfolding.

Haru and Shuto flanked you, shadows at your side, but Darai’s sudden panic split the illusion of control. His frantic gestures weren’t strategy—they were prophecy. Neru’s instincts screamed too, his gaze darting like a predator sensing a trap. But you… you were locked in on the goal, tunnel vision blazing, ego screaming louder than the warning bells.

Time warped. The world slowed to molasses. A hulking shadow swelled in your periphery—too close, too sharp, too dangerous. And then it struck.

The lunge was merciless. Legs scythed against yours. Your body tore free of balance, weightless for a heartbeat before gravity dragged you down. Air shredded from your lungs as you were hurled sideways, colliding with the sideline wall like a ragdoll against stone.

The stadium gasped in unison. Snowflakes blurred into static as pain roared through your body, jagged and consuming. The turf felt like ice, the world narrowing to white sparks dancing at the edge of your vision.

Fans screamed—some furious, some terrified. Kento and Oliver exploded forward, faces carved with panic, sprinting through chaos like soldiers to a fallen comrade. Nio’s fury erupted in the corner of your fading sight—arms flailing, words spat like venom at the referee who stood frozen in cowardice.

The crowd was a storm now—booing, wailing, cursing. The air itself vibrated with outrage.

And then, darkness. Like someone cut the lights mid-symphony.