The steady beep of machines filled the silence between Sam's ragged breaths. Lena lay motionless in the hospital bed, her once-bright eyes now dulled by painkillers. The same hands that once wielded a hunter's blade with lethal grace now trembled as she reached for a water cup.
"Stop staring at me like I'm already dead," she whispered, catching his expression. A ghost of her old grin flickered across her pale face. "I can still kick your ass at cards."
Sam forced a smile, though his chest felt hollow. Three weeks ago, Lena had been the rising star of the Crimson Hawks guild—a B-rank hunter whose speed made monsters look sluggish. Now she couldn't feel her legs.
"The doctors say—" he began.
"The doctors say a lot of things." Her voice had an edge sharper than any weapon she'd used. "Most of it expensive."
Through the window, Sam could see the glow of the Central Spire, rising like a monument to the city's elite. Towering over the districts, each level bore glowing banners in support of the city's biggest soccer team—Titan Blaze. Everywhere you looked, it was there: scarves on balconies, murals of legendary players, kids in team jackets dreaming of being drafted someday. In this city, soccer wasn't a sport. It was gospel.
Somewhere up in that tower, Guild Master Torren was probably sipping wine, writing Lena's squad off as a "calculated loss." The dungeon report had been wrong—maybe even a trap. What was supposed to be a C-rank cleanup became an A-rank bloodbath when the Rift collapsed.
Only Lena had crawled back. Barely.
"Fifty thousand," Sam said quietly. The price for an experimental procedure—a neural reconstruction surgery that might let her walk again.
Lena laughed bitterly. "Fifty thousand. Know how much I made last mission? Three hundred. Split five ways. Before... you know."
The door opened with a soft hiss. Dr. Reeves entered, her healer's insignia dim under the hospital lights. She and Lena had trained together once—before their awakenings sent them down different paths. One healing the broken. One becoming the broken.
"Any change?" Sam asked.
Dr. Reeves didn't answer immediately. Her silence said enough. "The damage is too deep. Without help, it's permanent. I've submitted her case to the charity board, but those reviews take time. And with her guild status..."
Terminated. The word didn't need saying. The Crimson Hawks had dropped Lena like old gear. No support. No meds. Just another broken fighter in a city that didn't slow down for casualties.
"There must be another way," Sam said.
Dr. Reeves paused. "None I can officially recommend."
After she left, the silence stretched. Outside, the city glowed. Down below, streamers hung from windows—team colors, rally slogans, digital projections of last week's goal replays. Match day was coming, and the fever had already taken hold. Titan Blaze had a home game. That meant street parades, sold-out watch zones, and fights breaking out over whose striker had the higher aura pulse rating.
Sam's phone buzzed.
Jay: Meet me at Rusty's. Got something that could help.
His reflection stared back at him through the screen. He managed to awaken last year, but not as a hunter, as an athlete. Seventeen. F-rank. Goalkeeper. Not strong enough to stop even most middle-school awakened strikers. His Testing Stone result last year still echoed:
Class: Goalkeeper
Latent Potential: Minimal.
Rank: F.
Specialty: Reflexive Defense.
Stats
Parrying - 25
Reflex - 39
Catching - 28
Reach - 36
Awareness - 30
Physical - 30
No Active Skills.
They'd tried to soften it. The counselor had said, "There's nothing wrong with playing in local leagues. F-ranks keep the game grounded."
It was something special. To awaken as an athlete, and a soccer player no less—in this city, where the game wasn't a pastime, it was blood. But what good was that when your sister might never walk again?
-
Rusty's Bar crouched in the ruins of the industrial sector, its flickering neon half-swallowed by cracked concrete and rusted beams. Inside, everything was smoke and whispers. Holograms buzzed overhead, displaying odds for unofficial matches—not just soccer, but raw brawls, power duels, and team skirmishes.
Jay waved him over from a corner booth, legs jittering with his C-rank energy. "Sammy. You look like shit."
"Great to see you too."
Jay winced. "Heard about Lena. That's… that's rough."
He leaned forward. "Listen, I've got a way to help. You ever heard of the Pit?"
Sam had. Everyone had. A soccer league off the grid. Played in abandoned warehouses and floodlit yards behind old factories. No teams, just survival. You win, you get paid. You lose, you might leave on a stretcher. No ranks. No entry limits. Awakened or not—it didn't matter. You signed up, you played.
Technically, it wasn't illegal. But it was discouraged. Too many fights went too far. Too many dreams got crushed. But the payouts? Real. Sometimes insane. People bet whole inheritances on underdogs. Some scouts even came to watch—off the record, of course.
"I'm not a fighter, Jay."
"Good thing you're not fighting. You're guarding a goal." Jay slid a black iron badge across the table. It bore a snarling wolf's head and a jagged number: 47.
"The Iron Wolves need a keeper. Just for one match. Their last guy's out with a punctured lung. It's tomorrow night. Prize is five grand."
Sam stared at the badge. It felt heavier than it should.
"Why me?"
"Because goalkeepers are rare. And expensive. And they need someone now. You're cheap. You're desperate. And you won't say no."
Sam looked away. "I'm F-rank."
"And you've got guts. The Wolves have a solid line—two C-ranks, a B-rank anchor. You just have to hold out. Most shots won't even get through."
"And if they do?"
Jay didn't answer.
Sam thought of Lena. Of the pile of bills at home. Of her hand shaking as she reached for water, too proud to ask him to hold it for her.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. But once you're in, you're in. No coaches. No refs— there is but a bit different. No rules but don't die. You lose, you limp home—or you don't. You win, you walk away with enough for her surgery and more."
He hesitated. Jay leaned in. "Look, people pretend the Pit doesn't exist. The city needs its pretty game in the towers. But down here? This is the real game. No sponsorships. No glory. Just stakes."
Sam pocketed the badge.
"When and where?"
"Tomorrow. Midnight. Dock 47." Jay grabbed his wrist before he could leave. "And Sam—don't tell Lena. Don't tell anyone. Some things aren't meant to be shared."
-
The night wind cut through the alleyways as Sam walked home.
Above, banners fluttered with Titan Blaze's colors, glowing red and gold in the dark. Children practiced shots in dim courtyards, pretending to be stars. Somewhere, real pros trained in sky-level arenas with artificial gravity and enchanted balls.
And here he was. F-rank. No skills. Just a desperate brother with a badge in his pocket and a promise on his lips.
The card pulsed with warmth against his palm. Maybe the Stone was right. Maybe he was nothing.
But tomorrow, he'd stand in goal against monsters.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.
He looked toward the lights and whispered to the night, "Hold on, Lena. I've got one shot left."
Behind him, Rusty's sign blinked out for good. Shadow reclaimed the alley.