The stadium lights flickered on, bathing the massive indoor field in a stark, almost clinical white glow. The crowd of players, hundreds strong, murmured in nervous anticipation. Kaito Suzuki stood among them, his fingers tightening into fists as he scanned the sea of faces. Each of them looked capable, dangerous even. But there was no time for intimidation—he had to focus.

At the front of the room, a man in a sharp black suit stepped onto a raised platform. His cold, calculating eyes swept across the crowd, silencing the noise with his mere presence. This was Coach Kuroda, the mastermind behind the Elite Football Training Program.

“Welcome,” Kuroda began, his voice sharp and commanding. “You are not here because you are good. You are here because you are potentially great. But let me be clear—potential means nothing without results.”

A low murmur rippled through the group. Kuroda’s lips curled into a smirk. “Out of the 300 players in this room, only one will earn the title of Japan’s top forward. Only one will stand at the pinnacle of football greatness. The rest of you… will be forgotten.”

Kaito felt his chest tighten. The stakes were brutal, merciless. This wasn’t just a competition—it was a battlefield.

“Let’s waste no time,” Kuroda continued. “Your first challenge begins now.”

With a wave of his hand, a giant digital screen descended from the ceiling. On it, bold letters flashed: STRIKER SURVIVAL TEST.

“Football is a team sport,” Kuroda said, his tone icy. “But a striker is not part of a team. A striker is a weapon—a selfish, relentless force that scores goals no matter the cost. To survive here, you must prove you are a true striker.”

The room tensed as mechanical doors at the far end of the field slid open. A dozen massive robotic goalkeepers, each towering over the players, rolled onto the field. Their design was intimidating: sleek black metal with glowing red sensors for eyes. They moved with a mechanical precision that seemed almost human.

“Your task is simple,” Kuroda explained. “Each of you will have one minute to score a single goal against these robots. Fail, and you’re out. Succeed, and you move to the next round. Let the test begin.”

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The room erupted in whispers of disbelief. Robots? One minute? The sheer pressure of the challenge hit everyone like a freight train.

One by one, players were called forward. The first contestant—a confident, muscular teenager—stepped up. The moment the whistle blew, the robot sprang into action, moving with blinding speed. The boy’s first kick was deflected with ease. His second attempt was intercepted mid-air. By the time the clock ran out, he hadn’t even come close to scoring.

“Failed,” Kuroda announced coldly. The boy stood frozen in disbelief before being escorted off the field.

The next few players fared no better. Each of them underestimated the robots’ agility, their calculated precision. One by one, they failed and were sent away, their dreams crushed in an instant.

Kaito’s name was finally called. His heart pounded as he stepped onto the field, the weight of hundreds of eyes bearing down on him. The robot goalkeeper loomed in the net, its red sensors locking onto him like a predator stalking prey.

The whistle blew.

Kaito sprinted forward, the ball at his feet. The robot moved instantly, shifting to block his path. Kaito feinted left, then right, but the machine tracked him with inhuman precision. He felt sweat dripping down his forehead. His first shot—blocked. His second—intercepted. The clock was ticking down, and panic clawed at his chest.

Calm down, he told himself. Think.

He glanced at the robot’s movements, noting its uncanny ability to predict his actions. But then he saw it—a split-second delay in its repositioning. The machine wasn’t perfect; it was programmed. And like any program, it could be exploited.

With ten seconds left, Kaito slowed his pace, luring the robot into overcommitting. Then, with a burst of speed, he pulled off a Cruyff turn, spinning sharply and firing a low, fast shot toward the far corner of the net.

The ball sailed past the robot’s outstretched mechanical arms and slammed into the back of the goal.

The whistle blew. The room fell silent for a moment before a smattering of applause broke out. Kaito stood there, chest heaving, as the weight of what he’d just done hit him.

“Success,” Kuroda announced, his cold eyes meeting Kaito’s. “Not bad.”

As Kaito returned to the sidelines, he noticed some players watching him with newfound respect—and others with quiet hostility. He had drawn a line, marked himself as a competitor to watch. And in a place like this, standing out wasn’t always a good thing.

The test continued, but Kaito’s mind was already racing. This was just the beginning, and he knew the challenges ahead would only get harder. He clenched his fists, the fire in his chest burning brighter than ever.

He wasn’t here to just survive. He was here to win.