Chapter 14

The glass skywalk connecting the main gate to the administrative building was quiet, save for the rhythmic squeak of our leather shoes against the polished tiles.

Staff members in navy suits stood at every junction, clipboards resting against their forearms. 

They checked our green absence slips, ticked off our names on a laminated roster, and pointed us down a wide corridor on the second floor.

"Second Conference Room," the staff member said, offering a polite bow. "Please wait inside until your group is called."

I pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping past the threshold with Shizuo and Yuuki right on my heels.

The room was far larger than any classroom I had ever seen. 

It was built like a university lecture hall, with curved rows of wooden benches rising toward the back wall. Down at the front, a low stage held a wooden podium flanked by a pair of school banners.

The air inside was warm, smelling faintly of paper folders and dry heating. 

I thought we were on time but quick scan showed hundreds of boys were already seated in the hall, sitting in rigid silence under the fluorescent tubes. 

They were divided neatly into sections by discipline. 

The baseball recruits took up the left tier, thick-necked boys with shaved heads who looked like they were carved out of oak. Behind them sat the rugby candidates, broad frames packed into formal blazers that looked ready to split at the shoulder seams.

Our group was guided toward the center aisle, where three rows of desks had been reserved for the soccer department.

I counted the seats as we walked down the steps. 

Eighteen boys in total. 

Looking along the row, the visual contrast between our group and the rest of the candidates was almost comical. 

Nearly every boy in the section wore the tailored blazer of an elite private middle school, or the crest of a junior youth academy affiliated with a professional J-League club. Their uniforms were sharp, their hair was neatly parted, and their leather shoes carried the high shine of regular polishing.

Then there were the three of us. 

We wore the standard navy blazers of Fuchu Sengen, a public school that shared its dirt pitch with the track club and the field hockey team. 

Several boys glanced in our direction as we slid into our seats, their eyes lingering on our plain school buttons with quiet curiosity.

"Look at them," Yuuki whispered, sliding down into his wooden chair. "They look like they take private taxis to school. I feel like my blazer is missing a coat of arms."

"Sit up straight," Shizuo murmured, resting his palms flat against his knees. "You'll only look worse when you slouch."

Before Yuuki could complain, the boy sitting in the row ahead turned his torso around.

He had a wide chest, thick wrists, and a calm expression that made him look several years older than a middle schooler. 

"Good morning," the boy said, offering a measured nod. 

It was Isoroku Tendou.

Seeing his face in the row ahead brought a sudden wave of relief to my chest. 

Tendou had captained Minamisakagakuen to the Kanto Regional title back in August, leading their team all the way to the national quarterfinals. He was an intelligent number six, a defensive pivot who commanded the center of the pitch with both immense power and a sharp mind.

"Tendou," I said, returning the nod. "I didn't think you would choose Musashi."

"Their sports science program is the best in the prefecture," Tendou replied in his deep voice. "And their back line plays high enough to keep my passes short. It suits me."

Tendou looked past my shoulder, acknowledging Shizuo with a nod of respect. 

"Your finishing was impressive during the summer tournament, Jougasaki," Tendou said. "I attended your playoff for the nationals against Setagaya."

Shizuo's chin dipped in acknowledgment. "Thank you. We fell short at the end."

"Tough luck, with the red card and all that," Tendou said smoothly, before turning his gaze toward Yuuki. "And it's always been a treat to watch your through passes, Nomura."

Yuuki’s chest puffed out instantly, all his previous nervousness evaporating into thin air. "Heh, I know, right?"

A sharp voice cut in from the row directly behind us.

"Great. If it isn't the Three Menaces of Fuchu Sengen."

The tone was dripping with pure exhaustion, like someone who had just discovered a cockroach in his soup.

Tendou chuckled quietly into his hand, while I let out a slow sigh, turning my head toward the back row.

"I prefer something a bit cooler," I said. "Like that one time the match announcer called us the Odds Beaters, that sounds nice."

"No no no, the name Banjou said fits you really well," Tendou quipped from the front. "You three gave every defense in the district a collective ulcer last summer."

The boy sitting behind us leaned his forearms against our desk, scowling with open annoyance. 

His blazer collar was slightly undone, and his dark bangs were swept back with hair wax. 

His name was Banjou. 

I didn't actually know whether it was his given name or family name, because even on official tournament rosters and on the back of his sky blue jersey, he was simply registered as Banjou. 

He was the starting left wing-back for Setagaya Gakuen School, a modern wing-back equipped with boundless stamina. He was famous across Tokyo for running touchline to touchline for eighty minutes without showing the slightest drop in pace.

During our summer playoff against Setagaya, playing against him had been an unforgettable experience. 

Banjou loved to attack. The second his team secured possession, he would bomb forward into the final third, sprinting past his winger to overlap like a runaway train. 

That habit had worked against ordinary schools, but against us, it had been a fatal flaw. 

Every time Banjou rushed into our half, he left vast green grass completely vacant behind his heels. Even though Setagaya had beaten us by a single goal, exploiting the empty space Banjou abandoned had been sixty minutes of pure bliss for me.

Banjou leaned forward, tapping his index finger firmly against my chest.

"You really have unbelievable luck, Shimazu," Banjou muttered, his dark eyes narrowing. "Not only on the pitch but outside too. I didn't expect you'd ended up with an invitation to this place."

I looked at his finger, then shifted my gaze up to his face.

I didn't bother offering a defense. 

In fact, his comment told me everything I needed to know about him. 

I see. I mean, it should've been apparent from the way he plays.

Instead of answering his jab, I simply tilted my head, letting my mouth curve into a look of quiet pity.

Banjou’s finger froze against my chest.

He blinked, pulling his hand back with an expression of total confusion. 

"What's with that look?" Banjou demanded, his voice rising slightly.

"Nothing," I said softly, looking away toward the blackboard. "Just glad to see you're still healthy."

"Hey! Don't look away with that face! What does that mean?!"

Tendou burst into a hearty laugh, batting Banjou’s shoulder with a broad hand. 

"Leave him alone, Banjou," Tendou said, shaking his head with an amused grin. "Shimazu isn't just lucky, you know. He spreads that luck to everyone around him."

"Spreading luck? Isn't it the other way around?" Banjou scoffed. "Sure, because of his luck, he's somehow always at the right and at the right place, but he just stands there! He doesn't contribute!"

"You should review his matches, then," Tendou corrected, his tone turning analytical. "And if I have to give you a hint, let's see.. How about this?"

Tendou smiled, pointing a finger at my face. 

"He is like Fuchu Sengen's own Zashikiwarashi. As long as he is haunting your pitch, good fortune follows your forwards."

Yuuki slapped the wooden desk, howling with laughter. "Hahaha! Is that so? Then, please visit my house often, Yama!"

"Eh, sure, I guess," I muttered, resting my chin in my hand.

The laughter died down as a staff member walked across the front stage, carrying a fresh stack of folders. 

The brief warmth of our banter vanished, replaced by the heavy silence of the lecture hall once again.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes wander across the rest of our section.

There were thirteen other boys sitting in the soccer block. 

I recognized a few of them from sports magazines. Two central defenders from the Tokyo Verdy junior system, a genius central midfielder who had assisted nine goals in the Kanagawa prefectural tournament, and a very fast right winger whose exploits had spread wide from Saitama.

None of them looked soft. 

Every single one of them was a proven talent, hand-picked from the strongest youth systems in eastern Japan. 

Then came the reality of such an elite high school program like this.

Musashi High had over forty players spread across their first and second-year rosters. In April, our group of eighteen would be thrown into that pool, fighting for a spot in a squad that only had eleven starting shirts on match day.

A cold knot tightened at the bottom of my stomach.

Could I really survive here?

Enough.

I gripped the silk pouch tightly inside my pocket and let out a long breath.

A sharp chime echoed from the ceiling speakers.

The front doors of the conference room swung open, and a female staff member in a gray blazer stepped onto the threshold, holding an electronic tablet in both hands.

The room fell completely still. 

The hundreds of boys straightened their backs in unison, the fabric of dozens of blazers rustling against the wooden seats.

The staff member adjusted her glasses, looking up at our section.

"Soccer recommendation group, we will begin the individual interviews," she announced, her voice crisp and businesslike. "First candidate, interview room three."

She paused, reading the screen of her tablet.

"Fuchu Sengen Middle School. Shimazu Yama-san, please."

A low murmur rippled across the soccer rows. 

Beside me, Yuuki blinked in shock, while Banjou let out a quiet whistle from the row behind. 

I took a slow breath, filling my lungs with the warm air of the room, and pushed myself up from the wooden bench.

Shizuo looked up at me, giving a single nod that carried three years of shared battles. 

"Go get it," Shizuo said quietly.

"Don't trip on the carpet, Zashikiwarashi-kun!" Yuuki whispered, flashing a frantic thumbs-up from his desk.

In the row ahead, Tendou nodded his head, watching me with a look of that I assumed had his way of saying good luck in it. 

"Thanks," I replied smoothly, adjusting the lapels of my blazer until they sat straight over my shoulders.

I stepped into the center aisle, feeling the eyes of seventeen other players tracking my movement as I walked down the wooden stairs. 

My heart thumped against my ribs, steady and firm, right beneath the purple silk tucked inside my chest. 

I cleared the front doors, stepped into the quiet hallway, and walked toward room three to face the panel.