The sports prefect, who was also serving as the match referee, raised his whistle to his lips and blew twice, the sharp notes slicing through the soft afternoon breeze. This was the cue for the players to rush into formation on the expansive school field, their movements brimming with focus and anticipation.
They were about to engage in a game of Springball. Now, Springball was widely regarded as the most elite and technically demanding sport on Kreete. The game was fast-paced, matches lasting only forty minutes, but within that relatively short burst of time, twenty-two players—ten field players and a goalie on each side—battled fiercely and relentlessly to outscore each other.
The central object in this game was a compact, highly responsive, hyper-elastic ball, similar in size to a small bucket designed using advance elastic and spring-loaded materials that made it exceptionally bouncy and reactive to touch. The rules were designed to encourage constant movement and strategy: players were forbidden from being in possession of the ball for more than three and a half seconds, and passing or shooting by throwing or kicking was completely disallowed. Only bouncing against the ground permitted, hence, athletes were forced to master precision timing and coordination.
Each team was structured into a specialized formation: three defenders, three mid-holders, and four prime offenders all tasked primarily with creating offensive pressure.
With this framework in mind, you, the reader, are now equipped with just enough understanding of the sport to follow the events of this chapter with better clarity.
The Springball match scheduled for that evening at Solar Springs High School was no ordinary one—it marked the long-awaited showdown between the 11th and 12th graders before the mid-term exams. The stakes, though unofficial, carried enormous weight among the students. The victorious class would typically be rewarded with not just bragging rights that would echo through the corridors even after school resumed following the midterm break, but also a handful of coveted perks: extra food portions in the dining hall, a few more minutes of sleep in the mornings, and the rare pleasure of being praised by teachers and even the principal—though these perks usually lasted only a while. Still, these modest advantages were highly valued by the students, and neither team was willing to deprive their respective classes of it.
The atmosphere around the school's playing field buzzed with excitement. A crowd of eager students clustered around the bleachers, many waving handkerchiefs, calling out the names of their favorite players or favored class's team with gleeful enthusiasm. Among them, Tom and Zarie had already sat perched in their habitual front-row spot, notebooks open and pens scribbling away furiously as they prepared the next headline story in The Tasers. Meanwhile, a smaller number of students—those less enamored with school sports—took advantage of the distraction to slip off toward the laundry room with bags of unwashed clothes, silently thanking the universe for this rare chance to use the washing machines without having to wait in line.
Out on the field, Robert tightened his socks and strolled to his designated position near the goalpost. He was assigned as a defender for the 11th-grade team. He wore the clean white sports kit designated for his class, blending into a formation of determined teammates who were just as eager for victory.
With the crowd humming around him and the afternoon sun beginning to dip low in the sky, Robert narrowed his eyes toward the midfield.
The twelfth grade team, clad in their bright yellow sportswear, had already stood in formation, ready for bounce-off. Jackson, ever the showman and playing as a mid-holder for the 11th-grade team, milked the moment for all it was worth. He strutted across the grass with exaggerated flair, blowing kisses and winking at every corner of the stadium stands where students erupted in wild cheers at his every gesture. Strangely, Robert felt a quiet sense of relief that Jackson hadn't been made team captain—it would've been an unbearable boost to his already overinflated ego.
Scanning the stands, Robert noticed a few teachers already seated, watching with passive interest, some scrolling through their phones. His gaze shifted to the students, searching briefly until his eyes landed on Dora and Vanessa who were only two female students apart. Both girls were on their feet, clapping and shouting encouragements, their lovely faces glowing with excitement. When Dora caught his eye and flashed him a thumbs-up, Robert couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face.
But then, he forced himself back into focus. The match was about to start. Tradition dictated that the seniors always initiated the first play, and as expected, two 12th-graders—one boy, one girl—now stood at the center of the field, the boy clutching the ball and waiting for the sharp blast of the referee's whistle to begin.
Finally, the shrill sound of the sport's perfect's whistle reverberated across the expansive field, signaling the start of the match, and the players sprang into action in an instant. Feet pounded on the grass as the players jumped, jostled and collided for possession of the ball, their faces set in fierce concentration. The air steadily grew thick with tension and excitement.
Nickel, a male mid-holder from the 11th grade team, was the first to intercept a bounce from the 12th grade team. With a hard bounce, he launched the ball at Jackson, who caught it and dashed towards the opposing team's goal. But before he could gain momentum, barely into his second second of possession, he was abruptly halted—intercepted by a blonde mid-holder with a scruffy beard from the opposing team, who deftly snatched the ball from his hands and bounced it to one of their prime-offenders.
For Jackson, who was considered one of the school's finest springball players, the swift turnover was a blow to his pride. Just for a moment, he imagined what words the Tazers might use to rub salt on his wounded ego. Still, he managed a faint smirk as his eyes followed Aubena, a sharp-eyed, fierce-looking, quick-footed female defender on his team. She sprang into the air, cutting off the scruffy-bearded 12th grader's bounce with an impressive leap and pinpoint accuracy, and immediately sent the ball bouncing to Robert, who, catching sight of the prime-offenders rushing towards him, immediately bounced it away to Kyrian, a prime-offender on their team, just in time to avoid losing possession.
Kyrian caught the ball and broke into a swift charge towards the goalpost of the 12th-grade team as if his sanity depended entirely on his team scoring. In an impressive burst of energy, he sprinted from the center of the field to within fifteen feet of the goal in just under three seconds. His intention was clear—to deliver the ball to a better-positioned prime offender for a chance to score. However, before he could execute the crucial bounce pass, a large, mean-looking and intimidating defender from the 12th grade team collided with him with brutal force, knocking him to the ground.
A sharp, prolonged blast of the referee's whistle pierced the air, cutting through the growing noise of the crowd. The game was halted and the aggressive move was immediately flagged as a foul.
Another loud whistle followed, and the 11th-grade team was granted a free bounce. The game resumed with renewed intensity, going on for a while without much flare. It began to get interesting when Nickel, clearly fired up and determined, got hold of the ball and made it his mission to turn the opportunity into a goal. He launched himself into a sprint before releasing the ball with a high-arching bounce, directing it to one of their prime-offenders—an 11th-grader who had managed to position himself dangerously close to the 12th grade goal without falling into an offside trap.
But as the ball descended back to the ground and was about to settle into the raised waiting hands of the prime-offender, a 12th-grade mid-holder soared above him in a breathtaking summersault and snatched the ball mid-air. The 11th-grade prime-offender was too stunned by the sheer agility and precision of the move to give immediate chase. The twelfth grade mid-holder utilized the opportunity quite well to bolt for the 11th grade team's goal with all his might, the crowd erupting with excitement.
In barely three short seconds, the mid-holder had passed the midfield, manoeuvred the ball past Jackson using a spin-dunk trick (where a player bounces the ball away right after spinning it hard, making it rebound precisely back to them after striking the ground)—which earned him thunderous cheers from the students—and was now only a few meters from the goalpost. The 11th grade defenders swarmed him, providing the perfect opportunity to bounce the ball to a 12th grade prime-offender—a tall, brown-haired girl—who stood completely unmarked and perfectly positioned to make a clean score.
As soon as she caught the ball, the prime-offender took aim without hesitation and then bounced the ball with all her strength at the goalpost before the defenders could close in. Judging by the goalie's moment, she knew the ball was on course, sailing cleanly and powerfully toward the goal.
But then, something inexplicable happened.
Just as the ball was about to soar cleanly into the goal—speed flawless and pace unstoppable—it abruptly veered off course, as if an invisible force had intervened. Instead of going into the post, the ball landed harmlessly on the grass, well wide of the goal, and bounced away.
The entire field seemed to hold its breath.
A loud, collective gasp went up from the stands, and the players looked around in confusion. What had just happened?
While the crowd murmured in confusion and the players exchanged puzzled glances, one figure was kneeling silently on the field—Robert. He was down on one knee, breathing heavily, his heart racing in his chest. He clearly remembered what he had experienced in that moment leading up to the mysterious deflection—the sudden wave of vibrations, the sensation of being lifted off the ground. And then, almost without his intent, he found himself standing directly in front of the 11th-grade goalie who was poised to block a needless part of the goalpost. And then an unknown force caused Robert's hand to strike out and swat the ball mid-air. Stranger still, Robert had remembered seeing everyone around him frozen in place, suspended as if time had paused for all but him.
In that frozen second, he noticed the twelfth-grade spectators had jubilant looks, for it was clear that the goalie had no chance of intercepting the ball. The look on the 11th-graders' faces, on the other hand, reflected anxiety or resignation.
And just like that—faster than thought—Robert flashed back to his original position... as if nothing had happened.
"Hmm."
The teacher responsible for overseeing the hostel affairs of the twelfth-grade students—the hostel master—Mr. Williams, had been standing a slight distance from the cluster of seated teachers, watching the game intently with his arms folded. He seemed to be the only one who had noticed something strange—Robert had seemed to disappear for the briefest of moments, only to reappear in almost exactly the same spot, as though he had been yanked through space and dropped back again in a blink of an eye. The sight had left the hostel master completely baffled.
Now that wasn't an ordinary occurrence.
He narrowed his eyes at Robert, who now knelt on the grass, panting heavily, clearly winded. His brows furrowed as if he'd suspected something. He stared on for several more seconds until Robert rose to his feet. Then, he abruptly turned and briskly made his way out of the stand and headed hurriedly for the teacher's lodge, clearly agitated.
Meanwhile, the referee—the sports prefect—used the next two minutes to address the confusion with both teams. Players gathered around as speculations were exchanged in hushed tones. The area surrounding the 11th-grade goalpost was inspected for possible obstructions—perhaps an invisible barrier made of glass or some thin sheet of nylon. Once no interference was found, the players were ordered back into their positions, and the game was set to resume.
The match resumed with a familiar rhythm—passes, cutoffs, and careful bounces echoing across the field. For the next twenty minutes, neither side managed to score, and on the surface, it seemed like a balanced stalemate. But to anyone paying close attention, one player on the 11th grade team seemed more active and energetic than every other player. His leaps were higher, his sprints faster, and his reflexes nearly unnatural in speed and precision. That player was Robert.
Strangely enough, Robert could feel the change within himself too. It was as though he been infused with raw power, able to run faster and move more gracefully than he'd ever been able to. It wasn't just adrenaline—it felt deeper, almost otherworldly, like something dormant had awakened within him.
The first goal came in the twenty-first minute after the match resumed (which was thirty-one minutes into the game)—and it was all Robert.
How did it happen?
After a clean, well-timed bounce from Aubena, Robert seized the ball and launched into a sprint toward the 12th-graders' goalpost. At the tail-end of the very first second of his possession, an opposing mid-holder closed in to intercept, but Robert surged past him with astonishing ease, barely acknowledging the challenge. With each bounding step towards the goalpost, the crowd's excitement crescendoed, thunderous cheers erupting from the stands.
By the second second of his possession, Robert had already broken through two more midfielders and skillfully danced past a defender, narrowing the space between himself and the goal to just ten meters. And then, he came face-to-face with the towering, broad-shouldered defender who had knocked Kyrian down. But Robert didn't pause.
He didn't spare more than a millisecond to think, having barely more than half a second now to lose possession. In a swift move famously known amongst the students as the "creditor's snatch," he lost possession by intentionally shoving the ball into the defender's hand and... then followed the second part; the hard part of this trick—regaining possession by snatching the ball back almost immediately. This was where most players failed, especially against larger, more physically superior opponents. Yet, Robert defied all expectations. With a swift, confident motion, he ripped the ball back from the 12th-grade defender's hands. It was so clean, so powerful, so unexpected, so... impossible, that the older boy was left stupefied, as though the person who had just snatched the ball from him somehow possessed the strength of three horses.
Realizing that there was no longer hope for an effective defense, the defender could only turn and watch helplessly as Robert surged toward the goal. He skidded across the grass just within the goalie's range, raised his hands to shoot, and then...
He bounced.
The ball struck the ground with such violent force that it was propelled forward like a fired cannonball. The goalie leapt instinctively, arms spread wide to block it. He managed to make contact—but not without consequence. The sheer force of the ball crashing with his palms was brutal, a jarring blow that promised an unpleasant aftermath by the time the game was over and the adrenaline had worn off. The ball didn't stop there; the collision with the goalie's hand deflected it, sending it veering sharply to the right, where it struck the goalpost with a loud clang, ricocheted, and shot into the net.
The crowd erupted into an earsplitting roar. Cheers exploded from the stands, a rising wave of disbelief and admiration that quickly morphed into an organized chant of Robert's last name: "MANWELL! MANWELL! MANWELL!"
Everybody around the field seemed to be basking in the thrill of the moment—cheering, laughing, and celebrating. But not all shared this excitement. A handful of spectating twelfth-graders wore tight-lipped expressions, their hands crossed or stuffed in pockets. And, of course, there was Jackson. Jackson, unlike his jubilant teammates, didn't so much as smile. Instead, he stood rigid, his eyes glaring at Robert with a mixture of disbelief, resentment, and barely contained envy as he watched Robert wave at the students with a genuine, meek smile.
"He's managed to catch Vanessa's eye," Jackson seethed inwardly, "and now he's wants everyone's attention too!" His heart overflowed with loathing. He was supposed to be the star here, as always. He was one of, if not the top player in the 11th-grade. He was supposed to be the receiver of those cheers, not the forgettable, unremarkable, and easily overlooked Robert Manwell!
Yes, Jackson had always been one heck of a self-lover.
But still, Jackson couldn't understand it. He was struggling to fathom how Robert had suddenly become such a strong and skilled player. Was he deliberately revealing a talent he had concealed during tryouts, practice, and previous matches? Or was there something more, something... extraordinary, at play?
The match resumed, and just thirty seconds in, Jackson received a fast pass from a teammate, catching it with a mix of frustration and urgency. Without a moment's hesitation, he sprinted towards the 12th-grade goalpost with fierce determination—he was going to score, no matter what!
From across the field, Baroll, a prime-offender and teammate, waved his arms furiously while shouting at Jackson to bounce the ball to him. And rightly so; there were less than five minutes before the game was over, and Jackson had two opposing mid-holders closing in fast on both sides. Worse still, he had just crossed his second second of possession and had only about a second and a half left before breaching the allowed possession limit—going past the three and a half second threshold was a foul, handing the 12th graders a free bounce.
But Jackson ignored Baroll's calls. Either out of pride, desperation, or both, he pressed on. Then, from a less-than-ideal distance, he made a wild attempt just before his possession time elapsed. He bounce a hard shot in the direction of the goal, probably hoping for a miracle. But before the ball could even reach half the peak of its upward arc, a defender leaped, snatched the ball from the air, and raced in the opposite direction. Jackson let out a loud growl of frustration and spun around, immediately breaking into a frantic sprint after the defender, fury written all over his face.
Only two minutes remaining on the clock.
Robert rushed forward and in one smooth move, he stripped the ball from the defender with ease, barely slowing down. What then followed was a raw display of strength, speed, and agility—Robert sprinted towards the opposing team's goal, darting past one challenger after the other and weaving through the other team's players like a thread through fabric. He executed the creditor's snatch on two defenders, each left stunned by the sheer strength behind his snatches.
A few seconds before the game was over.
Robert closed in on the goal. Then, with a mighty sweep of his arm, he sent the ball downward, where it struck the ground with such force that the impact echoed across the field. But in the very next moment, Robert caught a blur of movement in the corner of his eye—a player running right beside him, keeping pace with him stride for stride. He recognized the player was wearing a white sportswear. A teammate.
In that fleeting moment, Robert wondered why the player was sprinting right beside him so aggressively, though struggling to keep up. Trying to offer backup? That didn't make sense; Robert wasn't under pressure from any twelfth-grade opponent, and it was clear that he had a clean shot lined up, no assistance required.
Before Robert could fully process the oddity, right after the ball struck the ground, the player racing beside him appeared to stumble forward in a way that felt oddly intentional, and before Robert could react, the player's foot slid sharply in front of his own, jarringly cutting off his stride. It was a rough, clumsy, and unmistakably intentional tackle that brought Robert crashing hard to the ground. His body skidded across the grass, limbs scraping against the turf.
As the shock of the fall surged through him, he caught a glimpse, and realization dawned—the teammate who had tackled him was none other than Jackson.
But it was too late—the ball had already launched off the ground like a missile, rebounding with a ferocity and speed that was nothing short of terrifying. The goalie had barely a second react. Recognizing the sheer force behind the ball shooting towards him and recalling the effects of Robert's previous shot on his hand—which had already started to ache, the goalie made a split-second decision. Rather than risk serious injury, he abandoned all notion of a proper block and instinctively dove out of the way in pure self-preservation. The ball blazed past him with blinding speed, flew into the goal, ripped clean through the netting, before ricocheting and shooting straight towards the bleachers. It struck an empty plastic seat with such force it rattled, narrowly missing a startled male seventh-grader, before careening away from the playing field entirely, leaving stunned gasps in its wake.
Pandemonium came next. The stand exploded with thunderous cheers as students and even a few teachers leaped to their feet, overwhelmed with awe and excitement. The roars of celebration echoed across the school. Even the 12th-graders couldn't help but join in, clapping, cheering, and calling out in admiration. Many students raced out of the hostel buildings to the pitch to seek out the victorious team and who had led their victory. The sports perfect blew the whistle to officially signal the end of the match. Though visibly disheartened by his class's loss, he moved across the field to shake hands and offer congratulatory pats or words of praise to the players of the eleventh-grade team.
While all of this unfolded, Jackson, after receiving a brief pat on the shoulder from a female twelfth-grade player, walked slowly and absent-mindedly towards the sideline exit, silently fuming—his eyes locked on Robert with a bitter blend of anger and envy simmering just beneath the surface. At the same time, a flicker of relief passed through him; no one seemed to have caught the foul play he had just committed. His underhanded tackle had gone unnoticed in the excitement, and that alone gave him reason to feel smug.
Meanwhile, Robert lay on the grass, utterly detached from the noise and movement around him. None of the cheers, shouts or the shifting crowd registered because his full attention was consumed by a sharp burning pain pulsing from his leg. He clutched his thigh tightly, his face twisted in a grimace as he tried to assess the damage. Jackson's tackle had left a rough, stinging scratch on Robert's knee, and every slight movement brought intensified the pain. But then something strange began to happen; Robert felt the pain suddenly beginning to dull. He looked down at his leg just in time to watch in utter bewilderment as the wound sealed, flesh and skin regrew and knitted back together rapidly, completely, not even leaving a scar behind.
Robert's eyes went wide with shocked disbelief.
But then, realizing he was still at the field, and that the noise was getting louder, he looked around to find the celebration now closing in on him. He immediately scrambled to his feet just as a wave of jubilant students—mostly fellow 11th-graders—gathered around him. Before he had a chance to object, they hoisted him onto their shoulders, surrounded by deafening cheers and jubilant laughter. Clearly, the students had been too swept up notice anything. No one seemed to have noticed the injury he had sustained or the way it had rapidly healed. To them, he was more than the undisputed hero of the match, a champion of the eleventh-graders, worthy of celebration.
Perched high on shoulders, Robert wore a crooked, uneasy smile as he raised a hand to the crowd of students down below chanting his name. None of what had happened since the day began made the slightest bit of sense. His mind spun with questions he couldn't answer. "What the hell is going on?" He muttered under his breath. First the strange thunderous voice echoing in his head, then the inexplicable occurrence during the match, and now as if things weren't surreal enough, he had just witnessed his body healed at a rate no normal person was supposed to!
He lifted his other hand to wave toward Vanessa, who was in the bleachers enthusiastically blowing exaggerated kisses his way. Robert scanned the sea of faces below him until he spotted Dora at the edge of the crowd, smiling proudly at him. But before he could fully process her expression, the deep voice returned—louder and more jarring than before— booming loudly in his head: "It is I. I'm the one who—"
The sudden mental intrusion shattered Robert's composure. He let out a sharp, terrified scream that pierced the air and sent a wave of confusion rippling through the field. The hands holding him up faltered, and he crashed awkwardly to the ground, his back hitting the turf hard. Dazed, he spat out the gritty soil that clung to his lips and blinked up to find everyone staring down at him with exasperation. Through the maze of legs, Robert caught sight of Zarie swiftly approaching from the stands, his notepad in hand.
A female student, a ninth-grader whom Robert recognized, leaned in and asked with genuine concern, "Robert, are you alright?"
Immediately getting himself, Robert scrambled to his feet with forced energy. Masking the panic that still thrummed in his mind, he forced a steady expression on his face. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said quickly to no one specifically. Without waiting for further questions, he pushed his way through the crowd, brushing past confused faces and worried glances. He broke into a jog, then a full sprint straight off the playing field, past the bleachers and toward the hostel block, leaving behind him a crowd of staring and whispering students, the celebration now overshadowed by confusion.
Robert stormed through the main entrance of the boys' hostel, breath ragged, his panic and confusion fueling his pace. He raced up the stairs to the senior boys' dorm and daahed straight into the bathroom. His white sportswear clung to his body, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving from exertion and sheer mental turmoil. He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't fathom what was happening. What was this mysterious voice in his head, and why were all these strange things happening to him? Why to him?!
He stumbled to the sink and clutched its edges, his finger pressing hard against the cool metal as he tried to steady his thoughts. The contact helped—just a bit. With a shaky hand, he reached for the faucet, turned it on, and splashed cold water onto his face in desperate handfuls. Each splash brought momentary clarity, and as he inhaled deeply and slowly, a fragile calm began to settle over him. Finally, a little peace.
Water dripping from his chin, Robert raised his head from the sink and slowly glanced around the bathroom. To his left stood rows of grey toilet stalls; beyond them, the expansive bathroom space stretched out, its floors and wall uniformly tiled. Showers were affixed neatly along each wall. The place was totally deserted.
It felt eerie, but not surprising. It was afternoon—liberty period—and the springball match had drawn most of the students to the stands. Most of the others were in the laundry room loading their clothes and their friend's into the machines. The nerds were probably still holed up in their classrooms, now—after school hours, studying words and numbers like nothing else mattered, some likely have skipped lunch in the process. The rest were either in the dorms or milling about the school grounds. Given all that, it made sense that the bathroom was so empty and quiet, even though such was rare. Still, Robert felt lucky. At least he was alone.
He took in one last steadying breath then turned back towards the sink, looking straight at the mirror before him and locking eyes with his own uncertain reflection.
That was when the most surreal incident of the day happened.
Robert watched in terror as both his eyes—the entire eyeball—transformed into a mass of oval sand particles, swirling and rippling like something out of a nightmare. The transformation lasted two horrifying seconds before, just as suddenly, they reformed into his normal eyes again.
Robert didn't scream. He didn't flinch or stumble backward in panic. Infact, he didn't move at all.
He stood frozen on the spot, eyes still fixed on his now normal reflection, unable to even blink, stunned into absolute silence. A heavy, sickening weight of creeping dread settled deep in his stomach, and beneath the fear, confusion churned violently with a rising tide of raw and volatile anger.
His jaw clenched as he resisted the growing, almost animalistic urge to lash out—to howl, to smash the mirror into a million pieces, to strike the walls until his fists bled, anything to release the storm brewing inside.
But just as things couldn't possibly get any worse, the bathroom door swung open and in stepped Jackson, still clad in his sportswear, sweat-soaked. His brow furrowed as he spotted Robert, who barely acknowledged his presence.
Jackson took two bold steps forward and said in a cold voice "Hey, pal. I wanna have a word about Vanessa."
"I've got nothing to do with her," Robert growled impatiently. He turned and made towards the bathroom, but Jackson grabbed him tightly by the arm just as he tried to push past.
"Don't pretend with me," Jackson hissed. "I know why you happened to play so well in the field today. You wanted to impress her, didn't you? Cus somehow you've figured out a way to make her notice a loser like you." Robert met Jackson's glare with equal intensity, their eyes boring into each other's.
"Let go of me, Jackson," Robert's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but every word of that statement carried a sharp edge, like a very dangerous warning. There was something different in his tone, something that made the air around them feel heavier. Robert became acutely aware of the sensation in his palms. Tiny grains of coarse sand. They felt more pronounced, as though they were multiplying, crawling, building pressure beneath his fingers.
Jackson scoffed, unfazed. "Or what?" He sneered, but before he could finish, Robert's hand shot out and seized him by the neck, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against the tiled wall. The impact echoed across the empty bathroom.
It was only then, as he stared into Jackson's wide, disbelieving eyes, that Robert suddenly realized what he was doing. He quickly released his grip. Jackson collapsed onto the floor, gasping, his face a mask of shock and confusion. How in the world's had Robert suddenly acquired that kind of strength?!
Without saying a word, Robert turned and hurried out of the bathroom, his mind reeling from what he had just done.