The next day dawned with a sense of anticipation that buzzed through the entire school.

The air was crisp, filled with the hum of excitement as students, teachers, and parents gathered to support their teams.

I started the day by watching Gunther’s shot put competition.

He was calm and focused, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a steely determination.

When it was his turn, he heaved the heavy metal ball with a grunt, sending it flying further than anyone else.

A cheer erupted from our section, pride swelling in our chests as the shot landed with a satisfying thud, sealing his victory.

Next up was Sarah’s basketball match.

She was a whirlwind on the court—fast, agile, and utterly in control.

Her team dominated, weaving in and out of their opponents with ease, and it was clear she was a driving force behind their success.

The crowd was on the edge of their seats, cheering with every basket she made.

But then, in a sudden clash under the basket, Sarah took a hard knock to her leg.

I could see the pain etched on her face, but she pushed through, gritting her teeth and refusing to be sidelined.

She kept playing, kept pushing, and by the end, her team clinched the win.

The crowd erupted in applause, but I could see the strain in her movements as she limped off the court.

She was a fighter, through and through.

After that, it was back to practice for me. With our match against Mujin High on the horizon, there was no time to lose.

The tension was palpable among my teammates; every drill was executed with heightened intensity, every pass and tackle sharper than before.

I kept running through my mental checklist—keeping my eyes on Darry, saving my energy for when it would count, thinking through every possible scenario that could unfold on the field.

The sun dipped below the horizon as the day faded, and the next morning arrived quicker than expected.

As the match drew closer, the nerves began to simmer under the surface.

We gathered in our room, each of us trying to keep the energy up.

Some of us were warming up, stretching and shaking out the tension, while others huddled together, talking in low, determined voices, discussing last-minute tactics.

Then, Mr. George entered the room, his presence commanding our attention.

"Okay, everyone," he said, his voice steady but filled with anticipation. "Now the time has come for you to test yourselves. Are you all ready?"

"Yes, sir!" we replied, our voices loud and unified, the room vibrating with our collective resolve.

"Good," he said, his gaze sweeping across us, making sure we were focused. "Let’s go and defeat them."

We lined up, one after another, and exited the room, marching toward the field.

The sun was high in the sky, and the field was already buzzing with spectators.

I could hear the murmur of the crowd, the mix of excitement and tension building as we approached the pitch.

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I was positioned at the back of the line, a substitute for now, watching as the starting players took their places on the field.

The teams lined up in the center, the captains stepping forward to shake hands.

I could see Darry, Mujin High’s captain, with his confident stance and sharp eyes, already sizing up our team.

Our players shook hands with theirs, a sign of sportsmanship, but I could sense the underlying tension—the calm before the storm.

The coaches exchanged nods, and we substitutes, including me, made our way to the bench.

I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, watching the field intently, my eyes never leaving Darry.

The referee’s whistle pierced the air, sharp and clear.

The crowd hushed for a moment, and then the game was on.

Mujin High had the kick-off, and their players immediately sprang into action.

The match began with a flurry of movement and sound—cleats pounding on the grass, players shouting commands, the crowd’s cheers and gasps blending into a roar.

The midfielders of Mujin High were, as expected, commanding the pitch with remarkable precision.

They moved like a well-oiled machine, their positions sharp and disciplined, each pass executed with a purpose that kept us on our toes.

It was clear they were in a different league—a class above us in terms of control and strategy.

Their quick passes sliced through our defenses like a hot knife through butter, and it was only about 15 minutes into the game when they scored their first goal.

Here’s how it unfolded:

Nolan, Magnum, and Darry—the trio of terror—were orchestrating their attack in a perfect triangle formation, advancing steadily up the field.

Magnum had the ball, and he was dribbling with an ease that made it look like a dance.

Donovan, our midfielder, darted forward with determination, attempting to cut him off and snatch the ball.

But Magnum didn’t flinch.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he sent a clean pass back to a teammate who was positioned at his left.

Our player, who had been watching Magnum, shifted to intercept, but it was too late.

The ball was already moving.

The teammate wasted no time and threaded a precise pass straight ahead to Darry, their captain, who was already anticipating the move.

Darry, with his eyes scanning the field like a hawk, looked like he was about to launch the ball forward, but that’s when Mr Felix stepped in.

Mr Felix lunged in, determined to break the momentum.

For a split second, it seemed like we had a chance to disrupt their flow.

But Darry, calm as ever, with a single fluid motion, feinted to the right and kicked the ball, diverting it sharply to the left.

The ball spun across the field to Nolan, their powerful midfielder, who had managed to slip through unmarked.

Nolan, with his towering frame and muscular build, surged toward our backline, his every step radiating confidence.

Our defense braced for impact. Gunther rushed forward to challenge him, determination etched on his face.

Nolan, however, was one step ahead.

With a deceptive flick of his foot, he faked a shot, sending Gunther sliding in the wrong direction, before flicking the ball to another teammate just in time.

The pass was perfect.

The teammate barely took a second to control it before delivering a swift, low cross to their forward, who had darted into position.

The forward took the shot, and Mr. Samuel, our goalkeeper, dove brilliantly, his gloves meeting the ball in a desperate, full-stretch save.

For a moment, it seemed we were safe—the crowd roared, thinking the danger had passed.

But the ball was loose, bouncing awkwardly in front of the goal, and in that split second of disarray, one of Mujin High's attackers pounced on it.

Before any of our defenders could react, he smashed it into the back of the net.

The net bulged, and the stadium erupted in cheers and groans—the Mujin fans celebrating wildly, while our supporters let out a collective sigh.

The weight of the first goal hit us hard, and I could feel the frustration building in our team.

We’d been outplayed, outmaneuvered.

They had made it look almost too easy.

This was only the beginning, and Mujin High had just thrown down the gauntlet.

The crowd was into a cacophony of cheers and groans.

Mujin High's supporters were on their feet, roaring with excitement, while our side were silent, the weight of that first goal pressing down on us like a dark cloud.

Our fans, who had come with such high hopes, were now visibly deflated, the cheers turning into anxious murmurs.

The same demoralized energy seemed to seep into our team as well.

Shoulders slumped, heads hung low.

For a moment, it felt like all the wind had been knocked out of us.

But while everyone else seemed focused on the scoreboard, I found my gaze locked on something else—something mesmerizing about the way Mujin High played.

Their performance wasn’t just good; it was extraordinary.

The shape that the Mujin High midfielders were forming might have looked like a simple triangle from the stands, but from my vantage point, I saw something far more intricate: a 5-point star.

And if you looked closer, you could see that a star wasn’t just a star.

It held within it ten smaller triangles and one central pentagon, all interconnected, shifting in harmony.

Every player was a point, every pass a line connecting them, moving fluidly across the field like the arms of a perfectly synchronized machine.

The real genius of it, though, wasn’t just in the shape—it was in the deception.

The three key players, Nolan, Magnum, and Darry, weren’t just dominating the field; they were playing mind games.

They were the bait, the decoys drawing our attention, luring our midfielders and defenders into traps, while the other players quietly maneuvered and passed the ball with surgical precision.

It wasn't just strategy—it was art.

“Their football is…” I murmured to myself, my voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

“Beautiful!”

I didn’t realize I had said it out loud until I felt Mr. George’s eyes on me, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s beautiful?”

“Their play, sir. It was beautiful,” I replied, still entranced by the vision of their formation dancing in my mind.

Mr. George gave me a curious look. “Can you explain it to me?”

“Yes, sir. It’s like a star,” I began, my excitement bubbling over. “From up close, it looks like they’re forming a triangle, but it’s actually a 5-point star."

Mr. George’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he took in words. “I see… So, do you think we can defeat them?”

I hesitated for a moment. “No, sir. Not alone. I need someone to help me—to break their formation. Someone who can follow my instructions without much thought and be able to see a the field.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“Hmm… then start warming up. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be going in soon,” he said, his gaze shifting back to the field, particularly to Mr. Felix, who was struggling to keep up with the frantic pace of Mujin’s midfielders.

I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through me.

This was my chance—to test myself against a team like Mujin, to see if I could disrupt their beautiful but deadly symphony of play.

I had studied their movements, understood their patterns, and now, it was time to face them head-on.

As I started to warm up, I could feel my heart beating faster, each breath filling me with a sense of purpose.

I looked around at my teammates, each of them steeling themselves for what was to come.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

We were up against a team that played like a single, unified force, and it would take everything we had—and more—to break them.

But I was ready. I would become the wrench in their gears, the break in their perfect formation.

The game was still on, and I wasn’t backing down.