The Sleeping King and His Architect
The results from the last match were posted across the halls.
Players who passed walked taller.
Those eliminated… were never seen again.
Room 109 had survived again — barely.
But survival wasn't enough.
They were still at the bottom.
---
The next morning, Haru's team was summoned not to a match, but to a joint training session.
Three rooms.
Room 109.
Room 106.
And Room 103 — the highest-ranked room.
Every player looked up when they entered.
Room 103's presence was heavy.
They didn't shout or posture like 118 did.
They didn't need to.
These were the players that made others feel like extras.
---
Then two figures walked in last.
One was tall, graceful, perfect posture. His hair was neat, expression sharp. Every step looked intentional.
> "Riku Kisaragi."
The architect.
Room 103's brain. A midfielder who could make anyone shine — and make you disappear if you didn't fit.
Beside him was someone… different.
He walked slowly. Hoodie up. Eyes half-open.
He looked like he'd just woken up from a nap.
And didn't care where he was.
> "Tsubasa."
No last name on the board.
Just that.
Tsubasa.
---
The coach's voice echoed:
> "Today — team combinations across rooms. 5v5. Quick games. Limited time."
> "Room 109 — pair up with Room 103."
That meant Haru was about to play beside the best.
And possibly be crushed.
---
Their first match began.
Tsubasa didn't move.
He stood near the goal like he was bored.
Haru passed once. No response.
Another time. The ball bounced off Tsubasa's foot.
It was starting to get embarrassing.
Until the third time.
The ball came to Tsubasa… chest height.
Everyone expected him to miss it.
Instead, he flicked it up with a touch that made no sense — like the ball was weightless.
Then — a volley.
Top corner.
No windup. No power.
Just perfection.
The room fell silent.
---
"Is he… serious?" someone muttered.
"No. That's the scary part," Riku answered.
---
Tsubasa didn't speak much.
But his game did.
He didn't move a lot. Didn't run.
He let the ball come to him.
And Riku made sure it always did.
Their connection was frightening.
Riku's passes were impossible — bending between legs, over heads, through chaos.
And every time, Tsubasa made it beautiful.
---
Haru watched.
Studied.
This wasn't just talent.
It was unnatural.
---
After the match, Riku approached Haru.
"You see it, don't you?" he said.
Haru nodded.
"It's not just genius. It's trust," Riku said. "If I play the perfect pass, he'll create the perfect finish. That's our contract."
Haru listened quietly.
"You'll need your own contract too," Riku said, walking away.
After the matches ended, all players from Room 109 were called into an isolated viewing room.
A cold, white space with a large screen, dim lights, and one chair at the front.
Coach Kiyoshi sat in it.
Silent.
Until the door shut.
He stood slowly, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the team like they were statistics — not people.
Then he spoke.
Calm. Sharp. Like a scalpel.
"What I saw today… was a joke."
His voice echoed.
"You're all playing like this is some high school tournament."
He pressed a button.
The screen behind him showed clips from the match — Haru hesitating, passes being missed, defensive gaps.
Then it showed Tsubasa.
Flick. Goal.
Then Riku.
Pass. Assist.
Then Haru again.
Late. Slow. Uncertain.
"You watched genius today and decided to admire it," Kiyoshi said.
"Not compete with it. Not challenge it. Just… watch it."
He stepped closer.
"And this 'contract' thing I heard?" He turned to Haru.
"Contract?" he repeated, voice dry. "Something like that doesn't exist here."
He faced the team.
"There's only one agreement in this place: Be better. Or get out."
Silence.
"Next match. No admiration. No dreams. No stories."
"Win."
He walked out.
Door slammed behind him.