The sudden buzz caught him off guard, and Hiro couldn’t help but feel a jolt of surprise. His brows lifted as he mused.
"Oh!" A grin tugged at his lips. "There’s a quest?"
This made the match even more exciting. Having neared his potential, he hadn’t been able to gather talents worth replicating in quite some time. But now—after a long drought—a quest had finally been presented to him.
Excitement kindled in his chest.
"Proceed."
[Quest Description]
[Score an outside-the-box goal from the left flank.]
[Dribble past Yang Min-hyeok three times.]
[Reward: Roadrunner]
From the quest description alone, Hiro could tell it was directly tied to the opposing Korean youth—Yang Min-hyeok.
His gaze followed the man responsible for the quest, studying him from a distance.
"Hmm... Three dribbles, huh?"
The quest didn’t sound particularly complicated. The requirements seemed doable—achievable within the flow of a single match.
Yet Hiro couldn’t bring himself to act overconfident.
He had studied his opponent. He knew Yang couldn’t be underestimated. Though he was an attacking full-back by trade, his defensive instincts weren’t sloppy either. He tracked back, he pressed, he disrupted.
’This won’t be a walk in the park.’ He thought.
However, the thought that it wouldn’t be simple made it even more exciting. His pupils gleamed with excitement as a smirk tugged his lips.
’Roadrunner...’ He mused. ’I wonder what kind of skill that is?’
Though the task seemed rather difficult, Hiro couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the prospect of the reward.
Then, after a brief moment, players from both sides assumed their respective positions. The stage was set. The battle was about to commence.
"The match of Champions is about to begin! The Vikings against the defending European Champions. On one side, we have the current Golden Ball winner—Takahashi Hiro. On the other, the towering Viking—Eric Hakonsen. Who do you think will be the most clinical in this match?"
The commentator’s voice boomed.
"Well, considering recent form, I might have to lean slightly toward the Viking—Eric Hakonsen. The man has been in devastating form this season."
The camera panned toward the tall, blonde individual standing directly before the ball. His medium-length blonde hair cascaded down, parted neatly in the middle, framing a face that looked carved from granite. His skin was as pale as snow, almost ghostly against the vibrant green of the pitch.
His features were rugged, weathered, and his gaze carried an intimidating intensity that seemed to pierce through the opposition. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, exuding a quiet menace that demanded attention.
Emblazoned on his back was the number nine.
The striker’s number.
"Eric had proved to be a nightmare for the defenders across the league. But the question is: can he prove himself against the Champions known for their defense tonight?"
"That remains to be seen. But one thing is for certain—this match has all the ingredients for a classic."
The referee raised his whistle.
Fwee!
He blew, and at once, the match began.
Eric passed the ball behind—a simple, measured start.
And with that, the battle was set in motion.
For the first couple of minutes, the ball refused to leave the opposing half. Even when it did, it was quickly funneled back to the same territory as if drawn by an invisible tether.
From the sidelines, Diego studied the match with a stiff expression, his carved irises tracking every movement. He could tell the opponents were probing, searching for gaps to exploit.
But he had placed countermeasures beforehand.
He wasn’t worried.
Across the technical area, the opposing coach appeared to be doing the same.
Though from a glance it seemed as if the opposition were in control, the truth was otherwise.
Despite maintaining possession, the opposition were the ones under pressure.
Each time they tried to advance, they were pushed back into their own half. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected like a fortress they couldn’t breach.
’This is ridiculous.’
Eric’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He had been positioning himself in the right spots—making runs, finding space, offering himself as an outlet.
But the ball never found him.
’Just how hard is it to pass the ball?’
He glared at his teammates, who had been tossing the ball among themselves in their own half like a game of hot potato. Sideways. Backward. Lateral.
No penetration. No forward thrust.
’What the hell is going on?’
For a while, he kept moving—shifting, darting, making himself available. But the ball kept evading him, as if he were invisible.
The frustration pulled at his nerves, coiling tighter with each wasted second.
His blood began to simmer.
’Him again!’
A look of surprise and hesitation flashed across the opposing player’s face as he laid eyes on Hiro.
He had been about to release a through ball to find their ace striker, but all of a sudden, Hiro appeared out of nowhere, blocking the path like a phantom conjured from thin air.
It had been happening since the beginning of the match.
Hiro seemed to know exactly where to position himself to extinguish every threat before it could ignite. But how? How was he managing to read the game with such unnerving precision?
’Just how is he doing that?’
The player bit his lip, frustration gnawing at him, and passed the ball backward—a retreat, a surrender. That hadn’t been his intention. He had wanted to find Eric, to launch the attack, but Hiro had sealed that route completely.
He had no other option.
’Enough of this!’
Eric lost his patience as he witnessed yet another failed attempt. Their gazes had met—a brief, hopeful connection—and he had been certain the ball would come.
But it never did.
Again.
His frustration gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. He wanted to be on the scoresheet. He needed to be. And being starved of service, rendered invisible by his own teammates’ hesitation, was driving him to the edge.
His fists clenched at his sides.
’If they won’t bring me the ball...’ a dark glint flickered past his pupils as his veins bulged.
"Then I’ll just get it myself."
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