Chapter 10: The Digital Arena
The second half began not with a roar, but with a suffocating tension.
Rimon stepped into the center circle, the wet mud squeezing between his toes. He looked at the phone in Nuhab's hand one last time. The red 'LIVE' icon felt like a third eye watching his every move. His heart hammered—not from the running, but from the realization that Professor Sabid Alom and Ma'am Tanziri were dissecting his "spatial awareness" instead of his grammar.
For a second, the introverted wall he had built around himself for years threatened to crumble. He wanted to walk off, grab the phone, and delete his entire digital existence.
Then he felt a sharp, phantom sting in his calf—a pulse of energy that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
[Sync Rate: 5.5%... 5.8%...]
[Neural Calibration: Adaptive. Emotional Noise: Suppressed.]
The anxiety didn't disappear; it just drifted to the back of his mind, becoming background noise like the dhol beats from the shops. The pitch transformed. The puddles near the left wing weren't just water anymore; they were tactical obstacles he could use to slow down Monday Osagie. The uneven patch of grass near the penalty box was a launching pad.
Monday Osagie kicked off, and the change in the rival ward's intensity was immediate. They didn't pass. Monday simply lowered his head and charged, a mountain of muscle fueled by the humiliation of being livestreamed to thousands.
"Mridul! Stay tight!" Rimon shouted, his voice cutting through the humidity.
Mridul, fresh and hungry, darted in like a wasp. He didn't try to win the ball; he just hovered in Monday's peripheral vision, nipping at his heels. Monday growled, swinging an arm to clear space, but Mridul was already gone, circling back.
Nuhab was losing his mind. "Look at Mridul! He's like a mosquito! Monday can't even see him! And Mamu—Mamu isn't even looking at Monday! He's looking at the clouds! Wait, no, he's looking at Chisom!"
On the screen, the viewer count hit six thousand. A new comment appeared:
Sabid Alom: "Shoaib is baiting them. He's intentionally leaving the center open to draw the press. Fascinating."
Rimon wasn't baiting them—he was feeling the "map." He saw Chisom Chikatara creeping up the right flank, his neon studs glistening. Rimon gestured to Akash, the new sub at left-back. Akash dropped two yards deeper, narrowing the angle.
Monday, frustrated by Mridul's pestering, tried a risky cross-field ball toward Chisom. It was a professional-grade pass, soaring through the air with a wicked curve.
Rimon moved before the ball even reached its peak.
He didn't sprint. He glided. His bare feet made no sound as he intercepted the trajectory. He didn't try to control the ball with a soft touch—the mud was too thick for that. Instead, he used the "Slap." He met the ball mid-air with the arch of his foot, killing the momentum and dropping it dead at his toes.
The crowd gasped. It was a touch that belonged in the Kings Arena, not in a ward match in Keraniganj.
"MAMU! DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Nuhab screamed, the camera shaking as he zoomed in on Rimon's mud-stained feet. "HE CAUGHT IT! HE CAUGHT THE BALL WITH HIS SOUL!"
The livestream comments were a frenzy:
Mehedi: "That control... that's not Batch 66. That's National Team level."
Mahima: "Focus, Rimon. They're coming for you."
Mahima was right. Monday and Chisom were closing in from both sides, a pincer movement designed to crush him.
Rimon didn't panic. He looked at Hassan, who was already ghosting behind the rival right-back. He looked at Torongo, who was wrestling for space in the box. But most importantly, he felt the bike he had heard earlier.
The motorcycle had stopped at the edge of the field. A man in a high-end tracksuit, wearing dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky, leaned against the handlebars. He wasn't cheering. He was watching Rimon with the clinical eye of a hunter.
Rimon felt the man's gaze like a physical weight. It pushed the Sync Rate higher.
[Sync Rate: 6.2%...]
[Observation Detected: High-Level Talent Scout in Vicinity.]
Rimon shifted his weight. He didn't pass to Hassan. He didn't pass to Torongo. He drove straight at Monday Osagie.
The "Lazy Genius" was gone. The King was starting to wake up.